As much as he tried to avoid thinking of murder, it was as though someone snapped his fingers, and he, Max, and Abdel were back together, crime-solving. It was going to be an onerous task to determine just what crimes had been committed, and finding those responsible. Sylvie’s remark that she wanted to talk to him about something personal flitted through his mind, and he tried to will it away, but it clotted. Max’s mother had revealed that Ellen’s lover was his friend Pascal. French men had a reputation for maintaining affairs outside their marriages, and he had wondered at times if their wives really condoned such behavior, or if they felt they had no choice. He couldn’t imagine Sylvie being tolerant of Pascal straying. Not for a minute. Now the consequences of Pascal’s infidelity were huge. Max, it was obvious, had already pegged him as Ellen’s alleged murdered.
He took another sip of wine and decided it was excellent. Ellen Jordan would have clapped her hands over this one. Sadness descended over him as he thought of her bright eyes and deep dimples. She had helped to put Bordeaux on the map, at least for Americans, and he hoped that this would be noted in the many articles that would appear about her. He would go the extra mile to find what had happened on that fateful night.
He got up, reluctantly, and passed through the dining room where he could hear his mobile making strange and insistent sounds. Text messages, he imagined. Horrors. Normally he would wait until morning to see who wanted what, but it could be Max. He picked up his phone, and saw that his former girlfriend, Véronique Michaud, had a modeling shoot in two days and was invited to a dinner at Château Cheval Blanc. Would Olivier escort her? About to decline, Olivier thought perhaps this would provide an opportunity to probe more deeply into the counterfeit operation. He considered posing as a collector, as few in the area knew him.
His ex added, Apologies for my nasty behavior last year. I’ve gone through another round of rehab and it’s time for the usual amends.
He texted back his acceptance, then opened an email from Max:
Your friend Destiny has brought us together again, for which I am glad. I hope you can remain objective and allow me to work this case with you and Abdel. I owe it to Ellen to see this one through. Sweet dreams.
Olivier smiled. He typed: It was bliss having you back in my arms, Max. I would like nothing more than to have you work Madame Jordan’s case with Abdel and me. IF the powers-that-be agree with me that we have a case. Bonne nuit.
Chapter Eleven
April 3
Max was running as fast as she could, but couldn’t escape her pursuer’s damp, hot breath on her neck. She awoke with a jolt and lay still, slowly opening her eyes and allowing them to adjust to the morning sunlight spilling into the room. As a way of centering her thoughts, she studied the details of the voluptuous, damask draperies that hung in the French windows. An image of Olivier appeared in her imagination, and she smiled. Forgive me, Ellen and God, she whispered, but I have to take a moment here to revel in last night’s lovemaking. This was a different Olivier from the one she was with last year who exercised extreme caution at every turn.
The alarm on her phone played, and she reached over to check messages. Olivier had texted her back at 2:10 a.m. “Bliss,” she said out loud. “Bliss! God! What was he drinking?” She jumped up and went to the balcony, taking her notebook with her. Abdel was walking toward the hotel, holding his mobile phone up to his ear. He glanced up, and waved. When he came closer, she waved and said, “I need coffee.”
“That’s why I’m here,” he said, replacing his mobile in his pocket, and grinning up at her. “Are you ready to go with me to a café?”
“Give me two minutes.” She changed into sweats and a long-sleeved tee shirt. The face and hair would have to wait.
The concierge glanced up as she sauntered past the main desk, a frown creasing his forehead the moment he saw her. He spoke to her in French, “Madame, est-ce que je pourrais vous aider?”
“I don’t understand French,” she replied in English. What was that goon doing at work so early?
“You spoke perfect French to me when I was at the door of the hotel room,” he argued. “By the way, I was told to call an officer if I saw you attempting to leave the hotel.”
“So call. I have Olivier Chaumont’s home phone and mobile number if that helps,” she added, removing his card from her pocket and placing it on the desk.
Flustered, he glanced at it and said, “I have a different number.”
“Try yours, then. I need a cup of coffee.” She leaned her elbows on the desk to further annoy him. He punched in the numbers. Abdel entered the lobby, holding his ringing phone.
Abdel’s eyes met Max’s briefly, then he quickly switched his attention to Cazaneuve. “Why are you calling me?”
“Is this some kind of a joke?” Cazaneuve demanded, slamming down the hotel phone. He pulled his shoulders back and spoke in French, “I want to know who will be responsible for la note?”
Abdel interjected, “You don’t have to concern yourself with such trifles. Maître Chaumont will tell you what to do when he arrives.”
Max followed Abdel outside. “He’s still mad because I kicked him. Once I’m officially in on the investigation, I’m going after him.”
“You’re part of our team?”
“Olivier said yes to me joining you two, if there is an investigation. You and I both know there will be.”
“Great. I need help with Madame Jordan’s password.” Abdel led the way to a café. “I’ll have a double espress,” Max said to the server. “And a pain au chocolat.”
Abdel ordered a tea, then handed her Ellen’s laptop, and she went to work, clicking on letters. “I knew her email address, but had to call my old partner Joe for the password.”
“When did you do that?”
“From the bar. Vincent let me use his mobile.”
“What is it?”
“Bonvin.”
“Cool.” He scrolled down. “There are hundreds of emails.”
“Check out any from Bill Casey.”
“Paula Goodwin wrote a few days before the en primeur that she was sick and couldn’t make it to France,” Abdel said.
“She ended up coming. I met her with Ellen. She wanted the magnum back and Ellen wouldn’t budge.”
“Why?”
“It sounded legit. Bill Casey wanted it back to sell to someone who was interested.”
Abdel said, “I’ll print out all of the emails from her. A more recent one is from a man named B. Casey who writes, ‘I want the bottle back. I have a different plan.’ And here’s one on the evening she died, from P. Boulin, that says je ne regrette rien.”
Max got up and ordered another coffee, and sat back down. “He slept with her, then dumped her by the end of the day. He’s going to end up with some regret, I’ll bet on that.”
“How much?”
She laughed. “You and Olivier are still making those wagers?”
“You bet.” They burst out laughing at his cleverness. “Shall we head back to the hotel?” asked Abdel. They paused at a stone wall surrounding a large terrace overlooking the village and the vineyards that crawled to the horizon. “Being in the country makes me homesick for Algeria,” Abdel said. “Though my memory of my visits there have grown vague.”
“Why did your family leave?”
“After the Algerian War with France ended in 1962, citizens of my country, who had been colonized by the French for thirty-two years, were given the opportunity to live in France. My grandfather came here to make a better life for his family. He died two years later, leaving four children, my father among them.”
“Where did you grow up?”
“I was born in 1982 and grew up in Clichy-sous-Bois outside Paris. It was developed in the 1960s. Today it is referred to as the banlieue.”
“Where the car-burnings take place? The ones we see on tel
evision?”
Abdel nodded, “It’s the area where politicians like to do walkabouts and make promises to the cameras that they will rid the streets of what they refer to as the racaille who live there.”
“What’s that?”
“Scum.”
“And here you are a commissaire with the national police.”
“I’m the rare success story. I thought this the best way to fight the injustices I have witnessed, but I would never have pursued this career without Monsieur Chaumont’s assistance.” He sipped his tea, and picked up instantly when his mobile rang. “I have to go,” he said. “Monsieur Chaumont is at the hotel early.”
He stopped to purchase Le Figaro from a tabac shop, the front page headlines announcing Ellen Jordan’s death. Her photograph was spread across the page.
“Imagine, people don’t have a clue about what really happened,” Max said.
“It might have continued like that had you not been here,” Abdel said.
“It’s humbling to do the work we do.” She hesitated, “Thank you for believing me.”
“After you were so sure about Monsieur Antoine in Champagne being a victim of foul play when he drowned, I’d believe your allegations.”
“That’s going too far.”
“Time to part ways,” he said. “Have a good run,” Abdel shouted after her.
Max took off at a lope. She already knew the lay of the land from her walk yesterday. The air was crisp, perfect for running. Once her rhythm was set, she felt like she was on cruise control. She rounded a curve and slowed down as the sun was in her eyes. The sound of a motor coming up too close made her turn, and just in time she leapt out of the way. The motorcycle didn’t stop or turn around. It whizzed by, at a furious pace. She wondered if the driver was blinded by the sun, or if he was trying to scare her. Maybe Olivier had been right to assign a gendarme to the hotel, she thought.
***
“We’re officially opening up an investigation,” Olivier said when Max and Abdel joined him at the makeshift office in the hotel. He had greeted her warmly, but was in strict professional mode, which she understood. “I’ve been put in charge. We need a liaison in New York. I spoke with your boss, Captain O’Shaughnessy, Max, and he thinks you’ll have your shield back in another day or two.”
Max felt deflated, and tried not to show it. “You’re sending me home? I thought your text meant I could work the murder case.”
“I haven’t explained the counterfeit operation we have inaugurated. Abdel mentioned last night that he could see the two crimes overlapping, and the more I think about it, the more I think he has a point. You will be here for a couple of days at least.”
“With the emphasis on the missing magnum of wine, right?”
“We’re grasping at straws, I know. It could be a simple theft. We haven’t heard from the medical examiner in Paris yet.” He turned to Max, “It’s Docteur LeGrand, the same man who helped us with the Champagne case.”
“He’s good.”
Abdel’s phone rang and he left the room.
“Are you okay, Max?” Olivier asked.
“Personally, great. Professionally, not so sure. I’m getting a sense of how you must have felt last year. It’s much harder knowing the victim.”
“It takes great fortitude to move beyond it, I know that. Finding justice helps.”
“My father said the same thing.”
“I think this case is going to be much more convoluted than last year’s,” Olivier said. “Please be patient with me.” He gave her an imploring look. “Know I want you here with me, personally and professionally.”
He had read her mind. He leaned forward. “By the way, Abdel and I saw the YouTube video. My take on it was that you were afraid of him.”
“The guy freaked me out with his vile language. He was also starting to overpower me and I thought I was alone.”
“I thought you were, too, but Abdel saw a figure in the shadows.”
“My soon to be ex-partner.”
“How cowardly of him to stand back.”
“He was mad over something I said, and wanted to teach me a lesson. I had to continue working with him when I went back after Champagne, but no more.”
“And what about the personal?”
Max knew what he was driving at. “It was over when I returned from France last year.”
Their intimacy was broken by Abdel entering the room. Olivier asked him to interview the hotel owner again about the wine. “Max, can you start by working with the U.S. consul to get the proper papers for shipping Madame Jordan’s body back?”
Oh crap, Max thought. First I’m in charge of a bottle and now a body. “Of course,” she said, hoping that her face wasn’t a dead giveaway to how she really felt about that task. The waiting and grunge work were the downside of investigations, and this one was feeling extra slow because they were waiting to hear from the medical examiner, and they didn’t know where to start. She also knew it would pick up, and somebody somewhere someday would make a mistake, and they would be off and running.
“Why don’t you both come with me to the fromagerie to find out who has been purchasing blue cheese recently?” Olivier asked.
Abdel and Max stepped outside. Max shouted, “Shotgun!” to him, and jumped into the passenger front seat. Abdel laughed. “Whoever calls ‘shotgun’ first gets the front passenger seat,” he explained to Olivier.
“Americans are crazy,” Olivier said, smiling at their antics.
“And you’re old-fashioned,” Max teased.
When they were in front of the fromagerie, Olivier said in French to Abdel, “She has a big appetite. Let’s make a bet on how many cheeses she samples. I’ll place five euros she tastes at least four.”
Max couldn’t believe it. They were going to have fun at her expense? She had almost forgotten that they still thought she didn’t understand French. She would confess, but not until the cheese tasting was over.
Abdel said, “She ate her croissant and half of mine, and drank a double espress this morning. I say two. Five euros is too much for my low salary.”
“We’ll make it three.”
“Don’t forget I won the last time,” Abdel said. “Ellen Jordan brought a woman assistant, not a man, so you still owe me for that.”
“If I win this one, we’re even.”
Abdel chortled.
I’ll make losers out of both of you, Max almost said out loud in French.
Chapter Twelve
April 3
Matthieu Delorme was a fourth-generation affineur, responsible for aging the cheeses put in his care at the right humidity and temperature. His was a labor-intensive occupation that few understood. Half the flavors in the cheese aged in his shop could be attributed to his talent. Olivier found Delorme’s shop soon after moving to Bordeaux, and returned often. A large case at the front of the small store contained a variety of cheeses, and beyond the shop area, Olivier could see rounds as large as bicycle wheels. Delorme’s wife, Christiane, hurried over and shook hands with each of them, then excused herself to tend to customers waiting in line to purchase. Monsieur Delorme suggested a tour of the cheese caves—a cool, damp area of the cellar.
Olivier was pleased to see that Max seemed intrigued. They descended a flight of stairs to a cavernous room with several passageways. Delorme explained that Bordeaux was not known as a cheese-producing area. “That doesn’t mean that the Bordelaise don’t consider cheese to rest among the Holy Trinity, along with bread and wine,” he said with a laugh. “I bring in the best from all over France.”
He cut off a piece of a favorite of Olivier’s, a chalky, herb-scented brin d’amour from Corsica, and offered a sample to each of them. Max closed her eyes and inhaled the fragrance, “Hmm. It smells lovely, but no thank you.”
They ascended back to street level and w
andered around the store until they arrived at a block of a mild blue cheese called Fourme d’Ambert. Max watched as Olivier and Abdel accepted a sample and she remarked that it was pas mal.
“You don’t like blue?” Monsieur Delorme asked her.
“Not today.”
“Oh, here’s something you’ll like,” the proprietor persisted. “It’s irresistible.” He chuckled. “It’s from the Marayn de Bartassac dairy in Landiras near Sauternes, and is shaped by hand.”
Max shook her head gently, and said, “I have to watch my figure.”
“Oooh, your figure, it is magnifique,” the proprietor said in English with a strong French accent. “Don’t you agree, Monsieur Chaumont?”
Olivier felt annoyed when Max flashed him a smile. When had she turned down the opportunity to sample such delicious fare? The little betting game he and Abdel had concocted seemed absurd under the circumstances, and he attempted to convey that to Abdel by holding up his hand as if to say enough, but Abdel was too busy trying to entice Max with yet another sample of cheese. He suddenly didn’t like their playfulness.
Olivier then focused his attention on the proprietor. “Do you keep a record of the specific cheeses you sell each day, Monsieur?”
The cheese maker nodded his head vigorously. “My great-grandfather started the practice and I kept it up,” he said. “Sometimes the girl over there makes mistakes, but for the most part, yes. Why?”
“This is extremely confidential. I need to know who has been in here purchasing cheeses over the past week, and the amount of various cheeses that have been sold.”
Monsieur Delorme’s cheerful countenance instantly switched to one of concern. “Monsieur Chaumont! Has someone become ill from my cheeses? If so, I need to know.”
Olivier hesitated, “Unfortunately, someone did become ill. You’re not to blame, however.”
Bordeaux: The Bitter Finish Page 8
