by Blake Pierce
Adele lowered her cup and crossed her arms now. “If I didn’t know any better, I might be impressed. Did you find something?”
John smirked. “In fact, I might have. A tenuous link—but one confirmed by the Rebers.” He tapped his cell phone lying on the table next to his elbow. “Amelia Gueyen used to work for a French vintner by the name of Matthias Bich—was employed at his vineyard for about a year before leaving.”
“Yeah? And this vintner, what’s his connection to the German farmer?”
John closed his laptop lid, looking smug. “He used to buy grapes from the farmer.”
Adele actually cracked a smile now, nodding in appreciation. She studied the sunlight reflecting off the glassy table and dappling John’s cheeks and eyes with glowing particles. “Good work,” she murmured. “No, really. It almost makes up for a night listening to your snoring.”
He snorted. “I do not snore, American Princess… what is the expression? Something about a pot and a kettle?”
Adele opened her mouth in mock offense. But some of her good humor faded as she looked at the closed lid of the laptop. “Happen to have an address for this vintner?”
John tapped his phone again and pushed away from the table, getting to his feet and stretching in the shadows out of reach of the sun. “Already programmed. I’m ready to go when you are. I’ll call some locals over to keep him on ice for us. They’ll be able to get there faster.”
CHAPTER NINE
Another squad car transported Adele and John to the vineyard of Matthias Bich an hour’s drive from their motel, past Saint-Emilion on the western border of Bordeaux. As they pulled up the road, leading off the main stretch of highway, Adele couldn’t help but notice this road was far better paved than the one at the Rebers’ vineyard. Mr. Bich apparently took great pride in the spectacle of his establishment. The road was smooth, paved and lined with hedges and a tasteful smattering of marble statues. A few of them, perhaps predictably in Adele’s assessment, shot jets of water from open mouths or tips of fingers into porcelain and marble bowls, allowing the fountains to spill back into drains and recycle the water.
Adele scanned the trimmed hedges, the ornamentation as the squad car moved along the smooth road. Ahead, the main building of the vineyard seemed to have a commercial purpose as well, displaying a title which, translated, read Bich’s Tasting and Culture.
“Cultured,” Adele murmured over her shoulder. “So much culture. Practically drowning in it.” Once again, she’d managed to wrangle the front seat.
John grunted behind the driver’s side, his gaze passing over the hedges and statues and blinking bracket lights providing tasteful illumination to the whole spectacle. Instead, he seemed to be paying particular attention to the rows of grapes beyond. “Bugs,” he said. “Lots of bugs.” He wrinkled his nose. “You’d think they’d have a spray or something.”
The driver, another local in blue, looked into the mirror and nodded at John. “They do, sir. These insects, though, are lacewings and are not harmful to the grapes—they are called beneficial insects. Sometimes they’re even pressed with the wine…” She chuckled. “Not everyone realizes just how many bugs often ended up in their Merlot.”
John wrinkled his nose and glared at the vineyard now. He glanced at the mirror. “Does everyone in the area know so much about wine?”
The officer laughed and pulled the vehicle closer toward the commercial building at the end of the ornamented drive. “It’s Bordeaux, and I am French,” she said, in manner of explanation, intonating the word French with a bit of an American accent, which Adele knew was meant to be taken humorously.
The officer’s expression sobered a bit though, and she looked at Adele. “Mr. Bich is waiting for you,” she said. “But he refuses to let the officers into the building without a warrant. From what I’ve been told, he’s not being very cooperative.”
“Right, thanks.” Adele nodded. Then her eyes slid along the front of the large wood and glass commercial building in the heart of the vineyard toward a small gathering of people standing in front of stone slab steps. Another tasteful arrangement of multi-hued stone set in a large patio that spanned the length of the delta-shaped driveway.
The squad car pulled up behind two others, which had parked across from a blue Jaguar I-pace with chrome wheels sitting in the shade in front of a garage.
John whistled as he eyed the car, but Adele only had eyes for the gathering in front of the stone steps.
The smallest figure seemed to have positioned himself between the building and the officers in question. Any time one of the officers came too close, he would hold out a hand, blocking and shaking his head, speaking loudly. Adele rolled down the window as their car wheeled to a halt.
Over the sound of crunching dust and groaning tires, she heard the words, “…no warrant, no entry. That is final!”
She glanced over the seat at John. “I think we may have found Mr. Bich.”
Together, they exited the vehicle with twin sighs of resignation, matching clicks of their locks, and synchronized slamming of their doors. The air was warm again, and Adele blinked a bit, feeling the tentative suggestions of a headache trying to make itself known. Perhaps she shouldn’t have drunk that second cup of coffee before leaving the motel.
Still, there was a job to do.
She strode with John toward the gathering in front of the commercial building beneath the studio’s sign. The air here now held the familiar scent of too-sweet produce and fertilizer.
Adele marched up to the small man who had his hand outstretched, blocking the three other officers who were speaking patiently with him. The man didn’t seem interested in what the police had to say. He wagged a finger under the nose of a male officer and uttered a string of strong words which caused Adele to quicken her pace just a bit.
“Mighty jumpy for a vintner,” John muttered next to her.
As they drew near, Adele heard the small man exclaiming. “… pay my taxes, am a good citizen. Yet you stormtroopers roll up like this? Outrageous! You’ll hear from my lawyer.”
“That is fine, sir,” said Adele, calling out and waving a hand to catch his attention. She came to a stop on a brown stone slab set in the patio. She smoothed a couple of the wrinkles in her suit, then fixed a polite smile before acknowledging the vintner. “I assume you’re Matthias Bich?”
The man turned mid-sentence, his jaw unhinged as if intent on finishing his diatribe. But then he swallowed, nearly choked on air, and rotated a full ninety degrees to refocus his ire on the new arrivals.
“And who are you?” he said. “Are you the captain I asked to speak with?”
“Captain?” John wrinkled his nose. He chuckled. “I am Agent Renee. This is Agent Sharp. DGSI. We had a few questions for you.”
“DGSI?” Mr. Bich said, stunned. Not only was he quite small, but he also had a timid, mouse-like face with a weak chin and an attempt at a mustache that bordered on indecent.
The man looked at John, examining the tall, muscled agent, and instantly Adele detected a note of envious dislike.
“I was telling your goons,” the man said, waving fingers toward the other officers, “no warrant, no entry.” He crossed his arms over his small chest.
Adele exhaled slowly, quietly, closing her eyes for the faintest moment as if to stave off a headache. And then she moved over to the stone steps and, in John-like fashion, sat square in the middle of the step, looking up at the vineyard owner.
“Mr. Bich,” she said, “we have no interest in causing you trouble. I’m happy to speak with you out here.” She patted the stone slab next to her, expectantly.
For a moment, Mr. Bich just stared at her, but then, glancing uncertainly from John to the officers, he said, “You’re not allowed to—”
“No one will enter your vineyard. Nor the building,” Adele said, quietly. She simply wasn’t in the mood to push on this front. “We’re not here about your business.”
The man hesitated. “You’re not?
”
Adele insistently patted the stone step next to her, her eyes tracing another fountain set in the side of the patio. This ornament depicted a small cherubic child with wings and a jar of wine overflowing with fountain water. She massaged the bridge of her nose and noted John watching her with an amused glint in his eye.
Eventually, Mr. Bich slowly sat on the very edge of the stone step as if preparing to lurch up and bolt at a moment’s notice. Again, Adele was struck by his quick, timid twitching and his nervous swallowing.
Once he’d seated himself in front of his main building, she said, “Sir, if you don’t mind, we’re here regarding a Ms. Gueyen.”
The man’s face went pale. A poker player, he was not. He stared at her, stumbling and bumbling over words a bit before coughing dryly into a hand and looking off with a slanted gaze toward the marble fountain. “What about her?” he said, the last word practically squeaking.
Adele shot a look at John, who widened his eyes and shrugged once.
She looked back at Mr. Bich. “Sir,” she said, slowly. “I can’t help but notice—and I do apologize for saying so—but you don’t seem to be particularly comfortable. Is there something you’d like to tell me?”
Now, he rounded on her. But the pale tinge to his cheeks was slowly being replaced by a reddish hue. He winced and stammered a bit, but then seemed to build up a head of steam, and loud enough so the officer who’d driven them, still waiting in the car, could hear, he shouted, “Whatever that little bitch is accusing me of, it never happened! She’s a drama queen and a liar! That’s why I fired her in the first place! There was no sexual harassment—none, zero, zilch. Understand? She’s making it up. Besides,” he added quickly, stammering and stuttering like someone bumbling around a toolshed in search of a weapon, “she stole from me—yes, it’s true. A bottle of my finest. I had to fire her. She made up that stuff about sexual harassment when—”
“Sir,” Adele said, softly. “Ms. Gueyen is dead.”
She went very still, watching his expression. And again, it morphed as if his subconscious were authoring a book in real time and opening it wide over his countenance. She studied him as his cheeks turned pale again and his eyes went wide. He stared at her, jaw unhinged and, for the first time since she’d arrived, seemed at a genuine loss for words.
“Dead?” he managed to gasp out.
Adele nodded once, still sitting on the dusty stone step. “Just so. We’re not here about any harassment.”
“I—I… I thought,” he stammered, staring now from John to the other officers as if wondering if this were some sort of prank. “I thought she’d… she’d threatened to go to the cops, and… I thought… When they mentioned her name… A shame… a real shame; she was a good girl. Very fond of her. Very fond.” He now rounded on the first group of officers who were watching the exchange with narrowed eyes. “Why didn’t you tell me, you idiots?” he yelled. “I thought you were here about… about something else!”
Adele watched him and realized now she was detecting a note of relief in his shrill tone. Not a good sign. Relief at a deceleration of murder pegged him as an asshole, not a killer.
He looked at Adele. “Mrs. Reber,” he said. “She probably did it. Probably poisoned, yes?” He looked at her gleefully. “Probably sleeping with her husband—wanted revenge. Well, am I right?”
Adele scratched at the side of her cheek, trying to peg Mr. Bich. Surely, he wasn’t stupid. But at the very least, he seemed oblivious. It didn’t seem to even cross his mind that he might be a suspect. Instead of correcting him on this front, though, she said, “We’re looking into all leads. Just to help us narrow things down, what were you doing this Tuesday afternoon, through evening?”
If she’d thought the question would throw the vintner through a loop, she would have been sorely disappointed. He simply scoffed and waved a dismissive hand. “Fundraiser,” he said. “Speaking in front of three hundred of the best vintners and sommeliers in the business.” He puffed his chest importantly. “Almost made a deal, you know. With one of the big plants in America.” He nodded. “Only a matter of time. You’ll hear about Bich grapes world around—mark my words.”
“This speech you gave,” Adele said, now rubbing at the bridge of her nose. “How long did it go?”
He shrugged. “On and off for a few hours. I helped present. Then had closing remarks.” He narrowed his eyes. “Just check with the Ritz Paris. I was there all day. Only came back now because you called me home!” He waved a hand toward the gathered officers.
Adele finally looked at the nearest police. “Is this true?” she said.
The man who’d received most of the abuse from Mr. Bich crossed his arms over his uniform. “Still looking into the alibi,” he said. “But…” he swallowed and muttered, “department did find a plane ticket in his name that helps corroborate—”
Before he’d even finished, Adele was already on her feet, muttering darkly and stomping away, dusting off the back of her wrinkled pants and glaring at anything foolish enough to catch her eye. The little marble cherub received a particularly venomous look in its lifeless, smiling face as she marched back toward the squad car.
“A-Adele?” John called after her.
She looked over her shoulder, sun kissing her cheek, her eyes scanning the vineyard, the statuary, the wood and glass building and the four figures out front. “If the alibi doesn’t check out, I’ll be back,” she said, in matter of warning.
But then, with an air of disgust, she slotted back into the front seat of the squad car. “Get us out of here,” she muttered to the driver. And then she leaned back, closing her eyes.
She heard the door slam behind her. John’s voice, “Adele, are you sure—”
“He didn’t do it,” she said.
“But… maybe he’s lying. Maybe he had someone—”
“John,” Adele said, quietly. She turned now, looking him in the eye. “You saw how he reacted. He had no clue she was dead. He was worried about harassment charges. That’s it. He didn’t do it. Alibi will check out.” She looked back across the seat toward their designated chauffeur. “Get me out of here… please,” she said. And then she closed her eyes again, trying desperately to stave off the words that had been echoing in her mind ever since she’d woken up.
I think of you… I think of you… I think of you…
CHAPTER TEN
Gabriel stepped through the sliding doors of the airport, feet on the curb, head tilted back and a smile on his handsome face. He inhaled the California air.
It was good to be home.
A few college girls passed by, tittering and giggling as their kind was wont to. When they spotted him, they all went quiet and started whispering, glancing back and shooting him a few long looks.
Gabriel smiled at the attention. A strange thing how many doors symmetrical features opened. Gates once closed, emotions once sealed would be pried apart and presented as an offering.
Then again, the only gates Gabriel was interested in didn’t reside on this side of eternity.
He shifted uncomfortably, his carry-on gripped in one hand. He stepped to the edge of the curb, his other hand raised, his driving gloves clasped against his fingers as he hailed a taxi.
Of course, his name wasn’t really Gabriel—but it was how he thought of himself. A testament, a claiming of an allegiance. In the past, he’d tried Loki, Lucifer, Ra, Charon. All manner of gatekeepers—those who would shuttle mortals on to eternity.
As Gabriel, though, he felt fairly certain he’d found the key. Now… the waiting, the preparing of this mortal vessel.
The handsome man on the curb outside the airport smiled in the sun, hefted his carry-on delicately, so he wouldn’t disturb the precious contents, and then entered the cabin of the vehicle.
A short ride. Sonoma County. But he couldn’t leave the taxi fast enough. Already, he could feel his stomach bubbling—could feel the magic slipping from his chest. The sustaining, directing source of an eternal i
dentity. Gabriel winced against the discomfort.
Still, despite the settling discomfort, after the drive, he had the wherewithal to thank the taxi driver and tip well, before turning to enter his home. It was good to be back. He typed in the security code impatiently, his teeth now straining.
Did any of the true witnesses care?
“I’m hurrying!” he snapped over his shoulder. “I’m hurrying, damn you!”
Then, a flood of guilt. He froze on his doorstep and immediately dropped to a knee, tears suddenly welling in his eyes. “Please… No. I don’t mean to use that word. Save me from my foolishness… Please.”
Then, without even shutting the front door, he grabbed his carry-on, dragging it along as he stumbled down his hall, flicking a light and then approaching the basement door. He pulled it, listening to the quiet croak of hinges and then, still sniffling, tears on his cheeks, he tottered down the steps. Already, he was pulling the small thermos from his carry-on. Within the limit. Not much—not much at all.
A pity to leave so much pure blood back in France, but he didn’t need it all. Only a taste. Only a bit to guide his path, to yield true enlightenment. Wine, like Dionysus drank, like the grapes in Eden… Wine had a god-making property. But too strong, too rich for mere mortals. Blood, similarly, was simply another type of wine. The mixture of the two caused the divine and the mortal to collide. A beautiful concoction.
But it had been so long. Even now, though, he could feel his vision clouding, the scales falling over his eyes.
Gabriel cursed at the ceiling. “Hang on,” he snapped. “I’m going as fast as I can!”
The prayers were offered to no one in particular. Or, perhaps, to everyone who might listen. Anyone who might give him access to what lay beyond. He glance down at the small bottle of “cherry juice.” Easy enough to smuggle—had worked before. He’d harvested abroad as well—Germany, then France. The unenlightened would never find him. This was the way of things—the way they should be.