Bordeaux: The Bitter Finish

by Janet Hubbard

  “I’m not going to do anything rash.”

  “Who do you suspect?”

  “If you agree to help me, I’ll tell you.”

  “I’ll agree to nothing until I know the whole story. I was sent here to protect you. Somebody sent you a threatening note. Why?”

  “It isn’t the first one, trust me.”

  “Somebody was telling you to stop. Stop what?”

  “Okay. I’m having an affair with…someone who shall go unnamed…there’s no sense in burdening you with that information…and I think his wife, whom I happen to know, was in New York at about the time the note arrived. I think she sent it.”

  Max realized she was being offered up a different version of the Ellen Jordan than the one her mother talked about. The woman her mother described wasn’t a femme fatale, and certainly not an aspiring investigator. When Ellen opened her closet door and peered in, Max took the opportunity to study her. Of medium height, Ellen had, as Hank would say, curves in all the right places. Her dark, chin-length hair curled slightly, and soft, brown eyes and a long, aquiline nose made her striking, if not beautiful. Divorced five years ago, Max didn’t find it surprising that Ellen was involved with someone, but again, why the secrecy? No doubt someone else famous, Max thought.

  The little excursion to her mother’s homeland had suddenly turned into a mad tangle. “Let’s deal with the bottle first,” Max said. “Can we put it in the hotel safe?”

  “Good idea.”

  “And pardon my nosiness, but is your lover American or French?”

  “French. And due here in forty-five minutes.” Exhibiting no modesty, she stepped out of sweatpants. “And no, I won’t cancel.”

  “Let me guess, the wife’s in Paris?”

  Ellen had the decency to blush. “They live here.” She slipped into leggings and a blue tunic. Turning back to Max, she said, “I’ll tell you what. I promise not to leave this suite. I will wait for you. We will be picked up for dinner at seven-thirty.” Max hesitated. “Listen,” Ellen said, “I wouldn’t have hired you if I hadn’t felt anxiety about my safety. I won’t do anything stupid.”

  Max nodded. “I’ve been thinking. How many people know you have this magnum of wine with you?” Ellen shrugged. “My point being that if there is a counterfeiter, or a gang of counterfeiters, they won’t be happy with your interference. Would Bill Casey spout off about sending this bottle to France with you?”

  “Not to anyone involved in criminal activity.”

  “Criminals come from all classes.”

  Ellen looked skeptical. “I’ll email Bill to stay mum.”

  Max thought it was already too late. “And what am I to do while you’re…entertaining?”

  “Let’s go down together and put the magnum in the hotel safe, then you can take off and see the sights. Practice your French. Check in when you return to the hotel.”

  Ellen stopped for a moment to run a brush through her hair. “You look great,” Max said.

  “Thanks. Tonight I’ll reveal everything. The name of my suspect, the name of my lover, and by then you will already be acquainted with our host. Be sure to wear your signature fragrance.”

  Max’s eyes narrowed. “You’re not fixing me up, are you?”

  Ellen was already out the door. Max picked up the case containing the magnum of wine and bounded down the short flight of stairs in her jeans and cowboy boots. She spoke in French to the concierge, whose eyes kept darting over to Max, who hovered around her employer, and back to Ellen. Max made note of his name displayed on a name tag. Edouard Cazaneuve.

  “Madame, may I help you?” he asked, his face showing disapproval.

  Ellen said quickly, “Oh, she’s with me.”

  Max gave him a broad smile, which seemed to irritate him further. He was tall and broad-shouldered, with blondish-gray, coiffed hair. A maid appeared from the room behind and said meekly, “Monsieur?”

  “Pas maintenant!” he barked at her. The maid quickly disappeared. Turning back to Ellen, he said, “Come this way, Madame. May I ask what is in the container?”

  “Is that really necessary?” Max asked in French.

  He shot her a nasty look. “No, of course not.” Ellen glanced over at Max as if to ask what the big deal was, but Max ignored her.

  “Someone is always here to open the safe for you,” Edouard said.

  “I want to make sure that my assistant can also ask for it,” Ellen said. “Her name is Max Maguire.”

  “Of course, Madame.” He made a note on a form.

  Ellen glanced at her watch, “Okay, Max, I’ll see you at the end of the day.”

  “Ellen!”

  Both women whirled around, coming face-to-face with a woman of Max’s height, with a body that yelled a minimum of an hour and a half a day in the gym, and a face that hid intense alertness behind a strained smile. Ellen smiled, and gave a perfunctory hug to the tall woman wearing a designer suit, and then introduced Max as her assistant.

  “You’re coming up in the world.” Paula Goodwin shook hands with Max. “What does an assistant do?” she asked, her gaze fixed on Max.

  “Answer emails. Make travel plans. Taste wine whenever I can.”

  Unamused, Paula said, “You have a great coach. Except for one particular wine, Ellen and I are usually on the same page with our tasting notes.”

  Ellen frowned. “Of all wines for me to select to drink on my birthday, why did I choose the 45 Mouton? With the size of Bill’s collection, it could have stayed there for decades, untouched.”

  “He told me he gave you a second bottle in that lot to take to another expert?” Exactly as I predicted, Max thought. “Why don’t we taste it together back in New York, and see if we can agree?”

  “I’m going to give it to someone completely objective,” Ellen said.

  “Okay, here’s a different solution, one that Bill Casey is considering. I have a client who will pay top dollar for the three bottles left.”

  Max watched Ellen’s lips compress. “I don’t think it’s fair to the person wanting to purchase,” she said. “These bottles need to be tested.”

  Paula ran her hand through her long mane of hair. “You’re really going to pursue this counterfeit thing?” Max was ready to side with Paula.

  “The bottle that was entrusted to me will be out of my hands as of tonight,” Ellen said. “I’ll step away then.”

  Paula smiled. “Fine.”

  Ellen deftly changed the topic. “I thought you were sick and couldn’t make it to the Laussac dinner.”

  “I had a two-day virus. I’m still not well enough to put up with Laussac for an evening.”

  Ellen laughed in sympathy. “Same here. I’m playing hooky.”

  “I came for some special wines for a client. I’m taking a train to Paris in an hour,” Paula said. She reached in her handbag and handed Ellen her card, and Ellen stuck it in her wallet. “By the way, I have a friend I want you to meet while you’re here. I’ll call you from the train and explain.”

  Ellen nodded. When Paula was out of hearing distance, Max said, “I wish Bill Casey had been a little more discreet. You don’t want people to think you’re running around with such valuable property.”

  “Paula is his new go-to wine expert. He won’t admit it, but he’s a little miffed that I pronounced his prize bottle a counterfeit.”

  “Nobody asked me, but it seems to me Bill Casey is playing you against each other by telling Paula to sell the lot and handing you a bottle to be authenticated.”

  Ellen led the way back to her suite. “I think Paula was seeing if she could get a reaction out of me when she said she wanted to sell the rest of the lot.” She laughed. “She’ll go crazy figuring out who I gave the bottle to. She’s one of those people who likes to be in the know.”

  Once in her room, Ellen opened her laptop
and scanned emails, while Max stood waiting. She read out loud, “Ellen, bring the bottle back and we’ll discuss further. I don’t want it opened.” She glanced up at Max, a stubborn expression on her face. “I never saw this email. I’m hitting delete.” She waved her hand in the air. “Now go. Check in around 5:30.”

  “The bottle leaves our hands tonight, though, right?” Max asked.

  “That’s the plan.” Ellen disappeared into the salle de bain.

  Max returned to her room and called her mother, who listened as Max described all that had transpired with Ellen. “I thought that affair was over,” Juliette said, tut-tutting. “I’ve told Ellen it’s not a good thing for her, but she won’t listen.”

  “Who is he?”

  “Pascal Boulin. Famous in the wine world.”

  “I figured it would be somebody like that. Would his wife send her a note that says ‘stop’ in French and English?”

  “That isn’t French. If anything, she would confront her in person.”

  So who sent the damn note, Max thought. “And this stupid bottle of wine?”

  Juliette laughed. “Once Ellen has a plan, she is not flexible. Tonight it will be gone, so don’t worry.”

  “Do you know who we’re dining with tonight by any chance?”

  The pause was long enough for Max to wonder if her mother was lying when she said no. She exited the hotel and stopped to peer at the gates, spires, and old stone houses. The sky was grayish-blue, the air brisk. Bright red geraniums in window boxes provided a perfect accent to the monochrome color of the stone buildings. A large, monolithic church dominated the village. She entered a gate that was ajar and stepped into a garden where a guide spoke in a reverent tone to a small group of tourists about the thousands of men and hundreds of years it took to carve the stones for the church building. The guide pointed in Max’s direction, describing a stone bench where women came to sit when they found themselves infertile. “Feel free to try it, if you like,” she said with a wink to Max, who shook her head vigorously, making the tourists laugh.

  Max walked out of the church and stopped to look around. Just beyond the rim of the village undulating rows of vines climbed to the horizon. Gnarly stumps, with small, bright green shoots, protruded two feet out of the ground. At harvest time, they would be covered with lush, green leaves, and heavy with deep crimson grapes. She continued walking the narrow roads leading to the outskirts of town. In a couple of days she would accompany Ellen to some of the most famous châteaux in the Médoc and Pauillac regions—names like Margaux and Saint-Julien.

  The week will fly by, she thought, and if all goes well, I’ll make a stop in Paris to see my grandmother. She still felt unsure about meeting the woman who had caused her mother so much pain—but there had been a reconciliation of sorts, when Juliette rushed to her mother’s bedside after she had had a stroke two years ago. Max knew for certain that she wanted to avoid her uncle, the Minister of Justice Philippe Douvier, who was married to her mother’s sister. Their brief meeting last year around the Champagne case had confirmed her mother’s opinion that he was an ass.

  By the time Max arrived back in the village, she felt overcome by hunger. At L’Envers du Décor, a bistro across the street from the hotel, Max ordered a glass of Château Milon and a plate of cheese to tide her over until dinner. The waiter recommended Tome de Bordeaux, an herb-encrusted goat cheese made in the Loire Valley. When it arrived Max could distinguish the taste of thyme, savory, fennel, and something else she couldn’t quite identify. It occurred to her that she was happy, not a pinch-me kind of happiness, but the kind of unexpected contentment that comes from suddenly feeling at home in a foreign land.

  A man at the next table sat reading a book and sipping an express. An attractive couple on Max’s other side began to bicker.

  “What’s happened to you, Pascal?” a petit woman asked. You can do nothing without that woman telling you how to do it!”

  The man she had called Pascal slowly cut his eye over at Max, then shifted his attention back to his companion. The woman was almost perfect, Max thought, with her shoulder-length fair hair casually swept back from her face and petite, well-proportioned figure. Although he had lowered his voice, Pascal, his dark hair pulled back in a ponytail and wearing jeans and a sweatshirt, appeared to be pleading with the woman as he gestured with his massive hands.

  Max thought she could be watching a silent film. What would the hero do? “Désolé,” she heard him say, wondering why he was sorry. He started toward the door, then came back to kiss her hard on the lips and marched out. The woman watched him disappear, then gave Max a wan smile as she gathered her purse and left the restaurant.

  A man at the next table said, “Pascal is in trouble as always. Poor Sylvie.”

  “La Papesse is in town,” the waiter said. “I hear she’s going to be tough with the wine scores this year.” Clearly he meant Ellen Jordan. Max took another sip of her wine, listening intently as the waiter refilled his patron’s glass. “Oui. Elle a déjà cassé les couilles de Pascal.” Max suddenly couldn’t wait to tell Ellen: the critic had been accused of cutting Pascal’s balls off.

  “That’s what Pascal gets for having an affair with her,” the patron said. “Hoping to get high scores on his wine.” Both men laughed.

  “La Papesse had better watch herself,” a man standing at the bar said. “She’s pushed people too far. Monsieur Laussac was here two days ago ranting about what he’d like to do to her.”

  “He’s a lot of hot air,” his companion added in a dismissive tone. “Who knows what Sylvie would do if she learned of her husband’s philandering? Especially with the Female Pope of Wine!” This was now quite a public discussion, Max thought, of a very private matter.

  A few minutes later, Max paid her bill and crossed the lane to her hotel. Waiters were buzzing around setting tables. She ran up the stairs to Ellen’s room and knocked. “I’m busy!” Ellen called out. “Come back at 7:30.”

  Max wanted to insist that she open the door, but she also didn’t want to interrupt a romantic moment, if that was what was going on. “Okay!” Max went to her room and set her alarm for 6:30, stretched out on her bed, and fell into a deep sleep. When the clock buzzed, she felt refreshed and hungry, and full of energy. She took a quick shower, then slipped into boots, black jeans, and a cropped leather jacket. The little Boy Scout knife that her brother had cherished, and that her father had given to her several months ago, was a comforting weight in her pocket.

  She rapped lightly on Ellen’s door. “Second call,” she said. Inside Ellen’s room the phone was ringing off the hook. Max knocked again, this time harder. What the hell, Max thought. Ellen had promised not to leave her room. She called her name. No response. “Shit and merde alors,” she said out loud. Ellen had given her a key to her room but Max had forgotten to take it. She rushed down to the concierge and explained that she needed to get into Madame Jordan’s room.

  “I will come with you,” he said in a bored tone.

  “May I just have the key, Monsieur Cazaneuve? Someone is coming for us in ten minutes.”

  “I can’t give you the key,” he insisted. They went up the stairs together. He knocked loudly several times and when there was no answer, he unlocked the door and pushed it open. Max strode into the bedroom and was shocked by the stench. Ellen was passed out on the bed, covered in vomit.

  “Madame? ” the concierge called, stepping into the room. “Is everything okay?”

  Time for damage control. Max rushed over to Cazaneuve and spoke to him in fluent French to ensure no confusion on his part. “Monsieur, Madame Jordan est indisposée. Elle est à moitié nue. S’il vous plait.” Telling him that Ellen was naked might make him leave. Cazaneuve refused to budge. Desperate to return to Ellen, she told him that she had things under control, and to please leave. When she tried to close the door, he wedged his foot in. She kicked him hard on the ank
le with the sharp point of her cowboy boot. He yelped and hopped back, and she shut the door and locked it.

  She raced back to Ellen, shrugging off her jacket and leaving it on the floor. “Ellen! It’s me, Max. Wake up!” She tapped Ellen’s cheek, which was clammy but warm, then hustled to the bathroom and ran a washcloth under cold water. Rushing back to the bed, she placed it on Ellen’s forehead. When Ellen didn’t stir, Max flicked on the bedside lamp. Ellen’s face was so white it looked bleached, her eyes were closed, and the sour smell overpowering. Max felt for her pulse. Nothing. Reaching for the hotel phone, she dialed 112 for the ambulance and explained in French that the tenant in room six had asphyxiated and was in acute distress. Then she jumped up on the bed and started performing CPR. Three minutes passed. No response. Max continued, pressing rhythmically on Ellen’s chest.

  For a moment, she felt a sense of utter despair. Just focus on the facts, she thought. The woman she had been hired to protect was dead. The strong possibility was that she had drunk too much and thrown up, asphyxiating on the vomit. On the other hand, there was a threatening note somewhere in Ellen’s possessions. Someone known to Ellen but not to Max was due to pick them up at 7:30. Ellen had planned to take a magnum of wine that she suspected of being a counterfeit to her host. Just when Max thought she couldn’t continue the CPR, she heard footsteps in the hall and ran to open the door. The EMTs made a beeline to the patient.

  Max stood back, the horrible truth starting to sink in. Glancing at the bedside table, she noticed a sizeable remnant of blue cheese, which, mixed with the odor of the vomit, almost made her gag. Where had that come from? Suddenly, Hank’s words came back to her, words she had never read in a police manual—always cover your own ass first, for if you don’t, how will the problem get solved?

  Chapter Four

  April 2

  Olivier was preparing to leave his office in the Tribunal de Grande Instance, which, with its great glass wall beneath an undulating copper roof, made him think he was in some futuristic film, especially when he looked out his window and saw the medieval cathedral next door. He didn’t share the opinion of a certain architectural critic who wrote that the expensive, contemporary building improved the people’s perception of the French legal system.