by Renee Ryan
She sat in the chair that still held the mold of her husband’s larger frame. For a moment, she let the worn leather wrap her in its sweet embrace. She thought of Antoine. Then, she went to work. She shoved the chair back and knelt down, sent her fingers roaming across the panel beneath the drawer. She felt the latch’s release, smiled at her own resourcefulness as she drew out another key, another unknown copy, this one for the desk itself.
Von Schmidt was not so clever.
Josephine opened the locked drawer and quickly rifled through the contents. She discovered a list of names that sent chills through her. She knew these people. Most were friends. Her contempt for von Schmidt could not be stronger. He’d subdivided each person via their nationality and profession, French Jews, foreign Jews, business owners, men in powerful positions, men who made important decisions, then he’d sorted them alphabetically from there.
“You horrible, awful man,” she whispered into the dark, still air.
There were other notations by some of the names, as well as dates. She looked over her shoulder, considered, then made her decision. She would share this with Gabrielle. She would trust her granddaughter to know what to do with this information.
Josephine copied the list of names quickly into her journal, her hands steady despite her rising fury. She paused, lost her way for a moment. Her thoughts tried to bleed into one another. No, this was not a time for her mind to play its tricks. Why had she come to Antoine’s study? Looking down at the names, she knew this was not the reason.
She searched her journal, discovered her answer three pages later. The missing LeBlanc treasures. She returned to the desk and found what she was looking for without much trouble. Von Schmidt had made a detailed list of the items he’d confiscated from her home. Her home.
In a fit of rage, Josephine checked his list against the items in her journal that hadn’t received Marta’s special mark. A perfect match. But where was he hiding the stolen goods?
This time, she went back to the desk for the answer. She easily located shipping receipts. A particular destination caught her eye. Lisbon, Portugal. A neutral city in a neutral country where German authorities had no jurisdiction. Where a man like Helmut von Schmidt could store his stolen treasures without raising questions from his superiors.
Was it any wonder Josephine felt nothing but disgust for the man?
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Gabrielle
Gabrielle nearly convinced herself the situation wasn’t dire. Detective Mueller seemed perfectly content to keep his inspection contained to the front of the wine cellar. Ten minutes had come and gone, and he’d barely moved past the entryway. There’d been no mention of single-vintage champagnes. Nothing about the 1928.
Still, she shivered. She blamed the visceral reaction on the dense, cold air in this part of the cave and not the way the hard-eyed police detective seemed to be searching for something specific. Clues, perhaps. Clues to what? A crime committed against the Third Reich.
Which one?
She shivered again. Too late, she wished she’d thrown a jacket over her evening gown before leaving the château. Firming her jaw to keep her teeth from chattering, she continued watching Mueller methodically inspect the limestone at his feet, the wall to his immediate left, the ceiling overhead. He glanced down the darkened hallway that stretched deep into the earth. In any other man, she might have found his attention to detail impressive. “How far do these corridors extend?”
“Miles.”
He snapped his attention to her face.
Something there, in his eyes. Something clever and ruthless. And...what? What was that sliver of something else she caught in his expression? She shook her head and scrambled to explain. “The ancient Romans dug these tunnels, or what the Champenois call crayères, to mine the salt and chalk. Then, sometime in the 1600s, I don’t know the exact date, local monks figured out these caves provided the perfect temperature and humidity control to store their wine. All these years later, we—” she made a sweeping motion with her hand that included herself “—the modern-day Champenois continue in the same tradition as those long-ago men of God.”
“You store wine bottles, cases and barrels in here?”
“Oui, all three.”
He went to the door leading out into the vineyard and pressed his palm flat against the thick wood, pulled away. Pressed again. The wind howled outside, battering a hard fist against the spot where Mueller kept resting his hand. His manner was deceptively bland, as he said, “Your chef created an exquisite meal. I was not expecting such fine cuisine so far from Paris.”
And Gabrielle hadn’t expected such high praise from someone wearing a Gestapo uniform. “Marta is not a trained chef,” she said cautiously, unsure the point of this discussion. “She is, however, an excellent cook.”
“Her talents are worthy of at least one Michelin star.”
Again, he surprised her. “I will pass along the compliment.”
“See that you do.” He moved to the small wooden table where François kept a collection of tools and notebooks, a piece of black coal, an adding machine.
The cloying scent of cigarette smoke clung to him, as it did her, though neither had indulged. The scent came from von Schmidt and his guests. And, of course, her mother.
Gabrielle had just entered the parlor after leaving Grandmère in Marta’s care, when Mueller remarked on her mother’s brand of cigarettes. “I’m surprised you smoke Lucky Strikes, Madame LeBlanc. American cigarettes are not easy to come by these days, and certainly not in the occupied zone.”
“I stocked up before the war.”
Although this response seemed to satisfy Mueller’s curiosity, it did not lessen his disapproval. “German cigarettes are far superior. In the future, you will remember that.”
Hélène had agreed to switch brands immediately.
Now there was no talk of cigarettes. Or fine cuisine. There was only silence as Mueller picked up a notebook and moved to a rack of upturned bottles. Eyes narrowed, he flipped through the pages, stopping, considering, moving on. Gabrielle raised her thumb to her mouth and nibbled on the nail, a habit she’d vanquished in childhood, or so she thought.
Why wasn’t he bringing up the 1928?
“What do these numbers and dates refer to?”
She quickly scanned the page. “Each number represents a rack of champagne undergoing its second fermentation. In chronological order, number one is closest to the door, number two next to that, and so on down the line. The corresponding date—” she pointed to one of the line items “—indicates when the bottles were originally placed in the rack.”
Moving to the first row, François’s notebook still in hand, Mueller continued comparing, checking. His hand rested on the butt of one of the bottles. A full five seconds lapsed before he freed it from its position and studied the contents.
“The second fermentation for that particular wine is nearly complete,” she began. Adding, somewhat condescendingly, “As you will notice by its clarity and the large amount of sediment gathered at the neck.”
Mueller’s mouth formed a tight, flat line. He was very good at showing his irritation in the smallest of ways. “Do not patronize me, Madame Dupree, or assume—” he returned the bottle to its place in the rack “—that because I take my time in the front of your cellar this means I have forgotten why we are here.”
She tried not to shudder, even as panic gnawed at her composure with sharp little spider fangs. “Understood.”
“Who turns the bottles in the process the French call, remuage?”
“That duty falls to the man you sent away just before we entered the cellar. François is in charge of manipulating the bottles, one-eighth of a turn at a time.”
“Ah, yes. François, your cellar master. He is very protective of you.”
“Loyalty is a valuable asset at Château Fou
ché-LeBlanc.”
“So I have been led to believe.” He returned the notebook to the table, an odd smile playing at his lips. “You will show me the champagne now.”
Gabrielle’s blood froze in her veins. “The...champagne?”
“The 1928. The reason for this late-night excursion into your crayères.” His tone was every bit as patronizing as hers had been. “Please, Madame. Lead the way.”
She expelled a breath. “Follow me.”
Welcoming the extensive walk to the back of the cellar, she took the opportunity to gather her composure. These were her caves, her champagne, her birthright. She knew every crack and crevice. And still, she nearly stumbled down the last flight of stairs.
Mueller did not reach out to steady her.
For that, she was profoundly grateful. She didn’t think she could bear his touch.
The final turn loomed. She took it quickly, then guided him to the cases of the 1928. It was a calculated move that put his back to the fake wall she’d built once by herself, and again, months later, with François’s assistance.
Saying nothing, Mueller went straight to the crates, forced one open and retrieved a bottle. Cradling it in his hand like a seasoned sommelier, he studied the label closely. “What makes this particular wine special?”
His tone never varied. His eyes never left the bottle in his hand. Was he baiting her? Leading her into a trap? “Herr Detective—”
“I told you how to address me.”
She pressed her lips together, began again. “Detective Mueller, most champagnes are a blend of several base wines, as many as a dozen but no fewer than three. The process is like putting together a complicated puzzle that requires a kind of taste memory.”
Keep him distracted, she told herself. Keep his back to the fake wall. “Sometimes, very rarely, when a harvest is exceptional, we—the people of Champagne—declare a millésime, a vintage.” She kept her eyes focused on his face, not a single flicker in the direction of the wall behind him. “The 1928 is considered one of the best single vintages of this century.”
“When did your grandmother step down as the head of your champagne house?”
The change of subject was so unexpected it took Gabrielle a moment to process the question. “There was no specific stepping down. It was more a gradual letting go. She guided me along, answered my questions, and slowly let me take on more and more of her duties.” She took the bottle from him and placed it carefully back in its nest. “Then, one day, I found myself making decisions without consulting her first.”
“You make it sound very amicable.” He did not seem convinced.
And she remembered her grandmother’s plan to make von Schmidt think Gabrielle had snatched control by scheming, rather than Josephine handing it over willingly. “Nothing is ever completely amicable.”
“Not even between a grandmother and her beloved granddaughter?”
“Not even then.”
He flicked a cool-eyed look in her direction then bent over the stacked crates, taking what appeared to be a silent inventory of the champagne. Abruptly, he straightened, spun on his heel and focused solely on the fake wall.
Gabrielle’s breath stalled in her throat. His gaze never faltered. It kept moving and shifting over the many stones.
“I never knew my grandfather,” she blurted out. “He died of a ruptured appendix when my father was still a boy.”
Momentarily distracted, he paused his inspection. “Your grandmother never remarried?”
“She dedicated the rest of her life to preserving Antoine LeBlanc’s legacy. And...” She drew in a fast breath. “If you asked her, she would say she found love twice in her lifetime. First, with my grandfather. Then with the champagne house after his death.”
“What about you, Madame Dupree?” The hard, guttural accent somehow softened over her name. “Did you discover a similar devotion after your husband’s death?”
“I have followed in my grandmother’s footsteps.” It was the only answer she would give him. “This is her acclaimed rosé.”
She tried to hand him the champagne. He waved her off and focused on the wall once again. There was nothing in his manner to alert her as to what he was thinking, what conclusions he found. Why could she not read this man?
He looked up at the far corner and frowned at a spiderweb. He moved closer, his brow creasing in concentration. He started to speak, then his jaw clamped shut. Clearly, he was putting together a hypothesis as his eyes tracked from spiderweb to spiderweb, stone to stone, left to right, right to left. Left to right.
Then, he glanced at her. His eyebrows lifted. He knows. With his face half-covered in shadow, he looked every bit the sinister Gestapo agent about to make an arrest. It’s over.
Something hot and terrible crawled over her skin. Not fear. Something worse. Something without a name.
Mueller’s hand lifted from his side. An inch higher, higher, moving toward her face. Or possibly her jaw, her neck. The world slowed to a crawl. Higher, his hand came up higher. Was he planning to grab her by her throat and squeeze the life out of her?
Gabrielle held perfectly still. For a second her fear turned to defiance. Let him try to hurt her. Let him show his true nature. She lifted her chin a fraction higher. At the moment she thought his hand would reach for her, he spun around and flattened his palm on the fake wall instead. “It’s very curious. The construction is stunningly inferior in this portion of the cave.”
Her throat cinched and no words came out. Feebly, her own gaze followed his hand as his fingers caressed the stones.
“Very curious, indeed.”
The pulsing of her blood grew louder in her ears. She couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe. The ceiling seemed to lower. The walls pressed in closer. She wished she had a pistol, a knife, a weapon of any kind. It was the thought of a cornered animal with no way out.
She thought of her peace-loving husband, of his gentle nature, so like his father. His father. Max. Gabrielle was supposed to meet Max within the hour. Would he come looking for her if she failed to show? Would he know to come this far back in the cave?
Mueller pushed away from the wall and came toward her again. The sound of his heels on the stone was as loud as a thunderclap. He suddenly had a grip on her wrist, not tight, but with enough pressure to make his point. She nearly cried out, not from pain. From shock.
He’d moved so quickly. She hadn’t thought to pull out of his reach. Now he was looming over her from his superior height, looking every bit Hitler’s instrument of death, holding her wrist in his large hand. And yet, not hurting her. Why did her mind lock on that thought?
“You will ship all of the remaining bottles of the 1928 to Berlin in the morning. You will also send what is left of the 1919, the 1920 and the 1921.”
Gabrielle’s mouth worked, but nothing came out. How did he know she’d chosen to serve those specific single vintages at the anniversary party?
“Do you understand this request, Madame Dupree?”
He was so big, so strong, and she was too small, too weak, too soft...
Non, she was not weak. She was not soft. She was a fighter. A warrior. Josephine’s granddaughter. She was a LeBlanc. “Yes, Detective Mueller. I understand this request.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Hélène
It snowed overnight, a light dusting that would melt by midday. The weather mirrored the condition of Hélène’s heart, cold and bleak. How ill-prepared she’d been for war within her own home. How utterly unsuited and naïve to think she could control the battle. That the decision had been hers to make.
The layers of protection she’d placed around her heart had not been enough. She was shattered, a sketch of her former self, left with nothing but shame and dishonor and a heart in pieces. The first night had been the hardest. The following two had proved no easier. A fair trade for he
r life, and that of her family—her daughters—that was how she rationalized her relationship with von Schmidt in her mind.
Hélène would not allow herself a moment of regret. It was done. No going back.
She fell to her knees and prayed for forgiveness, as she did every morning. How could the Lord forgive her? How could she forgive herself?
Shoving to her feet, she searched for her cigarettes. As she fit one between her lips she thought of her encounter with the Gestapo agent three nights ago. Hélène hadn’t expected Detective Mueller’s instant suspicion of something so simple as the brand she chose to smoke, purchased from a little shop in Paris because it had been Étienne’s favorite.
She didn’t even like to smoke. She did so in honor of her husband’s memory. Every puff filled the void he’d left in her life and made her think of him. Closing her eyes, she tried to summon up his image. His features wavered in her mind, nearly there, nearly real. But not quite. She barely recalled the hue of his hair, the tenor of his voice. She whipped open her eyes. She would not lose Étienne again. Not again. Hands trembling, she opened a drawer in her dressing table and withdrew the photograph first, then the wristwatch.
It took her only a moment to memorize the beloved oval face, the impossibly green eyes, the thick wavy hair their daughters had inherited from him. She glanced at the watch next. It had stopped again. She’d forgotten to wind it. She reached for the stem, then changed her mind. No. She would let the gears remain dormant in silent tribute to the man she still loved.
She returned the items to their resting place and reminded herself. No regrets. She’d made her choice. She now had a purpose. For as long as Germany occupied France, and von Schmidt occupied the château, she would pander to the enemy and organize his parties.
Seeing to her duty, she spent the rest of the morning, and most of the afternoon, finalizing last-minute preparations for tonight’s official welcome of Detective Mueller to the region. The details kept her busy all day, making it impossible to find a spare moment for herself. Now, with plenty of time left to dress for the party, she entered her youngest daughter’s bedroom.