“Okay. Let’s do a quick rundown of what we have ahead of us,” Olivier said. “Thirty of around four hundred exporters in the Bordeaux area have been tagged by my agents for infractions of various rules. Signs of tampering, shipments leaving from unassigned ports, or financial books that aren’t in order are some of the criteria for the agents. Vincent’s company is among the places where we have an agent planted. A call came in that he has certain shipments taken to a more distant harbor than is normal, and so that’s being checked.”
“What’s the port that aroused suspicion?” Max asked.
“Le Havre. He has a driver taking a truckload of wine there two nights a week, which I don’t find particularly alarming. His father’s firm ships wines all over the world, but all these cases are going to two different importers in New York City.”
“A good starting place for me when I return.”
Olivier said, “I’ll be going to Bill Casey’s special tasting the evening I arrive.”
“Won’t I be confiscating the rest of the magnums in that lot when I return?”
“I want to use them as lures. Someone went to great lengths to get their hands on the one Ellen Jordan brought here. My preference, when possible, is to allow things to disintegrate of their own accord.”
“Sounds kind of passive.”
“I’m far from being passive. At least we can agree about that.” Max laughed. “It’s more about being a cat than a dog,” Olivier continued. “To be aware and wait to pounce requires far more discipline than just barking and jumping.”
“I don’t think you’d survive at the NYPD,” Max teased. “We’re all dogs. Dobermans and the like.”
“Ellen was also tenacious as a dog. Taking the bone and running with it. She was foolish to ignore the warning note. On the other hand, no one has ever died at the hands of a counterfeiter.”
“She took it seriously enough to hire me, although my parents pretty much thrust me onto her. Hank thought it the perfect job to get me out of town, and my mother and Ellen thought it an opportune time for me to reconnect with you. Awful, huh?”
“She succeeded in reuniting us, but under the most dreadful circumstances. You know, I resisted accepting your help last year, but I don’t know what we would have done without you. I’m not a seasoned investigator in the same way you are.”
“You have some talent.”
He smiled. “You’re different from last year. I think you’ve been flourishing in the Big Apple.”
“In Champagne, I was on my own. No dad, no Walt, no Joe. I learned I could function without them.”
“What waits when you go home?”
“I’ll continue as a second-grade detective, but I’m going to ask to be transferred to a different precinct.”
“Because of your ex-boyfriend? Maybe he’s the one who should be transferred.”
“He already has been. I just want a change.”
“What about France?”
The question felt loaded. “That would be a big change.”
“We’ll be entering the station soon. Véronique has a hotel room in the village, and I will be driving home to Bouliac. Can you come there after your dinner?”
“Sure.”
The conductor announced their destination as Olivier answered his ringing mobile. “Our little respite is over,” he said to Max. “Abdel informed me that cases of wine just arrived at customs in New Jersey with our Opération Merlot marker on them. They’ll call back with all the data.”
“Things are picking up.”
He pulled a sheet of paper from his briefcase and handed it to her. “Names of people at the hotel the night Madame Jordan died. Introduce yourself as the assistant, and no French.”
“With my Amazonian build, platinum hair, and ignorance of French, I’ll be labeled the American bimbo. People are more prone to reveal secrets when they feel superior, and among the Bordelaise, I’ve noticed, there is no lack of arrogance.”
“I admire your acting skills,” Olivier said. “I could use a lesson in portraying a wine collector tonight.”
“Just be your usual erudite self. Pontificate.”
“Is that how you see me?”
“It’s actually a compliment.”
“You have your cell. Call me if you need to.”
Olivier pulled up in front of the hotel. Max reached over and gave his hand a quick squeeze and was gone. She doubted that either of them would uncover anything significant, but what was wrong with an afternoon and evening of fine wine and entertaining company?
***
Max sat in the passenger seat of Vincent’s Ferrari as he drove along the famous Route des Châteaux in Médoc, pointing out some of the great houses built on properties that had made the region famous. The landscape was flatter and plainer than Saint-Émilion with its rolling hills and valleys, yet boasted an endless expanse of perfectly tended vineyards. The surrounding waters of the Gironde Estuary and the Atlantic Ocean added a maritime quality.
Vincent explained that Bordeaux was divided physically and culturally by the Garonne River—the old wine aristocracy inhabited the Left Bank and the newer, more innovative winemakers were on the Right, with few exceptions. The wines in this area were made predominantly from the cabernet sauvignon grape, Vincent explained, responsible for those fabulous wines that aged well. Merlot was another important grape to the region.
“What about Pascal’s wines?”
“He was one of the first to bring attention to the Right Bank. Like him, his wines are mercurial, undeveloped, and lacking subtlety. There is no terroir. Simply stated, no roots or pedigree. But he’s in the mainstream now, and the division is much less pronounced than it was even twenty years ago.”
“No one can argue with his success.”
“You could almost say that the American craving for strongly flavored wines with more alcohol created the new trend. Your critics raved about wines that remind me more of California wines.”
“What about the wine you’re producing?”
“You mean my $10-dollar-a-bottle wine?” He sounded bitter. “You know, Pascal will be exposed as an opportunist when it’s leaked to the press that he and Ellen Jordan were having an affair. I need someone to promote my wine the way Ellen did his.” He reached over and put his hand on her thigh. “You interested?”
She shifted her position. “This sounds like sour grapes, Vincent. Sorry, I couldn’t resist the pun.”
Missing her play on words, he said, “Actually, I have someone as powerful as Madame Jordan who has promised to help me.”
“Oh? Who’s that?”
“A woman in New York named Paula Goodwin. I have created a fine wine from the two hectares of land my father gave me.”
Max feigned ignorance about Paula Goodwin. “Never heard of her.”
He rolled his eyes. “She will be bigger than Ellen Jordan, mark my words.” Has he no sensitivity? she wondered, suddenly finding a great deal wrong with his character. “She will be attending the Cheval Blanc event tonight.”
Max suddenly didn’t want to spend the evening with Vincent. She didn’t like the hand on the thigh, the bitterness, the insensitivity. “Don’t you want to go?” she asked hopefully.
“Because Paula Goodwin’s going to be there? I can see her later.” He smiled at Max. “Besides, I want to be with you. The Cheverny wine that we’ll taste today promises an extraordinary blend that will hold for decades, if not centuries. It has amazing depth.” He gestured at the building ahead. “There awaits our castle. I shall be your Prince Charming for the night.” That’s pushing it, Max thought, determined to pull herself out of the bad mood that had overtaken her.
The long, winding driveway lined with trees led to a Gothic revival château that stood majestically in the middle of seventy hectares of grapes. Neatly planted rows of vineyards stretched to the hori
zon. It was one of the few estates that had not been either bought outright in recent years by the nouveaux riches or foreigners, or taken over by international companies that were determined to purchase prestigious property.
“These fields will be transformed into a sea of lush green vines laden with grapes by July,” Vincent said. Max had read that Bordeaux’s skies were vast ocean mirrors, an apt description of the shimmering light surrounding them. The château was even more impressive up close than from a distance. Vincent took her hand as they started up the steps. Max’s black, silky pants, shirt, and vintage Givenchy jacket felt just right. She paused a second to get into character. The Lone Rangeress is on the prowl, she thought, smiling at her own humor.
Chapter Eighteen
April 5
Everything about the Barthes château in Paulliac was understated. The buildings, the landscape, including the pond below the house, had a pure and natural elegance. Olivier much preferred this type of estate to those on the tourist route. Glancing around the entry hall as he entered, he was certain that some of the paintings had been hanging there for centuries. An attractive woman whom Olivier figured to be around his age, and who was pregnant, opened the door, and shook hands. “I’m Gabrielle. Please excuse the chaos. We’re in the midst of preparing for an extended trip to Australia.”
He recognized her Australian accent, and thought of his brother who had moved there. “What area of Australia are you from?”
“Melbourne.”
“I have a brother there attempting to grow grapes. Jean-Louis Chaumont.”
“I’ve actually heard of him. Please wait here in the library. I’ll get Yves.” She disappeared through a door, and Olivier walked across the room to admire some Renaissance prints.
“Monsieur Chaumont.” Olivier turned and shook hands with the silver-maned man with a courtly manner who Olivier assumed to be in his sixties. “Come with me.” They entered Yves’ office, which made Olivier feel as if he had stepped back into another century. Yves Barthes was the quintessential Bordelaise négociant. Olivier knew that of all the traders in the area, he was the one who would be most informed when it came to who had bought what over the past decade. “Please, sit down,” Yves said.
“I won’t take up too much of your time,” Olivier said. “I’m looking for any clues to a counterfeiter who could be operating under my nose.”
“That’s getting right to the point. I know of a few bottles that have turned up in recent months with a questionable pedigree. Mostly in Hong Kong. Again, an auction capital. It’s awfully difficult to catch counterfeiters, as you know, and when they are caught, they get off with a slap on the wrist. I was glad to see Rudy Kurniawan arrested at last.”
Olivier knew he was referring to the arrest in Los Angeles only a month ago of the Indonesian national who had allegedly swindled wine buyers out of a million or more dollars. “Which reminds me,” Olivier said, “I’m interested in a bottle that was stolen from Ellen Jordan. A 1945 Mouton-Rothschild that she had tasted and deemed a fake.”
“Stolen?”
“From the office safe at the Hôtellerie Renaissance.”
Yves shrugged. “Do you know its provenance?”
“No, but I intend to find out. A collector named Bill Casey bought a four-magnum lot.”
“From?”
“Again, I don’t know. He bought so much wine five years ago that he can’t remember.”
“Someone must know. I’d venture a guess and say Blakely’s.”
“Really?”
“Paula Goodwin is a magician. She has come up with some astounding wines to sell, while at the same time turning these auctions of hers into free-for-alls. She’s adored by many, especially young investors. Maybe I’m being a curmudgeon.”
“You know her?” Olivier asked.
“We’ve met a few times.”
“Has she purchased from you?”
“Oh, sure. I’ve been a little suspicious of some of her sources. I can tell you where every bottle of wine I sell comes from, but I’m from the old school. Vieux jeu.”
Olivier smiled at him calling himself old-fashioned. “Are you implying counterfeiting?” Olivier asked.
“No, no. Not at all. It’s illegal in the states for an auction house to purchase wine from a distributor, for obvious reasons. I think she has a secret source, and what better than a distributor, illegal or not?”
“The reason it’s illegal is the wine loses its rarity?”
“Exactly. People would just purchase it at a retail store. Or what if Parker scored a ’95 Lafite very high? The auction house could simply buy it all up, and start the auction at any price it chose. I saw on the news last night that foul play was suspected in Ellen Jordan’s death?”
Olivier nodded.
Yves grew pensive. “There’s more at stake than a bottle of wine, don’t you think?”
“Yes, but what?”
“Millions of dollars? Someone who can’t bear to have his name sullied? Reputations count for everything in this business. Look at Monsieur Laussac, who is making a fool of himself by suing the appellation committee of Saint-Émilion for demoting his wine. He’s an investor in that vineyard, nothing more, but my god, you’d think he was from a long line of wine growers.”
“I noticed you weren’t at his dinner?”
“I can’t stand the man. I sent my son instead.”
“I saw him.”
Yves hesitated. “Your look tells me he wasn’t behaving.” It was clear that Yves treated Vincent as though he were a ten-year-old. “I’m trying to get Vincent on the right track. One minute he’s helping with the operation of my company, and the next he has blown-up ideas about this cheap wine he’s making that will take the world by storm. He was in Australia a couple of years ago and decided he could make something as equally affordable as Yellow Tail.”
“What a stroke of luck for the Australian producers, having the Americans go wild over their wine.”
“I told Vincent that it was pure luck, but luck doesn’t strike that often. I may have to swallow my words if he has indeed created a fine wine. Suddenly Vincent is not failing at all, but making enough money to start paying me back.”
“It’s rumored that you have to keep the business afloat.”
“On the contrary, I hate his entire concept of cheap wine. I wanted it to fail. He won’t let my accountant touch his books. He says he has a much more modern system.”
Olivier felt a flutter of excitement, mixed with dismay. “Some unusual shipments have left his business for New York. Do you have a list of his accounts there?”
Yves looked worried. “I hope you’re not suspecting him of doing anything illegal?”
“At the moment many producers are under suspicion.”
“What a mess. I’m glad to be getting away for a while. With all the competition here, everyone selling each other out for another euro, and prices jumping all over the place, I need a break.”
“Vincent seems to be on a roll. He entertained clients in the hours leading up to the Laussac dinner. I heard he sold a lot of wine.”
“That is our tradition.” Yves was no longer leaning back in his office chair, but sitting upright. “I know that Ellen Jordan met up with a murderer that night at the hotel. You’ve jumped from counterfeiting to murder in a few minutes.”
“Did I mention murder?”
“Not specifically.”
Olivier realized that he was pussyfooting around Yves, and said, “The two might be related, it’s true, but our information is quite scant. I’m focusing today on the counterfeiting.”
“I think you want to talk to Vincent. Shall I call him?”
Olivier thought about the evening and didn’t want any of his plans disturbed. “I can talk to him tomorrow.”
Olivier thought Yves might know why Vincent pursued Max with su
ch enthusiasm. “A final question. Yves called on Madame Jordan’s assistant that evening….”
“I know where you’re going with this.” Yves visibly relaxed. “He told me all about the wildly sexy American who arrived with Madame Jordan. He’s taking her out to dinner tonight. With your investigation underway, you must have spent a little time with her. What’s she like?”
Olivier, surprisingly, felt at a loss for words. “Like?” None of the words that came to mind—full of chutzpa, enigmatic, exciting, coquettish, stubborn, impulsive, sometimes infuriating—seemed the appropriate thing to say. “She’s…interesting.”
The older man cried. “That’s all? Not delicious, beautiful, quirky, funny, as my son claims?”
Olivier relented. “She’s beautiful, I agree. She’ll be returning to New York in a couple of days.”
“Perhaps she’ll take my son with her,” Yves said. “Vincent is known for his conquêtes,” he added, eyes twinkling. “But since his marriage ended, he doesn’t hold onto anyone.” Yves stood, “I must continue packing if you don’t have anything further to discuss.”
Olivier felt compelled to say something to alert Yves. “I dissembled when you asked me if I suspect Vincent of doing something illegal. I’m concerned, and that’s why I’m here.”
“Are you referring to the shoddy accounting I mentioned?”
“That’s part of it.”
“Surely I would know if something was going on.” Yves’ eyes grew hard. “You’re on the wrong trail, Olivier.”
Olivier knew that it was almost impossible for a parent to blame a child. “I hope so. When do you leave?”
“In two days.”
“Bon.” Olivier stood up. “It’s just you and your girlfriend going?”
“Yes.”
The two men shook hands in parting, and Olivier offered to let himself out. He glanced at his watch, then called Abdel to say that he could meet Véronique. He rushed into the airport terminal. All heads turned as the supermodel sailed across the floor and planted a passionate kiss on his lips. He heard a camera click, and groaned inside. She gave him her trademark smile and he picked up her small suitcase and put it in the trunk of his car.
Bordeaux: The Bitter Finish Page 13
