“We’ve got the FBI there. I’ll bring you back here.”
Max picked up the pillow on her bed and threw it against the wall. “I’m not going home,” she said out loud.
Ten minutes later her phone rang. “Dad.”
“I just talked to Walt.”
“I turned out to be quite the bodyguard, huh? My client killed while I’m napping?” Max hated the way her voice started going shaky on her at the sound of her father’s voice.
“Stop sounding like a sick toddler.” Before she could object, he said, “Give me the one-minute rundown.”
Max obliged.
Hank said, “The police will know soon enough that they’re dealing with a homicide. You hear me agreeing with you, right? You have to go through the whole rigmarole like the last time, with everybody on hold until the judge is appointed?”
Max was impressed that he remembered. “Olivier steps in, only if he’s appointed to the case, after twenty-four hours. There’s no official investigation as of this moment, but Olivier is sneaking forensics in to do a quick tour of Ellen’s room, though the maid has already been in there. He hasn’t decided on the forensic autopsy yet.”
Hank’s voice softened. “This is a tough one. I sure as hell hope you don’t plan on putting your tail between your legs and running back here.”
“Walt said the FBI here can take over.”
“If I had listened to my bosses, I wouldn’t have accomplished anything. You know my motto.”
She said it by rote. “Detective work is solo business.”
“The first step is to get in Ellen’s room and see if you can figure out what happened.”
“Do you know how much trouble I’ll be in if I get caught? It’s easy for you to say…”
“Ellen’s room will tell the story, but once it’s filled with the forensics guys, forget it.”
“Okay, okay. I’ll do it. How’s Mom taking it?”
“Hard. She’ll feel much better if you figure out what happened.”
He was gone. A light tapping at the door startled her. She glanced at her watch: 9:30. It had to be Olivier, returning at last. She’d have to forget searching Ellen’s room. A handsome man with an insouciant air about him stood in the doorway looking at her. “Oh!” Max said, surprised. This had to be the mystery man they were to dine with, but there was nothing old-fashioned about this guy.
“Bonsoir,” he said. “I’m Vincent Barthes.”
“Max Maguire,” she said, shaking hands with him. “Ellen was taken ill and is in the hospital. I didn’t know who we were to dine with, and so couldn’t leave a message.”
“I’m a little slow with my English, forgive me,” he said. “And I’m a little drunk. Yes. I have been downstairs saying hello to old friends. Is she okay?”
Max looked at him. “I’d wager a bet those friends sent you up to find out what happened.” He didn’t deny it. “She’s quite ill. Probably food poisoning.”
“Are you Madame Jordan’s daughter, by any chance?”
“Assistant. Sommelier-in-training.” Max recalled Ellen’s cheshire grin when they spoke about the dinner and realized that she had been matchmaking. The man standing before her was a pretty perfect bundle of good looks and charm.
Abdel, appearing out of nowhere, suddenly loomed over Vincent, a look of disapproval clouding his face. He was followed by a short, stocky man in casual street clothes Max sensed he was undercover. Vincent stood at mock attention. “I didn’t do anything, your honor,” he said.
“Just why are you here, Monsieur?”
“Max will explain.” Vincent turned to gaze at her. “You’ll be hearing from me. Au revoir.”
She waggled her fingers. “You know him?” Abdel asked.
“No, but I realized when I opened the door that he must be Ellen’s friend who was picking us up for dinner.”
Abdel stared at her.
“What’s wrong?”
“Did he acknowledge that he was your dinner host?”
“I think so. On second thought, he didn’t seem to know Ellen was bringing an assistant.”
“My hunch is he saw you and was determined to meet you. Women, to a man like that, are prey.” Max had learned about Abdel’s strong morals last year, and understood where he was coming from. “Where did you tell him Madame Jordan was?”
“In the hospital with a sudden onset illness.”
“Maybe he was being fouine. Nosey. I’m sure that half the village was trying to guess your identity as you walked around this afternoon. That’s how small towns operate.” He smiled at her, “Monsieur Chaumont has ordered dinner, and should be along within half an hour or so. He’s scoping out the formal affair hosted by Monsieur Laussac.”
“I think Olivier likes detective work, don’t you?”
Abdel smiled in agreement. “The policeman who was with me will be keeping an eye on things here tonight. If Madame Jordan was murdered, as you insist, then someone could also be targeting you.”
It hadn’t occurred to Max to be concerned about her own safety.
Chapter Six
April 2
Olivier instructed the hospital authorities to send Ellen’s body to a suburb of Paris for a forensic autopsy, issuing a warning about secrecy at the same time. He had met with the procureur, or prosecutor, briefly, who had reluctantly given his approval. Though he had learned to trust Max’s intuition the year before, he was going out on a limb tonight with the autopsy and forensic team. Max surely had some information to back up her conviction, he assured himself. He stepped outside for a moment to breathe in the night air. The ancient village was bathed in moonlight, the monolithic church a symbol of faith and struggle.
Max is back, he thought, looking strong, full of vigor. He, on the other hand, was still recovering from the depression that had descended upon him after his friends in Champagne were murdered. He had never felt so unmoored. Night after night, he had been unable to sleep, haunted by the murders. For months after arriving in Bordeaux, he got up and went to work like an automaton, barely aware of others. Other than Pascal and Sylvie Boulin, he hadn’t made friends with the locals.
Zohra made all of his favorite dishes, which he picked at, and then one night in February, instead of going home, she sat with him while he drank until three in the morning. He had sobbed uncontrollably, and she held him as she had when he was a boy. The next day the despair started to lift, but he still lived with the anxiety that the depression could return and bring him to his knees again. He had longed to contact Max, but somehow she was associated with the cause for all this endless mourning. He hoped over dinner he could explain some of this to her.
A high-profile case involving Ellen Jordan could easily land him in a political quagmire, so he needed to stay as detached as possible with all his senses on alert. He re-entered the hotel and went to the room behind the proprietor’s office where Abdel had quietly set up an operations center. Abdel told him that the capitaine from the gendarmerie had been a little prickly when asked to bring the forensics team in the back door, but in the end he had agreed that discretion was called for. Olivier scurried to the kitchen and shook hands with the chef, ordered a dinner to be sent to Max’s room, along with a bottle of Château la Vieille Cure 2007, then braced himself as he wove among the crowd in the dining room.
The pale yellow dining room could seat 150 diners, yet had a quiet elegance rare for such a vast space. Damask draperies covered a wall of windows on the far side of the room. Olivier paused to admire the round tables, each covered in rich linen tablecloths and yellow china, with the three requisite glasses—for water, white wine, and red wine—arranged to the right of the plates. The waiters moved in and out among the tables, balancing trays of glasses.
Vincent Barthes had a reputation as a playboy, and was often seen on the news with women who served as arm candy. Of medium height
, and with fair hair and blue eyes, he was a standout as far as looks went. Watching him glide around the room, Olivier observed that he treated each woman he spoke with as though she were the only person in the room.
Olivier didn’t think he had any particular interest in Max, just in seeing how quickly he could net another fish. Vincent’s father, Yves Barthes, and his father before him had been successful négociants, selling wines from the best vineyards. Since dropping out of his family firm and starting a company that produced cheap commercial wine, it was rumored that Vincent had lost a fortune, and then regained his footing—a last-minute save most people attributed to his father’s largesse.
Olivier was interested in the cultural mix he saw before him as he continued to scan the room. A large number of Asians mingled with Russians and Americans, with English the dominant language. Chantal Laussac made her way over to him. She had been born into this glamorous world, and her correct posture and subtle manners, the elegant chignon, the Chanel suit, and Hermès scarf were symbolic of that upbringing. “Vous êtes resplendissante,” Olivier said as she approached.
She didn’t pause for the requisite kiss on each cheek before saying, “Olivier, a rumor has spread that Ellen Jordan declined our dinner invitation because she was planning to have dinner with a mystery man. Do you have any idea who she was cavorting with, other than Pascal Boulin?”
“The key word is rumor,” Olivier said. “And as she isn’t well, and dined with no one, it doesn’t matter, does it?” Olivier reminded himself that the only people who knew of his planned dinner with Ellen and her assistant were Abdel and Zohra, and Sylvie and Pascal. He wished he knew what had been urgent enough for Ellen to insist on seeing him her first day in the village.
“François is upset,” Chantal went on. “She re-tasted his 2010 wine, but won’t tell him if she has changed the score. That woman shouldn’t have such power over us.”
Olivier was hardly in the mood for placating the various egos in the room. “You have to admit Ellen Jordan has sold a lot of French wine.”
François Laussac approached. “You decided to come after all. Welcome, Monsieur.”
Olivier shook hands with him, and explained that he couldn’t stay for dinner. “You understand the politics of my position, I’m sure.”
“Then you’re here on business?”
Olivier judged Laussac to be astute, a bit grandiloquent, but also polished, and certainly a great advocate for the Bordeaux region, though he usually went too far. “Nothing official,” he said. Olivier removed a glass from the tray as the waiter passed by. He sniffed the 2000 wine, gently rolled it around in the glass, and sipped. It had been a good year for Laussac, and he had good reason to be proud of it. His wine in the past had been compared to the exquisite Château Ausone that was held up as a benchmark for others, but the more recent vintages were causing him trouble.
“Pas mal,” Olivier said, and François smiled. “I might make an appearance tomorrow at Chantal’s family estate in the Médoc for their wine tasting, if that’s all right with you. It isn’t the time now to discuss it, but I understand that you had some wine stolen from your cellar.”
“They took some bottles dating back to the fifties from my wife’s family cellar which is under lock and key. She didn’t want to report it.”
“I’m investigating a series of break-ins and will encourage her to file a report.”
“Bordeaux can’t afford the bad publicity. There’s been quite enough around the newly announced Saint-Émilion ranking.” François had a way of speaking for the entire Bordeaux wine world, which Olivier found irritating.
“But it’s against the law to steal,” Olivier said, his tone sarcastic. “And it is a policeman’s job to find and punish the thieves.”
“It will no doubt turn up at some auction house. I suspect some of the Moroccans who’ve been working in our vineyards.”
“Why?”
“I’ve heard there are some trained thieves among them.”
Olivier felt disgusted at the racist remark. To change the subject, Chantal told her husband that Ellen Jordan had gone to the hospital with food poisoning.
Olivier was about to ask her who told her that when they were interrupted by a man who took Olivier’s hand and pumped it. “Hello. I’m Larry Wexler,” he said, glancing from one to the other. “Wexler’s Wine Importers and Distributors in New York? I don’t know how you guys sleep after eating so late. It gives me heartburn.”
Olivier prided himself on his English, but could barely make out what this man was saying because of his strong accent. He spoke in a sing-song manner, and elongated his vowels. Muscles bulged beneath his suit jacket. Of medium height, with dark curly hair, he reminded Olivier of a boxer. He had read about New Yorkers’ obsession with gyms, and thought this man had gone to an extreme.
Chantal repeated what she had just learned about Ellen Jordan.
“I’ve been waiting for Madame to arrive before telling my guests to take their seats,” François said. Olivier was tempted to call him on his lie, but refrained. “You know, Monsieur Chaumont, Mr. Wrestler sells more of Chantal’s and my wine than any other distributor in New York.”
“It’s Wexler,” the man said. “And to tell you the truth, selling wine is no different in my opinion than selling toilet fixtures. You’re either a salesman or you’re not. I happen to be damn good at it.”
François uttered a humorless laugh.
“To what do you attribute your success?” Olivier asked with genuine interest.
“Chutzpah,” Larry said. “And somehow I developed a decent wine palate. I have people back home clamoring for everything I’m purchasing here over the next three days.”
“Your commerce system is almost as complicated as ours,” Chantal said.
“It’s a racket is what it is. I’ll give you an example of when I started out. I was a small company. I wanted Chantal’s family’s famous wine, which always sells out early. I talked to your courtier and négociant and the next thing I knew I’d agreed to buy a lot of inferior wine in order to have the fine wine. It made me mad as hell. They can’t do that to me now that I’ve gotten so big.”
Olivier noticed that Chantal was bristling, but he also knew there was some truth to what the American was saying. “Who do you sell to?” Olivier asked in an attempt to sidetrack the conversation.
“Retailers, private buyers, restaurants…”
“Auction houses?”
“Not allowed.”
“There’s a woman at an auction house who has developed a reputation for finding extraordinary wines and quadrupling the price,” Laussac said.
“Paula Goodwin. She’s fantastic.”
Chantal excused herself, leaving the three men to carry on. “Not as big a star as Ellen Jordan, though, right?” François said.
“Paula holds a Masters of Wine certificate, held by maybe six women in the U.S.”
Olivier knew that anyone with the initials “MW,” or Master of Wine, after their name had reached a unique status. It took years and many thousands of dollars to complete the training in London.
“Ellen Jordan is not popular in this area,” François said, obviously pleased to have someone whose disdain for her was as great as his. “She practically admitted this morning to making a mistake with my 2010 wine. Do you know what that mistake has cost me?”
“I can guess,” Wexler said, then excused himself. He strode off, wobbling.
“He smells like gin,” Olivier said to François, who shrugged.
Over his shoulder Olivier noticed Abdel standing in the door, wide-eyed, trying to catch his eye. Nodding to another couple he knew slightly, Olivier thanked his host for the wine and made his way to his assistant. “What is it?”
“Monsieur Barthes knocked on Max’s door. She assumed he was the man who was to be Ellen Jordan’s and her host for the even
ing. Here’s the thing: he didn’t disavow her of that idea after she brought it up.”
“I just learned from Madame Laussac that Vincent met Max, and wondered how.”
“Predatory instinct,” Abdel sniffed. “He followed in his father’s footsteps and took a suite to entertain customers. He probably saw Max pass by.” Abdel paused before asking, “You’re going to tell Max that she was going to your house for dinner, aren’t you?”
“I’ll have to now,” Olivier said. “Make sure to get a list of all the guests at the Laussac dinner, and names and addresses of people staying at the hotel.”
Olivier’s mobile rang, and while still talking into the phone, he jumped up and hurried up the stairs with Abdel at his heels. “The policeman heard a loud crash in Madame Jordan’s room and Max has gone missing,” he said to his assistant.
Chapter Seven
April 2
Max thought of Hank’s words—the story of what happened is in Ellen’s room. There was only one thing to do—get into Ellen’s room and look around. She would try Ellen’s balcony door, and if it was locked, she’d let it go. Olivier must have forgotten about dinner, she decided. She ransacked her suitcase for a small flashlight and a pair of latex gloves, items that went with her everywhere as a matter of habit. Her watch read 10:30. From her balcony she heaved her body over the wrought-iron railing to Ellen’s balcony next door and tried the door. To her surprise it opened. A narrow swath of light came in under the door from the hallway.
It took her a second to get her bearings. Clicking on the mini-flashlight, she did a quick survey of the room, making note of the wine bottles looking like sentinels standing at attention in the shadows. A half-empty bottle of a wine labeled Château d’Yquem 1995 stood separate from the others. Various cheeses wrapped in white butcher paper were in the mini-fridge. She didn’t know if someone had brought them, or if Ellen had ordered them up, but they weren’t there when she’d left to walk around the village. Tasting was verboten, but she was sorely tempted.
In the salon she looked around for the cheese that had assailed her senses when she was doing CPR on Ellen. The plate was there, but the remnant was gone. Forensics hadn’t arrived yet, so where was it?
Bordeaux: The Bitter Finish Page 5
