Bordeaux: The Bitter Finish

by Janet Hubbard

  Olivier was taken aback. Undercover work was more effective, and more difficult, than he had realized. Before he could respond, she had turned her back and was chatting up the person next to her. Olivier’s mobile beeped, and he excused himself and went into the library so that he could hear what Abdel had to say. “Oui?”

  “I decided to check out a couple of things before going home. I hate to disturb you, but the marked case of wine that was shipped from Anvers originated at Barthes Négociants. I drove over here to see if anyone was around and I just saw a truck enter and drive around to the back. The driver looked like the Laussac foreman.”

  Olivier glanced at his watch. It was 10:30. He wondered if Max was still at dinner with Vincent. “I have to drive to the city from Saint-Émilion. Zohra is staying over tonight, so she will be there in case Max comes.” He knew Abdel’s pause was a question, but he wasn’t going to go there.

  “What about the truck?” Abdel asked.

  “It will take him a while to load the goods on. Delay him until I’m there. It won’t be long.”

  “D’accord.” Olivier was glad to have an excuse for leaving early. Véronique had managed to cast a shadow over the event, and the earlier altercation with Max hadn’t helped either. He returned to the tent to bid good-night to Chevalier. “Véronique has a slight sprain,” the host said. “She’ll be out tomorrow.”

  It was as Olivier thought; she had feigned her injury as a way of getting him to relent. As for Paula Goodwin, he decided that she had been cleverly evasive when answering his questions, even though her admission that Blakely’s sold the wine cast a new light on the situation. The question remained: Where did Blakely’s get it?

  Max hadn’t been off his mind for a second, nor had the image of her kissing Vincent in the cellar. Could he have misread her? Were she and Véronique both actors, Véronique hiding her feelings in a public persona that was worshipped by the masses, and Max changing roles the way some people changed lovers? As often happened when thoughts were allowed to dominate the brain, he began to feel self-righteous, wondering what gave Max the right to be so moralistic. He inserted Schubert’s Trout Quintet into the CD player of his car. A musical meditation on the fate of a fish about to be ensnared.

  ***

  Olivier entered the Quartier des Chartrons, the section of the city close to the river where wine merchants had conducted business out of stately old buildings for centuries. Most of the area had been turned into galleries and antique shops, but the Barthes business had remained, an anachronism. The company logo, Barthes Négociants, loomed over an impressively tall and decorative wrought-iron gate that was open. Olivier drove through and parked next to Abdel’s unmarked car. A uniformed caretaker stood at the entrance, smoking a cigarette. Olivier displayed his carte d’identité. “Monsieur Barthes told me not to let anybody in here without his approval,” the man said.

  “I have authority over your employer,” Olivier said impatiently. “Commissaire Zeroual is already here?” The man scowled, and led the way down a long corridor and out a door to a huge structure. “He’s in the shipping area.”

  The guard walked at a painstaking pace to a vast room where thousands of cases of wine rested on racks that stretched to the ceiling. The place was empty except for Abdel, walking toward him at a brisk pace. A loud grating sound caught Olivier’s attention. A gate went up and a truck started rolling toward it. The solidly built driver climbed down from the cab. Olivier noticed his slight limp. His shirt was buttoned at the collar.

  Olivier asked him what he was doing. “What does it look like? I’ve picked up a shipment of wine and I am about to drive it to the loading area. Commissaire Zeroual has already asked me all these questions.” Olivier glanced at Abdel, who nodded in agreement.

  “In the Bordeaux area?”

  “I think so. I haven’t looked at the bill of lading.”

  “Let’s look at it together, shall we?”

  The driver’s eyes darted from Olivier to Abdel. “This is a rush order,” he said.

  “So, let’s hurry,” Olivier replied. The driver thrust the paper at Olivier, who scanned it, making note of the name of the shipping company, Axel Van Den Kerkke. “Antwerp. You’re going there tonight?”

  The driver lit a cigarette. “Yuh.”

  “Your name?”

  “Yannick Martin.”

  “You’re the foreman for Monsieur Laussac, correct?”

  Yannick’s eyes widened. “Yuh.”

  “How did you hurt your leg?”

  “It ain’t my leg. It’s my back. Fell off a tractor.”

  “Did you see a doctor?” Yannick shook his head.

  “Unbutton your collar.”

  “Quoi?”

  Olivier remained stoic and Yannick did as ordered. “I ain’t done nothing,” he muttered. Olivier detected the slightest trace of redness, but not enough to question him about it.

  “I hate to put you to the trouble,” Olivier said. “But I want these cases unloaded.”

  “But Monsieur Barthes...”

  “We’re conducting a search for some specific wines,” Olivier explained. “We’ll assist you.”

  Abdel, who had stood by listening, hoisted himself up to the back of the truck to help unload. Yannick begrudgingly followed, swearing with every box he lifted. Neither of them liked what was going on.

  When Abdel lifted the last case down, Yannick strutted over to Olivier. “This is an abuse of power. You think because you waltz in flashing an I.D. that you can do what you want. Let’s see what Monsieur Barthes has to say about this.” He got into his truck and roared out.

  “Do you agree with the foreman,” Olivier asked Abdel, “that I abused my power?”

  “His papers seemed in order. I wish we had found stacks of fake labels, or a cache of old bottles. Some concrete proof.”

  “We have time.” Olivier’s mobile rang and he pulled it from his pocket. When he hung up he said to Abdel, “Max is taking Vincent home. He’s passed out in the car, and she’s going to have a look around when she drops him at this house. We will pick her up after we finish up here. Let’s see if we can find those labels. It’s our only opportunity.”

  “I could have the police come in tomorrow and do it properly,” Abdel said. “You think we should have had Yannick followed?”

  “To Antwerp?”

  “Something feels off.”

  “Okay, okay. We could wager a bet as to whether or not Yannick is driving to…”

  “I’ll bet a week’s salary that he’s racing to Monsieur Barthes’ house, and Max is not expecting company.

  Olivier swore as he got into his car. Max had on her professional voice when she checked in—cold, impersonal. What he didn’t tell Abdel was that when he asked if she would come to his house tonight, she had said no. Just when he was ready to apologize.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  April 5

  Le Restaurant Saint-James, known for Chef Michel Portos’ cuisine and the contemporary design that had been described as a metallic Zen temple, sat majestically on a hilltop in Bouliac overlooking the River Garonne and the city. It was surrounded by a park and a garden that boasted citrus trees and ancient roses.

  The chef rushed over and shook hands with Vincent, then had a waiter seat them in the dining room at a table where they could see the twinkling lights of the city below. Vincent instructed the server to bring a bottle of Château de Fieuzal 1995. “It’s a sauvignon blanc from the Graves area,” he said to Max. “The bouquet reminds me of a garden in full bloom, and goes perfectly with the appetizer.”

  Max had forced herself back into detective mode on the ride over. She was to try to pry information out of Vincent while simultaneously keeping at bay his seduction attempts, which might include a date-rape drug. Great, she thought. Despite her resistance, she found herself succumbing to the charm of her s
urroundings. The entrée, or first course, Morroccan foie gras, arrived; a hint of curry and coriander wafted up. For the main course, Vincent ordered the chef’s trademark dish for her, the filet mignon de Saint-Pierre à la planche, grilled John Dory served with pepperoni and candied kumquats, and a pigeonneau à la rhubarb with green vegetables for himself.

  Satisfied, he turned to her. “I learned through my father that the ministers are suggesting that Madame Jordan’s death might not have been due to food poisoning. What are the mysterious circumstances under which Madame Jordan died? As her assistant, you must know.”

  “And as the area’s informant, this is why you brought me to dinner, right?”

  His look of annoyance was quickly replaced by the charming smile. “You can’t accept that you are an attractive woman who turns me on?”

  Max felt her face flush. She supposed she should try to appear coy, but instead she gave a blunt answer. “To answer your question, the authorities have asked me questions, but they don’t tell me anything.”

  “I’m surprised Monsieur Chaumont kept you here after her death.”

  “He didn’t force me to stay, Vincent. I was hoping to find a few answers about her shocking death, but I don’t think it will happen. Her death will remain a mystery.” She thought about what Olivier had said about the suspicious cases leaving Vincent’s business. With his impeccable background, assumed wealth, and charm, Vincent had been placed at the bottom of the list as someone involved in a criminal operation. She sipped the white wine after watching the waiter remove the cork and pour. The silence that had arisen between them was awkward. From the expression on his face he had now taken a dislike to her, which would mean no information if she didn’t turn it around.

  She asked him in a gentle tone what it was like to grow up in Bordeaux, and he launched into the story of his life. He was an only child, adored by his mother, and when she died when he was ten he had been devastated. His father, who hadn’t been around much, gave him whatever he wanted. He married at twenty-five, but he didn’t know what he was doing, and the marriage ended after two years. She listened with wide eyes, nodding in sympathy.

  A mere glance from Vincent activated the waiter, who would glide over and ceremoniously pour more wine, though she had only taken a sip from her second glass. Vincent ordered a Château Margaux, 1983, to accompany their main course, and Max was glad she had waited.

  Vincent leaned back. “You’re not drinking.”

  “I’m waiting for the red.”

  He nodded. “Smart girl. One who knows how to wait. That’s rare these days.” First time I’ve ever heard that, Max thought. “You’re still an enigma to me,” he said. “Usually wine is a passion that drives one to become an apprentice, not a sudden whim.”

  Uh-oh, she thought, we might be plunging into some murky water. “Who says a whim can’t become a passion?” she asked. Max found the verbal ping-ponging stressful. The server appeared with the decanted wine, and poured a small amount into Vincent’s glass for his approval. “Excellent,” Vincent said, waiting for Max to be served. She sipped, and thought for the first time she understood how people could lose their minds over the stuff. Vincent leaned forward. “I see a little rash on your cheek. Do you think you’re allergic to something?”

  “Really? I’ll go check.” Max looked in the mirror in the ladies’ room, and didn’t see anything. The oldest trick in the book, she thought. Send the girl to the restroom and spike her drink. Then she called Olivier. When he answered, she said in her most professional tone, “I’m at a dead end here. I’m so bored I’m about to fall asleep.”

  They would work it out. “Okay. I have another hour here.”

  She returned to the table, and told Vincent the rash must have been the play of light on her face. The server arrived with their plates, and when Vincent looked up at him to ask a question Max hastily switched their glasses, just in case. The filet mignon looked perfect. She was hungry. They clinked glasses and drank. Max said the Margaux was like liquid velvet, making Vincent laugh. “I have to remember that one,” he said, reaching under the table and putting his hand on her knee. She gave him a hard look, but he ignored it. She sipped from the glass of wine meant for him, and closed her eyes, feeling a moment of what she could only describe as inner awakening.

  “I’m obsessed with you,” he said, jolting her back into reality. “You can ask my father. I told him that a goddess had arrived in our area. I have a big crush on you.” He was slurring his words. She noticed that he had consumed his glass of wine, and was now showing the side effects of a club drug. She shifted into hyper-alert mode, realizing that the evening might end up offering up a clue or two after all.

  Most date-rape drugs caused amnesia, and she decided to take a risk. She asked, “Vincent, a magnum of ’45 Mouton-Rothschild has gone missing. You know everybody. Do you have any ideas?”

  “It’s the talk of Bordeaux. Some people I know think you stole it.”

  Max was nonplussed. “Blame-the-American syndrome,” she said.

  “But you had access to it.”

  Cazaneuve, she thought. He was the only one who knew that her name was on the form. He was spreading his own gossip. They needed to find out if Vincent hadn’t greased Cazaneuve’s palms in order to get his hands on the magnum. That begged the question if it turned out to be true: Why did he want it so badly?

  He reached for her hand, but she withdrew it. He tried to stand, but couldn’t. It had thrown her slightly to learn that she was associated with the missing bottle of wine. Olivier was right. It could put her at risk, especially if the missing magnum was the motive for killing Ellen.

  “Are you okay?” she asked.

  “A little dizzy. I need to go home.”

  “Shall I drive you?”

  He grinned at her. “Only if you sleep with me.” Inhibition gone bye-bye, she thought. “Relax, Max.” He laughed. “I’m harmless.”

  Harmless as any other sociopath, she thought. She wanted to check out his house. “We’ll go after you pay up.” The server arrived as if on cue and took Vincent’s credit card, and they waited while he signed. Max helped him out to the car, and guided him into the passenger seat, where he collapsed. Making her way around the car to the driver’s side, she called Olivier and quickly filled him in. He said he and Abdel had a little more work to do and would join her at Vincent’s.

  “Okay if I take a quick tour of his house?”

  “What will you do with Vincent?” Olivier asked.

  “Leave him in the car. He had some nausea, but is calm and dreamy now. He’s about to drift off to sleep. It’ll last a while.”

  “Lock the car doors. We’ll be there to help get him into the house.” He paused, then said, “Then we can go to my house.”

  “No.” She hit End on her phone.

  On the winding road down to the city, she had to pull over for Vincent to throw up; when she pulled him back in, his head fell back and he gazed at her. She pulled up in front of his townhouse, and he tried to get up, but fell back against the seat. Max said, “Connard! You got a dose of your own medicine. We’ll see what the courts have to say.”

  “It’s my anxiety medication,” he said. “Completely legitimate here in France.” The drug is GBH, Max thought, no longer allowed in the U.S. She turned to him, “Vincent, did you kill Ellen Jordan?”

  “I wouldn’t kill an insect,” he said, smiling, still in euphoric mode.

  “Do you know who did?”

  He smiled, and his head lopped over.

  You’re disgusting, she thought, as she parked in front of his house. She checked his breathing, and knew he wasn’t close to OD’ing, lowered the windows slightly and got out and locked the doors behind her. His house key was attached to the key ring. She stopped to look around, checking out the house next door, one of which still had lights on upstairs. Beautiful street, she thought, admir
ing the antique lampposts. She walked quickly to the front door and entered. She found the light switch and flicked it on. A portrait of a woman in evening attire, her golden hair swept up, greeted her. Vincent had his mother’s aquiline nose, high cheekbones, and hair.

  Max stepped into the salon, flicked the light switch, and looked around. It was a formal room with high ceilings and wainscoting. Seeing nothing unusual she turned the light off and returned to the wide foyer, then walked toward the back of the house looking for the kitchen. She felt around and found the switch. The kitchen was bathed in soft lighting. She opened the refrigerator and took a swig of water from a large bottle and replaced it, then looked around, admiring the tiled wall. Beams criss-crossed across the ceiling and as she observed them, she noticed a camera in the ceiling. She went back to the salon and, turning on the light, saw a camera in the upper right part of the ceiling. She ran lightly up the stairs, and entered an open door, which she figured was Vincent’s bedroom. It was filled with heavy, antique furniture, and after turning on a lamp, she saw there was another camera. A large mirror was attached to the ceiling over the bed. Max shuddered.

  The answering machine light was blinking. Max pushed play and listened. The message was in English, spoken in a deep baritone voice, Vincent, if the assistant gives you a problem, you know what to do. Stop all shipping. Call me. Max listened again. The caller had a New York accent, but the call came in as private. For the first time, she felt the chill of fear. Vincent’s come-on had been a set-up. He had let it slip that they thought she had the missing magnum of wine. That had to be what he was after. But who was the deep voice directing him?

  She exited the bedroom and peeked into the salle de bain and saw a camera. A green light was on, which meant she was being filmed snooping around. Abdel would take care of that, she decided. She ran downstairs, feeling claustrophobic. Olivier and Abdel would be showing up any moment. Time to check on Vincent. She strode out to the car, key in hand, and was preparing to unlock the door when she felt an arm encircle her neck in a choke hold, almost pulling her down.