Pinot Noir

by Lorraine Evanoff

  She searched through periodicals and books for anything she could find on Almasi, cross checking the notes from Roblot’s investigation. After two hours she had a good sense of navigating the library but could no longer fight the time difference. She went back to the hotel for an early dinner and sleep.

  The following day she woke up early, had breakfast and walked around Paris until the library opened. She continued her research reading and transcribing newspaper and magazine articles to her laptop, again cross checking Roblot’s notes. She felt she had a solid grasp of Ekram M. Almasi’s life. The photos of him reminded her of his appearance, dignified, bald, of medium height and stocky build, as well as his life. But she had found very little about his death. The man convicted of Almasi’s murder was his male nurse, Todd Mayer. News reports had confirmed that the security guards never stayed at the Monte Carlo residence because of how safe the neighborhood was. There was a lot of editorial speculation that either Mayer let the killers in, or he committed the murder himself, either accidentally or intentionally.

  Louise would need to make close contact with reliable sources to find out any real information.

  T H I R T E E N

  December 29, 2001

  After a day at the library, it was finally Saturday night. Louise dressed for the nightclub scene and hailed a cab.

  “Please take me to the 3rd arrondissement near the Paris Bourse Stock Exchange,” she said in French.

  “D’accord,” the cab driver agreed. “But the Bourse is now called Paris Euronext after merging with the Amsterdam, Lisbon, and Brussels exchanges in September 2000,” he informed her.

  “Oh, wow, I didn’t know that,” Louise said. She had to acknowledge to herself that the years on the island had kept her out of the loop. “Is there a café near there?”

  “Yes, La Petite Bourse,” he said. Louise recognized the reference of the café’s name to the 1800s underground stock exchange in the novel L’Argent by Émile Zola. The taxi dropped her at the café on rue Montmartre just across the street from Silencio, perfect for her stakeout.

  “Thank you, bonne soiree.” She paid and got out.

  Louise drew a few stares as she entered the bistro dressed in all black mini skirt, fishnet stockings and boots, slicked-back hair, and heavy eye make-up. The only thing missing from her goth-chic style was a cigarette, but that was something she could never quite pull off. She sat by the window and ordered a house burgundy and coq au vin. She lingered after her meal watching the non-descript entrance of Silencio, which looked more like a back-alley service door. She read the gothic novel she had in her purse, Ann Radcliffe’s The Italian. It was hard to remember to look up from the pages every few minutes as the mysticism of the novel kept her riveted.

  He instantly observed the agitation of her spirits, and that her purpose was not yet determined, according to his hope. But, though his mind became clouded, his countenance remained unaltered; it was grave and thoughtful. The sternness of his vulture-eye was, however, somewhat softened, and its lids were contracted by subtlety…

  The passage was foreboding, as something caught Louise’s eye, and she looked up to see Greg, her old friend and sometimes lover. He seemed to be looking right at her from across the street. His steel-blue eyes pierced through the darkness, leaving her feeling exposed under the artificial lights. Louise held the book up to obscure her face then peeked out at Greg still looking in her direction. A tap on his shoulder turned his attention to Vladimir. Bingo! Louise had struck gold. Greg took a backward glance toward her before disappearing into Silencio with the Russian that Louise wanted to reconnect with.

  “L’addition, s’il vous plaît,” Louise said. The waiter promptly placed a cash register tape on the table. Louise paid in Euros and gathered her things not waiting for change.

  As she crossed the street, Louise observed a few people loitering hopefully in front of the club, barred by two unsympathetic bouncers. She shut down her cell phone and got into the character of a frazzled American, smiling meekly as she approached.

  “Bonsoir,” she said in an American accent. “S’il vous plaît, did two American gentlemen just go in by any chance?” The bouncer responded with a blank stare. “Do you speak English?”

  Looking her up and down, he softened. “Who are you looking for, mademoiselle?” Even approaching forty years old she still barely looked thirty.

  “Two American guys, one with silver hair. I was supposed to meet them out front at this address, but I’m late and my cell phone died.” She showed him the blank cell phone screen and gave it a shake for added effect.

  “Sorry, we cannot let you in if you are not a member or a guest of a member.”

  Louise played forlorn quiet desperation, staring down the street, shifting on her feet in the chilled late December temperatures. The bouncer was unmoved on the surface, but he spoke into his walkie-talkie to someone inside. She displayed no understanding of French, while listening to the bouncer ask if he should let a nana inside. He received the okay then silently opened the door and stepped aside for her to enter.

  “Merci,” Louise said demurely. “Bonne soirée.”

  The interior décor contrasted sharply from the exterior. In complete silence, she walked down the stone steps into the sixteenth century structure. It reminded Louise of the last time she had seen Jean-Philippe before descending into the Paris catacombs. The arched stone caverns and dark walls were hued by soft red and golden lighting. Silencio was a sort of successor to the Parisian salons of the seventeenth century literary circles, a famous one called Tabou for the Existentialists in Paris, another called Cabaret Voltaire for the Dadaists in Zurich.

  Louise gave a faint smile to the coat check girl as she made her way down the hall to the belly of the establishment. She passed several rooms including a photo gallery, a twenty-four-seat cinema, a library, and two bar lounges…but no sign of Greg and Vladimir. She reached a lounge where a jazz trio played. Standing tall, she cat-walked in, which made her better than invisible. It made her unapproachable. All eyes were on her, but no one could see her. She glanced nonchalantly at the intriguing clientele but did not see her friends. She disappeared into the shadows of a darkened hallway that led to the next chamber.

  Leaning against a wall she regained her composure, then redoubled her courage and resumed her search. The faint whiff of cigar and cigarette smoke indicated she was entering the fumoir. Knowing the smoking room was a likely place to find Greg and Vladimir, she stopped to think of a strong moment before and imagined herself going into a meeting with high-net-worth clients. Wearing the goth style attire heightened her sense of empowerment as she entered making no eye contact.

  She walked straight to the bar and ordered. “Un cognac et un Cohiba, s’il vous plaît.” She sat on a leather stool while the barman placed a snifter of cognac in front of her. She cupped the glass in her hands to warm the golden liquid, then sipped. The barman placed a heavy amber glass ashtray in front of her, snipped the end of the Cohiba, and handed it to her. She puffed as he lit it. Then she leaned back and sipped brandy, taking short puffs off the cigar and attempting smoke rings.

  Feeling them watching her, Louise put the cigar down, took a satisfying sip from the glass, and turned to look directly at Greg. Just like earlier, his steel blue eyes saw straight through her disguise and he recognized her. Louise picked up her drink but left the cigar and walked over to their table in the dark corner.

  “Greg. Vladimir.” They stared up at her, nonplussed.

  “Louise Moscow, well I’ll be,” Greg finally said, making Vladimir do a double take.

  “Louise Moscow?” the Russian American repeated.

  Louise smiled. “What? No bisous?”

  Greg stood and gave Louise two cheek kisses then touched the ends of her hair. “This is a great look for you.”

  “Finally, someone who knows how to give a compliment.” Louise turned to Vladimir whose mouth was still agape. “What do you think, Vlad?”

  “You
r eyes…look different…” He rose and gave her the obligatory cheek kisses.

  “Nice to see you too.” Louise sat.

  “How long has it been?” Greg asked.

  “Almost ten years since I left Paris. I’m back on business.”

  “Business? Is there a new Tiki bar opening in Paris?” Vladimir deadpanned.

  “How comforting that you have been keeping tabs on me.”

  “Apparently neither of you is very difficult to find,” Greg quipped.

  “You must stand out like a sore thumb in the Caribbean,” Vladimir said.

  “Yeah, that bartender almost dropped his towel when you walked in,” Greg added.

  “I was just minding my own business.”

  “And what kind of business is that?” Greg asked.

  “Well, I’d tell you,” Louise began. “But then I’d have to kill you.”

  Vladimir gave a crooked smile, the kind that either looks sinister or devilishly handsome. In his case, it was somewhere in between. “What brings you here, Louise?”

  “Since you asked, I’d like to talk to you, but not here. Can we meet tomorrow?”

  “I’m available anytime,” Greg volunteered.

  “I have a flight first thing in the morning,” Vladimir said.

  In fluent Russian Louise said, “Я расследую убийство израильского банкира,” explaining that she was investigating the murder of the ‘Israeli banker’ to avoid revealing the name ‘Almasi’ to Greg.

  “Since when do you speak Russian?” asked Greg.

  “What else is there to do on a private island in the middle of the Caribbean?”

  “Let’s meet tomorrow morning,” Vladimir interrupted. “Where are you staying?”

  “Hôtel Le Littré.”

  “Okay, I’ll meet you in the hotel café at 7:00 a.m. before my flight.” She nodded yes and left it at that.

  “Thanks for the offer,” Greg said. “But I’ll be in my bed asleep at 7:00 a.m.”

  “Let me buy a round of drinks and Cohibas,” Louise said.

  “You left your cigar at the bar,” Greg pointed out.

  “Yes,” Louise said. “After a few puffs, I get dizzy.”

  “Bring it over here,” Greg said. “I’ll finish it.”

  Louise went back to the bar and ordered two more Cohibas and a round of drinks, then closed out her tab. She grabbed her partially smoked cigar from the amber glass ashtray and returned to their table.

  “Here you go.” Louise handed the cigar to Greg.

  “Thank you, ma chère.” Greg relit the cigar and took a puff. “One of the perks of living abroad, Cuban cigars are legal.”

  The barman brought the drinks and two more cigars. Greg purloined one of the new cigars and placed it in the breast pocket of his Edward Sexton Savile Row blazer. Vlad picked up the other cigar, rolled it between his thumb and forefinger next to his ear to listen for relative firmness and humidity, not too much, not too little crunch. He nodded his approval and handed it back to the barman who took a guillotine cutter from his vest pocket and expertly snipped off the tiny round bit of tobacco leaf that capped the end. He handed it back to Vlad, pulled a lighter from his vest pocket and held the flame as Vlad puffed until the tip glowed and retreated.

  “To Max and Diana,” Louise said, and they clinked glasses.

  “So, we have Max to thank for this reunion?” Greg asked.

  “Maybe it was sheer chance that I happened to be sitting at that café across the street when you two showed up.”

  Vladimir resumed the conversation with Louise in Russian. “Is it awkward, sitting with two men you have slept with?”

  “Greg doesn’t know that,” Louise replied in Russian. “Unless you told him.”

  “No, I did not.”

  “Then, it’s not awkward for me. Is it awkward for you?”

  “It is impolite to speak a foreign language in mixed company,” Greg cut in.

  “Well,” Louise said, standing. “I’m jetlagged, and it is way past my bedtime.” She kissed Greg on both cheeks. Then she moved over to give Vlad two cheek kisses. “See you tomorrow.”

  December 30, 2001

  “The new look is a nice touch.” Vlad sat across from Louise. They were the only diners in the rooftop restaurant overlooking the Eiffel Tower. The waiter served them café au lait.

  “It gives me a sense of anonymity.” Louise added sweetener to the café au lait and drank. “Kind of like a hijab.”

  “So, why are you investigating the Almasi case?” Vladimir asked. “It has been resolved as far as local law enforcement are concerned.”

  “Some people don’t like loose ends. Especially in international banking.”

  “Your specialty.”

  “I still dabble.”

  “Do you have a new name to go with your new look?”

  “So, you know where I’ve been, but you don’t know who I’ve been?”

  Vladimir gave her his crooked smile. “Well, Karen Baker from Chicago, perhaps you shouldn’t pull those loose ends.”

  “Sometimes one must unravel the knitting to get the sweater right.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t help you with your knitting.”

  “What can you help me with?” Louise insisted.

  “You like mysteries. So, I’ll give you three clues.”

  “Three is better than none.”

  “Your math skills are still sharp, I see,” Vladimir said in a rare display of levity. He leaned closer and held up his thumb, in the European manner of counting on fingers. “One: follow the money.” He put up his index finger like a gun. “Two: speaking Russian could come in handy.” He leaned back and sipped the last of his coffee. “Very impressive, by the way.”

  “Thanks. Studying it helped me to keep my sanity in exile. Having the occasional Russian tourists at the Tiki allowed me to practice. But mostly reading and listening to Russian radio.”

  Vladimir leaned forward and got in her face, almost close enough to kiss. “You are an impudent woman.” He got up and placed enough Euros on the table for their coffee. He leaned over and kissed her gently on the lips reminding her of their singular sexual encounter for a steamy moment. “I’ve always liked that about you.”

  “And the third clue?”

  Still looming over her, Vladimir took the drink menu and handed it to her. He pointed to one of the wines, Pinot Noir.

  She stared at the words. “Wait, what does that mean?” But like a puff of smoke, Vladimir was gone. Irritated, she muttered to herself, “I prefer Côtes du Rhône Grenache grapes, personally.”

  After breakfast Louise approached the concierge desk.

  “Bonjour, Madame. What are you researching today?”

  “Can you tell me about pinot noir wines? Is there a particular region known for pinot noir grapes?”

  “Oui, bien sûr,” he said politely, although this was common knowledge to the French. “Pinot noir grapes are grown all over the world. However, the Burgundy region of France is famous for pinot noir. Specifically, in Côte-d’Or.”

  “That’s not far from Paris, right?”

  “Not far at all. It’s just a couple hours south by car. It’s a lovely drive through some historic French countryside too.”

  “Good idea.” Louise handed him a twenty Euro note. “Could you find me some lodging in Côte-d’Or?”

  “Avec plaisir,” he said, taking the money. “What dates?”

  “Arriving in Côte-d’Or in three days and staying for at least one month. Also, I would prefer a residence, not a hotel. Is that possible?”

  “That is the custom in Burgundy,” the concierge explained. “They have what they call gîtes. The residents rent out their homes, which encourages tourists to get an authentic experience.”

  “How charming.”

  “I’ll put together a few options,” he said. “Give me an hour?”

  “Impeccable,” Louise said. “Thank you.”

  As she returned t
o her room, something relating to Vladimir’s third clue nagged at Louise. In her research she had read that Almasi sent his male nurse, Todd Mayer, to the town of Les Fontaines Salées in Burgundy, France, to find alternative cures for Parkinson’s disease. This sounded like a connection, so Louise went back to the library.

  After arriving there, she did a quick inquiry and learned that Les Fontaines Salées, meaning salt fountains, was an important Roman town in Burgundy during the first century. As the name suggested, it was at the source of healing mineral springs. Before the Romans and the Celts, going back to Neolithic times, the springs were also an ancient place of worship and thought to be one of the most important healing sanctuaries in Gaul. Louise made copies of these passages and headed back to the hotel.

  En route, Louise glimpsed her own reflection in a shop window and realized her all black attire might look out of place in agrarian Burgundy. She made the detour down Rue de Fleurus to the Sonia Rykiel boutique, whose retro-chic style suited Louise’s teacher-turned-novelist persona. Her warm-weather blood was adjusting to the colder temperatures, but the weather would be slightly cooler in Burgundy. Louise purchased several winter items in the color palette of burgundy, ecru, and charcoal topping off the look with a black cashmere beret. Back at the hotel, Louise stopped at the concierge’s desk.

  “I found several gîtes for you,” the concierge said showing her the lodging options.

  “Which do you recommend?”

  He pointed to a modern-looking apartment. “This is in the picturesque town of Beaune. You would have easy access to the region’s wineries while also being central to cafés and attractions.”

  “Perfect. Please book it for me arriving Friday, January 4, and staying for one month.”

  “Avec plaisir.”

  Louise went to her room and plugged the laptop into the Ethernet to do more research on the Internet. After a couple hours of surfing Usenet, she freshened up and took a taxi to spend New Year’s Eve with Max at Millésimes.