“I don’t need much of your time,” Olivier said. “I wanted you to know that your niece is in the country temporarily working on the Ellen Jordan case.”
Douvier picked up a decanter and poured a small amount of wine into two glasses and brought them back to the desk, placing one glass in front of Olivier. “Don’t tell me she’s the woman who arrived here as Jordan’s bodyguard?”
“The same. I knew nothing about anyone coming, as I mentioned on the phone.”
“And I apologized for the oversight, didn’t I?”
“Did you?” Olivier sniffed the 2009 Yquem that Philippe had poured, and was almost overcome by the mind-altering bouquet of pear and apricot that enveloped him, for a moment making any conversation seem mundane. It flashed through his mind that Ellen Jordan was sipping Yquem the hour she died, which jolted him back to reality, and to the fidgety man pacing around the room.
“Max’s father set up the bodyguard thing,” Philippe said. “He had to have a reason.” Olivier explained about the threatening note, the magnum of wine Ellen Jordan had declared counterfeit, and how she had brought a second bottle with her that was now missing.
Douvier slapped his forehead. “So how’d she die?”
“What I’m about to say sounds sadly like a movie script. I’m almost certain Ellen Jordan was poisoned. Max and I are meeting with Doctor Legrand tomorrow for details.”
“This is madness! I hope like hell the motive is personal and has nothing to do with a disgruntled Bordelaise citizen.” His pacing made Olivier nervous. “Ellen Jordan’s death could be accidental, right? Mixing alcohol with a medication, for example? I thought the local coroner was going with alcohol poisoning.”
“A maid also died after eating a blue cheese that we suspect she took from Ellen Jordan’s room. We found the remnant at her house.”
“Merde! Is the killer French or American?”
“I assume that’s an editorial question...”
“The presidential election is around the corner,” Douvier said. “This case needs to be solved by then.” He stopped pacing, “What does my niece say? She obviously wasn’t an effective bodyguard.”
“She was sent away for the afternoon, and Madame Jordan promised not to leave her room.”
“So Jordan opened the door to her killer.”
Olivier shrugged. “They ate a blue, accompanied by a Sauternes, an Yquem. The same as what we’re drinking, I believe, but a different year.”
“This is an eighty-eight,” Douvier said in the tone of one who knows he has something unusually precious.
“The cheese was a bleu d’Auvergne…” said Olivier.
“So strong that it affects all the senses,” Douvier said. “Better that the murder weapon be a cheese than a wine. Bordeaux doesn’t have its own cheese so the association won’t be as strong in peoples’ minds.” He was obviously ready to wrap up the meeting. “The minister of the interior and I will announce on the 10:30 news that investigators suspect foul play in the case of Ellen Jordan.”
“I hope it doesn’t send the murderer into hiding.”
“Better that than have the public screaming about political malfeasance. Hiding the truth and all that.Where’d the missing bottle come from?”
“An American collector named Bill Casey. I want to go to New York for one to three days.” Olivier realized he was holding his breath.
Douvier stared at him before asking why.
“I want to trace the bottle back to the person who sold it to Casey. My agents have marked a number of cases of wine as suspicious and some are turning up in New York.
“You’re still on that tangent? Thinking somebody is shipping out counterfeit wine from Bordeaux?”
Olivier wished that everything out of Douvier’s mouth didn’t sound like either a question or an exclamation. “I also want to attend Madame Jordan’s funeral.”
The stillness that followed was unsettling. “You mean you want to represent France? I guess I can see that, but we have our French ambassador there.”
“I knew Ellen Jordan slightly.”
“Oh.”
Olivier thought he’d gone this far, he might as well mention Casey’s tasting. “I know it sounds strange, but I’m invited to another tasting of the ’45 Mouton-Rothschild at the collector’s house. I see it as an opportunity to step into that exclusive world.”
“I hate American boldness. No collector here would phone a perfect stranger and invite him to a gathering. It makes me suspicious.”
Olivier thought he quite liked that aspect of Americans.
“It all sounds vague, Olivier, but I guess I owe you one for not telling you Madame Jordan was bringing a bodyguard with her. Who will be in charge while you’re gone?”
“My assistant, Abdel Zeroual. He’s quite capable.”
“I’ll keep an eye on him while you’re gone, just in case.” He paused, “Where’s he from again?”
“Algeria. Born here.”
“I might be curious to meet him. We need to honor successful immigrants.”
Olivier reminded himself to warn Abdel. “Max is picking up the papers tomorrow that will secure the release of the body.”
“She’ll accompany Madame Jordan’s body to New York?”
“She’s on Air France, and they can’t fly cargo to New York. Madame Jordan will be on an American Airlines flight.” Douvier nodded, and Olivier breathed a sigh of relief that the meeting was coming to an end.
“Where’s my niece now?”
“With her grandmother. I dropped her off.”
Douvier scowled. “That’s a terrible idea. Madame de Laval has had a stroke, and this will cause too much excitement.” Douvier picked up his cell and tapped. “Hélène, your niece, Maxine, is with her grandmother tonight. Surely you know…” He stopped speaking and turned to Olivier. “What time did you drop her off?”
“Half an hour before coming here. Around 7:00.”
Douvier relayed the information to his wife and hung up. “Madame de Laval should have called us first.” His cell rang and he picked up immediately. “Quoi?” He listened, then said, “I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
Turning to Olivier, he said, “My wife called her mother who told her to mind her own business. Now Hélène is upset and she’s going straight away to check on her. I think you know what to do, Olivier. About the case, I mean. Monsieur Laussac is an adequate spokesperson for the Bordeaux area when it comes time to making announcements there.”
“He’s a suspect.”
“François Laussac? What the hell did he do?”
“He and Madame Jordan were in a public feud over his wine score being lowered, and her tasting book has gone missing.”
“He surely has an alibi…”
“He was in the hotel preparing for his dinner. So far Abdel hasn’t found anyone who can vouch for his exact whereabouts between the hours of five and seven, not even his wife who was supervising the table settings in the dining room. Vincent Barthes says that he stopped by his suite and mingled with retailers.”
“Those two are not a great combination.”
Olivier accompanied Douvier out to the street, and watched him jump into a black SUV, then roll his window down and gesture for Olivier to get in. “Maxine is partly your responsibility,” he said. “You can help me get her out of there. Hélène won’t allow her to stay, I know that.”
Olivier hesitated. Max’s family was none of his business, but he was full of curiosity. Just then his mobile rang and when he picked up Max said, “We’ll be late for our party if you don’t come right away.”
He recognized her code talk as get me the hell out of here. “On my way, Maxine.”
He thought he heard her say, “You’ll pay for that.”
They were there in fifteen minutes. Hélène was waiting in front of the apartm
ent building, an impatient expression on her face. “I thought you’d never get here,” she said to her husband. “Bonjour, Monsieur Chaumont, comment ça va?”
“Bien,” he said, shaking hands with the high-strung woman who wore bright red lipstick and her hair pulled back in a tight chignon. They entered the vast courtyard that exuded old-school luxury.
“The thing is,” Hélène explained in a tart voice, “my mother can’t take too much excitement. She grieves over Juliette and having Max show up will only add to her sadness.”
“It could have the opposite effect,” Olivier said.
“I know my mother,” Hélène said firmly, as they boarded the elevator.
They arrived at the first floor and Philippe and Hélène marched to the door. It opened, and Isabelle and Max stood side by side. “What grim faces,” Isabelle said as her daughter and son-in-law entered. Olivier was stunned by how much Max resembled her grandmother.
“Maxine?” her aunt said, making a beeline to Max and shaking hands. “I’m your aunt. And you’ve met your Uncle Philippe.” She moved past Max to her mother, “Mon Dieu, Maman, are you okay? Why didn’t you call me?”
Isabelle, unruffled, replied in French, “There was nothing to call about, dear.”
“I could have arranged a dinner. How did you communicate?”
“Hélène, stop,” Isabelle said. “You’re making a fool out of yourself. Of course my granddaughter speaks French.”
Philippe interjected, “Hélène, I told you she wouldn’t be staying. We should all repair to the living room…”
Olivier stepped forward, and Max strode purposefully over to him. Linking her arm through his, she said, “We can’t stay. Olivier and I are due at a party. Right, Olivier?” She led him to Isabelle, “Mamie, Olivier Chaumont.”
Olivier was impressed at how Max skillfully took control of the situation. He shook hands with Isabelle, and they entered into the de rigueur brief conversation about their family connections.
Isabelle said with a twinkle in her eye, “Go to your party. I will try to set my daughter straight about my health.” Max said a quick good-bye to her aunt and uncle, who seemed disappointed that the drama was ending, and steered Olivier toward the door. Once they were on the elevator, she said, “I feel like celebrating.”
“D’accord. But what are we celebrating exactly?” Olivier hailed a taxi and directed the driver to take them to the Hemingway Bar at the Ritz Carlton.
“Meeting my grandmother. I love her. She said I was a romantic like my mother. Do you agree?”
Olivier laughed. “I can’t answer that out of context.”
The driver stopped in front of the hotel at Place de la Concorde. The Hemingway Bar seated only thirty-four people and was tucked into the back of the hotel like a well-kept secret. It was reminiscent of a masculine lair from the days when Hemingway frequented one of the secluded tables on a regular basis. His rifle still hung on the wall above the original bar. The dark wood and dim lighting provided an atmosphere of intimacy that encouraged bent heads and hushed voices.
Olivier and Max took a seat in one of the small nooks, and were greeted warmly by a waiter. Olivier ordered a raspberry martini for Max and a “Serendipity” for himself, both original creations of Colin Field, the hotel’s world-renowned bartender.
“They’ll be closing down for two years at the end of this month for renovation,” Olivier said. “I’m glad you could experience it.” He held up his glass and Max followed with hers. “To romantics everywhere,” Olivier said.
“And here’s to finding Ellen’s killer.”
“That’s the least romantic toast I’ve ever heard,” Olivier said.
Max tossed her head back and laughed. Olivier glanced at his watch. “It’s a little after 10 o’clock. Douvier was going to announce on the 10:30 news that Ellen Jordan was murdered. Let’s go.”
They left their drinks, explaining to the waiter that they would return in a few minutes. The concierge in the lobby directed them to a small room with a television. Douvier and Madame Alban stood before reporters holding up microphones. Douvier stepped up and began to speak. It is with regret that I announce that foul play is suspected in the death of the celebrated American wine critic, Ellen Jordan. The cause of death will be announced when we have more information, possibly tomorrow.
Olivier and Max didn’t stay to hear reporters’ questions, but returned to their drinks instead. “The announcement will trigger a firestorm,” Olivier said.
Max raised her glass, “To Ellen.” Their glasses clinked in mid-air. “Let’s talk about something other than death, Olivier. Tell me about Australia. When were you there last?” Olivier told about his brother who had moved to Australia several years ago to start a vineyard, describing the landscape and the culture in detail. They sipped, and kissed, and held hands, deliberately blocking any mention of the turmoil their world was in.
“Are you sure you want to go home with me?” Olivier asked, enjoying their little joke.
“That’s a no-brainer.”
“What’s that?”
“The answer doesn’t require any thought.” The evening air was cool, and Max tucked her hand in his arm as they waited for a taxi. Once in his apartment, she said, looking around, “Nothing has changed since last year.”
“Including my feelings for you.”
She whirled around, “Olivier…”
“I don’t know about you, but…”
She was in his arms before he could finish the sentence.
Chapter Seventeen
April 5
Max awoke early and made coffee, surprised by how soundly Olivier slept. At 7:30 she couldn’t delay any longer. She poured two cups of coffee and went to wake him. “I think you like one-shot espresso, right?”
He looked alarmed for a second. “Did I sleep too late?”
“No. I woke up early.”
She walked over and placed the coffee next to his bed. “I’m going to dress and go for a run. Back in half an hour…”
“Max.”
She put the cups down, and climbed back into bed.
In an hour a car pulled up outside Olivier’s apartment, compliments of Douvier. They were driven to the U.S. Consulate, where Max picked up papers needed to transport Ellen’s body. Soon they were pulling into the familiar driveway of the Hôpital Raymond Poincaré in Garches, a suburb of Paris. Docteur Legrand, who had helped them solve the Champagne murders, greeted his two visitors warmly. “I followed the Champagne case last year to the end,” he said. “If you hadn’t come to me, I think the drowning death of Antoine Marceau would have been forever listed as an accident. I’m glad to have the opportunity to tell you that.”
“The credit goes to Max,” Olivier said, and Legrand nodded in agreement. Max silently passed the praise to her father, who not only taught her to trust her hunches, but also to persevere.
“I think we have another tough one on our hands,” Olivier said, “Poisoning is difficult to prove.”
“I sent the contents of Madame Jordan’s stomach to a private lab because the government tests are quick, inexpensive…and often unreliable. May I ask what made you suspect poisoning when an initial examination would suggest alcohol poisoning, or perhaps food poisoning?”
Max told him about accompanying Ellen as her bodyguard, and mentioned the threatening note. “The lab has come up with aconite poisoning,” he said. “There are four kinds of aconitum alkaloids, and one of them, jesaconitine, was detected in the vomitus, stomach contents, plasma, and urine. Hemorrhagic pulmonary edema was revealed during the macroscopic autopsy and I found diffuse contraction-band necrosis in the myocardium.”
Olivier said, “It would help if you spoke in layman’s terms.”
“Sorry. Let me start with aconite. It’s easily available, and easy to administer, but not so easy for us to isolate the poison f
rom viscera. In this case, a gas-chromatography/mass-spectrometry screening was used. My ruling is that the cause of death was aconite-induced centrogenic arrhythmia. I won’t go into too many details of the symptoms of poisoning, but it starts with numbness in the feet and fingers and progresses quickly to vomiting, diarrhea, and often leads to death.”
A horrible death at that, Max thought.
“I’m quite certain you’ll find the same results with the body of the maid,” Olivier said.
“The poison was in a blue cheese.”
“I know.
The driver rushed them to Paris, where they caught the train back to Bordeaux, feeling quietly vindicated by their obsession that Ellen was murdered. “I’m grateful to you, Olivier, for going out on a limb for me.”
“I had the same hunch. We’ve barely started the investigation and I’m already feeling overwhelmed.”
“We’ll start with today.”
Olivier teased, “We’re clear that we’ll both be on assignment this evening?”
“Watching you run off with arguably the most beautiful woman in France is a challenge, but the answer is yes.”
He took her hand. They were both more vulnerable now. “I’m sending you off with our most notorious bon vivant, who obviously has a crush on you.”
“I disagree. He wants something from me, but I don’t know what it is.”
“It’s only fair to tell you that he is one of several traders who have been targeted by my agents. That can mean anything from his books being off to hiding money to something more serious.”
“Abdel told me that he’s rumored to use drugs to get women to go home with him. He and his peers think Vincent is protected because nothing has happened to him.”
Olivier said, “Abdel didn’t tell me. Maybe because it’s rumor. You’re still okay with tonight’s plan?”
“I can handle him. I’ve seen what happens with date-rape drugs and, trust me, I won’t become a victim.”
Bordeaux: The Bitter Finish Page 12
