“To my surprise, she didn’t.”
“The French are not as quick as Americans to invite people into their homes.”
“But I’m her granddaughter.”
“A stranger, though. You are welcome to stay with me. My place is convenient…”
“If I stay with you, Olivier, it won’t be for reasons of convenience.”
“I wasn’t thinking about convenience.”
“Then I accept.”
Olivier felt caught off-guard again, but pleased. “You’re sure?”
“You’ve picked up my habit. The answer is yes.”
He leaned into her, and kissed her on the lips. “You know,” she said, “I’ve always wanted to be a woman kissed on a bridge or beneath a bridge or in the pouring rain in Paris.” Olivier laughed. “Or on a train or in a medieval doorway or at the top of the Eiffel Tower.” He kissed her again. As they entered the outskirts of Paris, she asked, “Do you think I’m dressed appropriately to meet my grandmother?”
“Just right.”
“I have mixed feelings about this meeting. I’ve never understood how parents can disown a child, for anything. It’s so heartless.”
“But your mother and grandmother have reconciled?”
“My mother flew to see her two years ago after my grandmother had a minor stroke, but my mom said it didn’t heal the emptiness she had felt for so long. They exchange little notes back and forth on crisp, white paper, but I think their relationship is far from warm.”
“It’s up to them, and I would even dare to say that nothing you try to do will help. You’ll show off your French, of course?”
“I have no choice.”
“But you studied in Paris.”
“For a semester, and I was drunk most of the time. It was after my brother died, and I didn’t give a rat’s ass about school.”
“A rat’s ass?”
“A figure of speech.”
“I’ve never felt rebellious,” Olivier said. “I don’t know what it would be like. What were you rebelling against?”
“Maybe the conflicted expectations. My mother wanted an intellectual and my father wanted a cop, and they both wanted their son back. I didn’t really care about any of it.”
The conductor announced that they would be at Gare d’Austerlitz in half an hour. “I wanted to explain how Véronique and the dinner tomorrow night came about,” he said. He told her about the text arriving out of the blue.
“The way I see it,” Max said, “is I arrived in the nick of time.” Olivier had forgotten how open she was, and how it delighted him. They jumped into a waiting taxi once outside the station and Max gave the address.
“Welcome to the world of the bourgeoisie,” Olivier teased. “Where rebellion is a foreign term.”
“If this visit with my grandmother turns out to be anything like my introduction to Philippe Douvier last year, I’m outta’ there in about ten minutes.”
“You have my number.”
“Stop worrying. I’ll call.”
Olivier thought it wasn’t worry but delicious anticipation that might kill him. The taxi stopped and Max issued a low whistle at the sight of her grandmother’s apartment building.
Chapter Fifteen
April 4
The elegant Belle Époque building constructed from the classic pierre de taille, or limestone used all over Paris, was on rue des Sablons, in the Chaillot quarter of the sixteenth arrondissement. Max’s mother had compared the area to New York’s Upper East Side, though only certain pockets in that section of New York were like this quiet oasis, where civility ruled.
Olivier accompanied Max to the door. “I’m certain this building was designed by Georges Haussmann,” he said, “who is also responsible for all the wide avenues in Paris. The Trocadéro is behind us, which, as you know, offers a fabulous view of la Tour Eiffel.”
Max scanned the street, making note of the similarly majestic buildings that lined it. She walked over to Olivier, who stood appraising the building. “Tonight the height of elegance,” she said. “Tomorrow the morgue.” He smiled, and asked if she wanted him to accompany her.
“I have to do this alone,” she said. “Merci.” He pulled her close and kissed her again. This time she didn’t feel she was in a fairy tale haze, but that her life was somehow unfolding exactly as it was meant to.
She quickly grabbed the tote bag that she had set down, and walked up to the massive door that led into the courtyard, not looking back. A concierge bounded out of his loge to welcome her. “Laissez-moi vous aider,”he said, taking her tote. He told her that she was expected and led her to an ornate, wrought iron elevator and touched the number three. As she stepped into the hall, a massive door with a gold latch slowly opened and a tall, formidable looking woman appeared. Max shifted her gaze from silver hair swept back, to arched eyebrows, to high cheekbones, and rested on eyes the color of the Mediterranean. No one had ever told her that she was a clone of her grandmother.
“Bonjour,” her grandmother said as Max approached, leaning toward her granddaughter for the obligatory kisses from a family member, which Max dutifully applied.
“Bonjour,” Max said softly. She followed the stately woman into an entrance hall with parquet floors and a high ceiling. Max imagined her mother running in and out of this place as a teenager.
“Viens,” her grandmother said, “We can have an apéritif in the drawing room. It’s good that you’re here early, as I don’t dine as late as I used to.” A clock chimed seven times. Max looked around, and thought the furniture and old portraits appropriate for Versailles.
“Sit,” Isabelle said in her imperative voice. “And let me look at you.” Max stared into her blue eyes. “You resemble my side of the family,” Isabelle said finally. “We’re from Burgundy. Your grandfather was from Paris.” She picked up a bottle of chilled Lillet Blanc from an ice bucket and poured the golden liquid into two glasses. “Why are you in France?”
Max’s carefully rehearsed answer escaped her. “I came to Bordeaux with the American wine critic, Ellen Jordan, whose death was announced this morning.”
“I saw it on television. Was she murdered, or will the authorities continue to try to convince the public that she died from food poisoning?” Max remained quiet. “Your aunt Hélène, don’t forget, is married to an important official, and she can’t keep her mouth shut.”
Max said, “The announcement that she was poisoned will be made tonight.”
“I was acquainted with Madame Jordan, you know. She brought out your mother’s delicious humor.” Isabelle Limousin de Laval sipped her drink. “How is your mother dealing with this awful tragedy?”
“She’s devastated.”
“You have no choice but to solve this, Maxine.” She’s echoing Hank? Max thought. She was tempted to tell her, but thought better of it. “I heard all about your involvement in the Champagne murders last year. Hélène told me that you met with Philippe, but weren’t interested in meeting the rest of us.”
“That’s not true! He didn’t want me to meet anyone.”
“Wasn’t his mistress involved in that horrid murder scandal?”
Max nodded. “She was more evil than most murderers I’ve locked up. She was drawn to his power, but I don’t know what he saw in her.”
Isabelle sniffed. “Power on the outside. Weak inside.” She sighed, “Philippe seems to have tremendous influence over my daughter. She had every right to leave him after learning he had a mistress, but like so many French women, she was loath to let go of ‘family.’”
“And status?”
“Perhaps.”
“Olivier Chaumont is with him right now telling him that I’m back in France working another high-profile case.”
“I know Olivier’s parents. I saw his photograph in the newspaper with the famous model whose name I forget.
Too bad he’s not available.”
“He and the model aren’t together now,” Max was quick to say.
Isabelle waved her hand in the air. “Who knows who’s together these days? I keep up with Olivier’s attempts to bring our corrupt politicians under control. Unfortunately, our judges are at risk of becoming extinct.” She smiled at Max, “But not NYPD detectives, right?”
“If New York becomes much safer, we might be.”
“I suppose you like being in the business of solving crimes?”
“It’s in my blood. And yes, most days I love it.”
“You know that detectives aren’t held in high esteem here. But we don’t have so many murder cases that require such expertise.”
“I’m not so sure that we’re held in high regard in America, either. Our television shows abound with cops and detectives, which create a lot of myths about us, as well as a mystique.”
“What do you think you would have chosen to do had your father not taken you under his wing?”
Max didn’t like the phrasing of the question. “Perhaps become a psychologist or a social worker.”
Isabelle couldn’t hide her disdain. “You need to help people? Is that it?”
“The two people I admire most in the world help others. My parents. What about you? What would you have done with your life if you had had the freedom to choose?”
“I chose marriage with my own free will,” Isabelle said. “I suppose if I had a secret longing it was to become an actress, but my parents considered that equal to being a prostitute.”
“You couldn’t rebel?”
“Oh, no! Look at your mother who rebelled. Look at the mess this family is in as a result.”
“It’s her fault?”
“Blame it on your late grandfather and your mother. I begged your mother and Frédéric to reconcile. He refused, and wouldn’t hear of me going to visit her. Nor would he allow her to come here, and when he was dying, and finally asked to see her, she refused. You know the story…”
“No, I don’t. My mother never talks about it.”
Isabelle sniffed. “Just as well. What good does talk do?”
“My mother suffered a lot.” Max regretted the statement when she saw her grandmother’s eyes fill with tears.
“It’s a tragedy,” Isabelle said, “when families split apart. I want to repair the damage that was done before I die, if your mother will allow it.”
“What was it like two years ago when my mother came to visit?”
“It was a miracle to see her enter my hospital room. But of course, the healing doesn’t happen overnight. She won’t accept money from me, which means she can’t come often.”
“I can’t believe my mother grew up in such a rarefied atmosphere,” Max said. “I’m not sure I could feel at home here. Nothing against you personally.”
“You’d be surprised at how easily you would adapt,” Isabelle said with no sarcasm. “A lifestyle like this imposes great responsibility.” Max felt chastened. “Come,” Isabelle said. She led the way to a vast dining room to a table that sat twelve, and they took their seats at the same end.
The maid brought in soup, and Max watched as her grandmother dipped her spoon into the bowl. “C’est potage velouté aux champignons,” Isabelle said. Max recognized the mushroom soup as one her mother made often. Isabelle said, “Your mother will never get over your brother’s death, and it sharpens her pain that he never knew his French family. She named him for her father.”
“You don’t like my father, do you?”
“I believe that had he really loved your mother he would have sent her back to France, and not married her.”
“But she was pregnant with me. My father’s love is what got her through everything, and still does. He’s a good simple Irishman…”
“There’s nothing simple about Hank Maguire, my dear. He would never admit it, but he didn’t want Juliette to be connected to her family and this lifestyle. He knew he couldn’t provide for her in the same manner.”
“My father is a legend…”
“On the New York police force. And legends are human, don’t forget.” Max thought there might be a grain of truth about her father’s resentment of the de Laval family.
“How did my grandfather acquire all his money?”
Isabelle smiled, “To the French that question is considered vulgar, but I don’t mind. Those who have it go out of their way to pretend they don’t, except for the nouveau riche who do just the opposite. I’m the one who inherited vast wealth. Your grandfather’s family, the de Lavals, were aristocrats centuries back, and the name still carries weight, but over time they squandered their wealth. When I met Frédéric he was a local functionary, his fortune spent.”
“I’m curious about his looks.”
Isabelle suddenly put her spoon down. “I don’t think I’ve ever left the table mid-meal, but maybe it’s time to break a rule or two. Let’s go back to the drawing room and I’ll pull out the photo albums.”
The maid entered to remove the soup bowls and Isabelle, sounding almost girlish, told her they’d be back in a few minutes. The maid and Max exchanged a smile. Max sat beside her grandmother on a love seat, the album on their laps. Juliette resembled her father, who was dark-haired with a roman nose and an impish smile. “Were you madly in love with my grandfather?”
Isabelle said, “You’re a romantic like your mother!” Max had never been called a romantic, and thought the notion absurd. “I fell in love the way all young girls are in love with someone who pays attention to them. I had been extremely protected, and Frédéric was older and ready to marry. My parents wanted their potentially independent daughter to settle down. He had the correct pedigree.”
“Buy why, then, would Frédéric disown his daughter?”
Isabelle sighed. “He hated poverty. His father lost everything. And he was certain that your father wanted our money. We fought bitterly over this for years, and one day I accused him of marrying me for my money.” The image of the Laussacs came into Max’s mind. “He barely spoke to me for a month, and I found myself having to make a choice. I didn’t want my marriage to end. I don’t think I’ve ever told that to anyone. Maybe you would have made a fine psychologist.”
“Detective work is similar,” Max said. “We dig around, finding motives, and it usually leads back to childhood upsets and broken dreams.”
“How was your childhood, Maxine?”
“It was great.” Seeing the look of skepticism on Isabelle’s face, she said, “No, really. The city has its challenges, and we didn’t have any extra cash floating around, but my parents loved each other and they loved my brother and me.”
The maid re-appeared. “Oh, our main course has arrived,” Isabelle said. They returned to a boeuf Bourguignon. The maid poured wine into delicate, cut crystal wine glasses, then put the decanter on the table and quietly slipped out. Isabelle, relaxed and smiling regaled Max with stories of her one trip to America, when Juliette was twelve. “She was crazy about New York. Perhaps it was that, more than meeting Hank, that determined her destiny.”
Salad was served. Isabelle whispered to her maid, “Are there fresh sheets on the bed in the room next to mine?” Just then the telephone rang, and the maid scurried away.
“I’m staying with Olivier tonight,” Max said. “I meant to tell you when I arrived.”
“This is a little more serious than I thought,” Isabelle said. “If that’s the case, I want to meet him.”
The maid entered and discreetly whispered something to Isabelle, who excused herself and left the room. The telephone conversation quickly grew argumentative, and Max heard the sound of the phone being returned to its cradle with a bang. When Isabelle rejoined Max, she said, “It was Hélène. Philippe called to tell her you are here and they are racing to rescue me.”
“What should
I do?”
“Stay and say hello. Philippe and Hélène will insist that you are making me tired. You’re sure you can stay with Olivier? This won’t happen again.”
“That’s no problem, Madame.”
“Call me anything but madame. I’m your grandmother, for god’s sake.”
“Mamie, then?”
Isabelle laughed. “Très bien. If you want to return, and I hope you do, we won’t tell Hélène. And if you need an informant on this case, I’m all yours.” Max was suddenly intrigued by the thought of using her grandmother as a secret information source. It could replace her language deception.
Chapter Sixteen
April 4
The taxi ride to Place Vendôme had given Olivier a few minutes to bring his focus back to the meeting with Douvier. When Max’s name came up, he would emphasize to Douvier that Max was an asset in the investigation. One of his agents called him in the taxi to cast a slight cloud of suspicion around Vincent’s business activities. He had invested his father’s money in the production of lower quality wines, and the wines hadn’t taken off, yet it was obvious there was no dearth of cash. It could be nothing more than faulty bookkeeping, Olivier thought, but still, he would let Max know about it. It was perfect the way tomorrow was unfolding. Max could get an inside perspective on Vincent Barthes as she mingled with people at the tasting and spent time alone with him.
The evening with Véronique was trickier, for he had to enlist her help in posing as a collector. If she revealed that he was a judge, the evening would be a bust. Collectors liked to brag about their latest trophies to other collectors, and he knew that all kinds of deals would be made at the dinner that would never happen in front of a judge. He hadn’t heard from Véronique since he cast her out of his house last year, and then had Abdel arrest her for her own safety and keep her under lock and key in a hotel until she sobered up. There was some residue of guilt left over from that episode. He learned later that she had gone back to rehab, which is where she had met her current fiancé.
He walked into the splendidly appointed office of the minister of justice, and took a seat. Twenty minutes later Philippe Douvier entered, in hyper-frenetic mode as usual. “I don’t have long,” he said.
Bordeaux: The Bitter Finish Page 11
