“Vincent is covered,” Max said.
Olivier stood up. “Bon, I need forty-five minutes.”
Zohra left with her shopping bag, and Abdel offered to drive her. “Back soon,” he said.
Olivier appraised the outfit Max had put together. “My shirt suits you. Now let’s go upstairs and find you a belt for those pants.” He went straight to his closet and handed her a belt and a pair of suspenders just in case. “But you might like to look through my wardrobe and choose something else.” Max removed her shirt and was about to try on another when he pulled her to him and kissed her.“I started to ask you something in English last night and you said to ask in French.”
“You must have been dreaming,” she said, hoping he didn’t notice the panic rising in her. “We have to meet Abdel.” Whoever labeled this guy old-fashioned she thought, as she wrapped her arms around him, couldn’t have been more wrong.
Abdel pulled in just as they stepped out the door, and the trio took off. Olivier’s mobile rang as they arrived at his car, and he held his hand up for silence. “It’s my Dutch contact,” he said. He reached for a piece of paper in his pocket and scribbled as he listened. “Parfait. Merci beaucoup,” he said, slipping the phone into his pocket.
He turned to Max and Abdel. “French customs discovered questionable cases of wine going to an importer in New York two weeks ago, shipped from Barthes Négociants. They alerted New York customs, and it’s just been collected by a trucker, who is being followed.”
Abdel drove down the long, winding road. “I’ve been studying American importers on the Internet,” he said. “It seems they make the most money in their hierarchy, just as the négociants are accused of doing here.”
“What percentage do they get here?” Max asked.
“Fifteen. The vignerons and the négociants have a necessary but uneasy relationship.”
“Who sets the prices?” Max asked.
“The vineyards, always comparing prices with their competitors. The 1997 is an example often used of how they overcharged on a poorly rated vintage, which put a lot of stock in the négociants’ and importers’ warehouses that they couldn’t sell. This is predicted to happen with the 2012.”
“Well put,” Olivier said.
Max said, “My favorite motives are coming up: greed, opportunism, and disloyalty.”
“All will most certainly come into play with this case.”
“Got a name at the importer’s?”
“Anson Richards.”
“My first two appointments when I get to New York will be with the collector Bill Casey and Richards.”
“I’ll go to the wine tasting at Bill Casey’s and follow up with Paula Goodwin. I’m fascinated by how the auction house works.”
Max smiled. “I almost forgot. I learned just before going out with Vincent that I’ll be in charge of our investigation in New York. This is a first.”
“You deserve it,” Olivier said, as they entered his car. At the Hôpital Pellegrin in the heart of the city Max was treated for a sprained shoulder. She moved quickly to her room when Olivier deposited her at the hotel. Now that she had convinced Olivier that she was okay, she began to quiver inside. The past twelve hours had become a reality.
Chapter Twenty-four
April 6
Sylvie and Pascal Boulin lived in a sixteenth-century stone house behind their shop in Saint-Émilion. The interior of the house was a mixture of old and new, with abstract paintings hung alongside ancient portraits. Olivier admired the old beams and wooden floors, burnished by sunlight shining through multi-paned windows. Sylvie led Olivier into the living room with a wall of books on either side of a stone fireplace, and comfortable sofas and chairs casually arranged around it.
Pascal, looking tired, shook hands with Olivier and Abdel. “I realize you were trying to help me when my shop was robbed, Commissaire,” he said. “Sorry for being rude.” Olivier and Abdel exchanged a hopeful glance. “Sylvie,” Pascal said, “I need to meet with these men alone for a few minutes. Please excuse us.”
Sylvie glanced at her husband before speaking. “No, I won’t leave. I know, Pascal, that you’re in trouble.” Transferring her attention to Olivier, she said, “I’m not an idiot. Pascal and I argued about Ellen in the bistro, and it seems we’ve been arguing ever since. She held too many strings. I suspected the affair.”
“Sylvie...” Pascal pleaded.
Olivier didn’t have time for the couple to resolve a marital issue now. He said, “Witnesses tell us that you and Pascal met at the local bistro for a short time between 4:30 and 5:00. Where did you go after that?”
The silence in the room grew leaden. “To purchase some macaroons, and to the Hôtellerie Renaissance.” She looked at Pascal, “The proprietor of the hotel, Madame Cassin…don’t forget, Pascal, we are old friends… told me when I bumped into her on the street that you had spent much of the afternoon in Madame Jordan’s room. I looked up at the clock in the hotel lobby and noticed it was 5:45.” She looked to Olivier for encouragement, and seeing that she had his full attention, continued, “I knocked on Madame Jordan’s door. I knew she was in there. When she refused to answer, I told her to go to hell and that if she gave us a lower score I would make her sorry.”
Olivier interjected, “You said all this through the door? “ When Sylvie nodded yes, he said, “Did she respond?”
“No. Not one word. I could feel her behind that door, guilty as accused.” Would Sylvie have had the nerve to bring a poisoned cheese to her rival, Olivier wondered, as he considered Abdel’s explanation about a woman choosing a specific target when poisoning someone.
“If you’re thinking Sylvie might have killed Ellen,” said Pascal, “think again. She is incapable.”
Sylvie stared at Pascal. “I felt like killing her, Pascal,” she said, and then began to sniffle. “At the moment I was knocking on her door I wanted Ellen Jordan dead.” Pascal reached for her hand, but she withdrew it.
That accounts for the emotional turmoil that Max witnessed in the bistro, Olivier thought. “Did you go to the fromagerie that week?” he asked Sylvie.
“Of course. What woman doesn’t go to the cheese shop daily?”
“Do you recall which cheeses you purchased?”
“Not all. There was brie… I buy it by the round…and there was a goat cheese that I can’t remember the name of. I bought a Beaufort for making raclette, and a Mont d’Or, Pascal’s favorite. Oh, yes, I purchased a blue. It was a bleu des Causses, my favorite.”
Olivier hoped that his sigh of relief was only visible to Abdel. Pascal chose the brief lull to blurt out, “You know, I had told Ellen that I couldn’t continue our affair when I got back to my office at the vineyard.”
“You did?” Sylvie asked her husband in a timorous voice. Pascal reached for her hand again and this time she didn’t pull away.
Olivier said, “She lowered your score by quite a few points according to her assistant.”
“Our wine has only gotten better,” Sylvie said. “Proof of that is the Saint-Émilion appellation committee elevated our status this year.”
Olivier wondered if the appellation committee wasn’t too political a group to be fair about anything. On the other hand, it was possible that Pascal’s score was a vindictive act on Ellen’s part. “Madame Jordan’s tasting book has gone missing. Someone about your size, Pascal, broke into Ellen Jordan’s room wearing a mask, and happened to run into her assistant. They fought.”
Olivier watched Pascal’s face go from glumness to surprise. “Who won?” he asked. Olivier had already made note that Pascal was wearing a tee-shirt, and there was no sign of a bruise on his neck, or any other indication that he had been in a fight.
“The intruder escaped with the tasting book, but I wouldn’t say he was the victor.”
“Which means my score will be leaked to the press.”
“It makes sense that you would want the scores suppressed forever.”
“It’s true that if I had known she was going to do that, I might have gone to her room to steal the tasting book, but as I didn’t know, there was no point. Much more important than her book is the wine that was stolen from me.”
Abdel said, opening his notebook. “The wine was insured for 100,000 euros. Your gambling debt is close to 80,000.”
“You’re really going to charge me with stealing my own wine?” Now Pascal was up and pacing.
Olivier interjected, “Pascal, I have reserved any judgment until now about you. But look at it from my perspective: You may have been the last person to see Ellen Jordan alive, she lowered your score after you left her room, and someone of approximately your stature broke into Jordan’s room and stole her tasting book after she was taken to the hospital. Then you have your wine stolen, which almost equals the amount of your gambling debt.”
Pascal glanced nervously over at his wife. “Sure, sure, my friends and I discussed stealing my wine at the local bar,” Pascal said, brushing his hair out of his face. “But by the time I got home, the plan was forgotten.”
“But your vintage wine was gone the next day?”
“Yes. Cases that were already paid for and being shipped to San Francisco.”
Now fully back in her husband’s court, Sylvie explained, “Pascal and his pals were partying in the local bar the night the wine was stolen. I heard them enter the shop and got up to see what was going on. Pascal and I fought and everybody left. The cases of wine were there. The next morning Pascal found them gone.”
Olivier thought the story so absurd that the couple might be telling the truth. If that were the case, perhaps someone was trying to divert the police’s attention to Pascal. Pascal asked Abdel to show him the bank figures, and Olivier got up to walk around. “Go have a look at my garden,” Sylvie said, and he gave her a grateful smile. As he was leaving the room, he overheard Abdel asking Pascal if someone was attempting to collect a debt, and Pascal protesting.
The roses were starting to bud out in the garden. Olivier inhaled deeply and sat on a bench, trying to make sense of recent events. Max was right. Pascal had a strong motive to kill Ellen if she threatened to go to Sylvie or to lower his score. It would have been easy for him to find aconite growing in the fields, bring her a poisoned cheese, share a little wine with her and leave, knowing that she would be dead within the hour. The basic question then, was: Was Pascal capable of killing someone? Or, would he and Sylvie have planned Ellen’s death together? He had been so sure of that answer before he arrived today, but not now. He went back to the salon, where Pascal had opened a second beer.
“What do I do about my wine?” Pascal asked him.
Olivier wanted to scream that what he should be caring about was his mistress’ murder, not his wine. Convinced that Pascal’s break-in had nothing to do with Opération Merlot, he said, “Abdel has filed a report, but if you lose your wine for good, it might teach you a lesson.”
He couldn’t resist bringing up seeing him in the bistro. “Vincent Barthes is in a great deal of trouble. I was surprised to see you with him at the bistro.”
“What kind of trouble?”
“You’ll know soon enough. I’d suggest you stay away from him.”
“It seems as if everyone in Bordeaux is under suspicion for one thing or another,” Pascal said.
Olivier was at the door. “Neither of you is to leave the area. Is that understood?” Looking contrite, the couple nodded.
“Pascal is at the top of Max’s list of suspects,” Olivier said to Abdel as they strolled up to his car.
“And why not?” Abdel asked. “We haven’t ruled out a crime passionnel.”
“True, but the murder, we must assume, was premeditated because the cheese had to be prepared.”
Abdel said, “In which case, Monsieur Boulin knows how to do that. He’s a farmer and a chemist by trade.”
“I maintain for now that he doesn’t have the character of a killer. I know him, Abdel.”
“We were taught at school that knowing a suspect is often a deterrent when solving a case.”
Olivier felt annoyed, but knew it was because Abdel could be right. He reminded himself that part of his reliance on Abdel had to do with his objective analyses. Maybe it was the moment to ask Abdel the question that had been haunting him. “Do you agree with Max that no one ever calls me on my shit?”
Abdel looked like he wanted to laugh, and Olivier wished he hadn’t brought it up.
“Honest answer? Yes. On second thought, maybe my grandmother.”
“Does anyone call you on yours?”
Abdel was all teeth when he laughed. “Oui, Monsieur. You!”
“Oh.”
“We need to get back to Max,” Abdel said. “She has probably solved Madame Jordan’s murder while we’ve been interviewing the Boulins. She’s like a pig digging for truffles. They never give up.”
“Don’t say that to her!” Olivier said. When he stopped in front of the hotel, Max walked with long strides toward them, wheeling her suitcase behind her, and carrying an oversized handbag. She was back in uniform—cowboy boots, white starched blouse, and skinny, black jeans. “Pop the trunk?” she said.
Olivier and Abdel exchanged amused glances before Abdel hopped out to give her a hand. Max chatted in French, “I’m glad to be out of there,” she said. “The concierge is also happy to see me go.” She lifted her suitcase into the trunk of Olivier’s car just as Abdel was reaching for it. He closed the trunk and stood still, looking at Max. “What?” she asked.
“Nothing.”
“Are you going to ask me not to break his heart?”
“If you do, you’ll have to deal with my grandmother.”
“Give him a word of warning while you’re at it!”
“I’ll tell him he’ll have to deal with your father.” They high-fived.
“What was that about?” Olivier asked when she climbed into the car.
“A secret pact.”
“That sounds ominous.” He drove off. “You feel prepared for New York?”
“I should have the case sewn up by the time you get there.” Her statement was so close to Abdel’s that it gave him pause. “You know I’m joking,” she said when he didn’t laugh.
Chapter Twenty-five
April 6
“How does an investigator get to drive an Audi-A7?” Max asked Olivier as they headed out to the Laussac’s. “It’s a snooty car where I come from.”
“I drive it because it’s fuel-efficient, has an excellent crash record, and is fast.”
“Cars tend to match their owners, don’t you think? You wear custom-made suits, carry a Hermès briefcase, listen to classical music, and drive a fancy car, all of which contribute to your prosperous bachelor status.”
“What type are you, then?”
She laughed. “I drive a ten-year-old, beat-up Toyota named Lucy.”
“That could be reverse snobbism, you know. As for your jeans-and-cowboy boots image, to me it says ‘If you get too close, I’ll kick.’ Your tattoo says the same thing, but the vintage jacket says, I am also a woman who can be taken to the opera.”
“Not bad. Once I overheard you telling Abdel that I’m the type of women who still needs her father’s approval.”
“I’m not accountable for anything said during the time you claimed not to know French. But we all seek our parents’ approval,” Olivier said. “It’s important to come to a place of not needing it.”
“For me it’s about trying to fill my brother’s shoes as well as my own. He would have made a star detective.”
“He was twelve. If you had that impression by then, he was surely trying to please his father. What did he like to do?”
“He was a sports nut. And
he loved music. He was taking guitar lessons when he died.”
“That’s what I mean. You don’t know how he would have turned out.”
“My mom might secretly agree with you.”
“How’s she doing with her friend’s death?”
“I’m not sure. When I spoke with her she was deeply sad, but also a little upset with Ellen for her bullheadedness.”
Olivier turned down a beautiful tree-lined road. “We’re approaching the de Cheverny estate that was originally owned by Chantal’s family. This is where they live. Though Laussac is part-owner of a vineyard in Saint-Émilion, it’s a hobby for him.”
“And why will you say you’re calling on him?”
“I want to see if he’s willing to discuss his foreman.”
“I thought Yannick was just a thug until my ride with him last night. He has some power over Laussac. It’s hard not to stereotype Laussac as the dapper Frenchman,” said Max.
“He’s rich, smart, and behind the charm is an aggressive bulldog,” Olivier said turning into the driveway. “He also drives an Audi.”
Max chuckled. She gazed at the castle they were pulling up to. “What do these people do all year? Have parties and invite each other?”
“Most of the famous vineyards are owned by large corporations. Insurance companies and the like. Chantal Cheverny Laussac is an anomaly. It’s rare these these days to find a family owning and running a vineyard.”
“If my parents and I decided to move here tomorrow, we might be able to afford the maid’s cottage.”
“You’d be happy there drinking vin ordinaire.”
***
A majestic fountain separated François Laussac’s office—a small, beautifully designed outbuilding—from the château. He sat behind his desk, dressed like a gentleman farmer in a tweed jacket and corduroy trousers. On the wall was an original painting by Jean-François Millet. He said to Max, “I’m surprised you’re still in Bordeaux.”
Bordeaux: The Bitter Finish Page 18
