Burgundy

by Janet Hubbard

  “A private investigator named Yves Laroche either fell or jumped to his death two nights ago in Lyon after hosting a party.”

  “I assume it was Abdel who called?”

  “Somehow his cousin is involved.”

  She moaned. “Tell him we just got engaged and are taking a month off.”

  “The American girl was also at the party.”

  “Which explains why she didn’t come back to Anne’s. I guarantee you she’s in trouble. I’m off to shower, then I’ll go with you.”

  She stood under the hot stream of water, going over in her mind the story of the girl who had gone from victim to potential suspect overnight. She knew Abdel wouldn’t have called for Olivier to come in if he didn’t think he had some kind of case.

  Olivier greeted her with a kiss, then poured coffee into the bowl in front of her. I was thinking about wedding venues,” he said. “And thought it would be simple to marry in the town hall here. Or perhaps here in this house.”

  “I don’t think for a minute that my mother and grandmother are going to agree to that. Sorry to change the subject, but has Abdel picked the girl up yet?”

  Olivier frowned. “The police are searching for her. We could also just marry and then tell them.”

  I keep thinking we’ve reversed roles. After all this time, what’s the hurry?”

  “Our families are together. I’ll fly your partner and anyone else you want from New York to France.” A ping, and he looked down at his phone. “It’s Abdel. Let’s go.”

  “Okay, okay.” She walked with him toward the car, but when he got a call and stopped to answer, she paused to look at the vineyards on the side of the house and across the narrow lane where tiny shoots were emerging from the twisted roots that jutted into the air. “It looks like a graveyard coming to life,” she said, entering the car.

  “That’s not a bad description. We’ll return at harvest, when the landscape turns into a sea of green.” He started the car. “My gut tells me this Laroche death could turn into a murder investigation, and I promised myself that I would not conduct another one. I don’t want any part of it.”

  “I’m feeling slightly drawn to it because of the American girl.”

  “I know. You’re a born detective, Max. I’m not.”

  “You’re better than you know.”

  “We could marry, then leave to visit my brother in Australia in two weeks, and I would start my new job in May.”

  “You have it all sewn up. The only problem is that I wasn’t consulted.”

  He glanced over at her, surprised. “But you don’t want all the falderal that goes with weddings, do you? I don’t think of you as that type.”

  “Please don’t pigeonhole me. Deep inside, I adore the idea of a beautiful wedding dress.”

  His laugh was a hoot. “Perhaps we can find a way to compromise.” He grew serious. “We’ll be in Lyon in an hour. By the way, the dead P.I., Laroche, harvested grapes at Anne Bré’s this year, a tradition that started a decade ago.”

  “Not good. I wonder if he and Lucy hooked up. Maybe she rejected him and he jumped.”

  “That sounds a bit Tolstoyan.”

  “Or maybe she pushed him when he tried to hook up with her. Even I find that a strange term. Meaning he tried to get into her pants.”

  “Does anyone use the term ‘falling in love’ anymore? These expressions like ‘hooking up’ conjure up such unattractive images.”

  “Hooking up has nothing to do with falling in love. And in my parents’ day it was all about one-night stands. Same idea.”

  Max realized that she and Olivier had developed the kind of bantering that cops used to cover up anxiety. She thought it must be similar to the way surgeons told jokes while operating. Olivier explained that they were entering the tunnel de Fourvière that leads into the heart of Lyon. Sunlight glinted off the buildings overlooking the Saône River. Looming over the city on the other side of the river was a cathedral. “What a beautiful cityscape,” Max said. “The ornate bridges remind me of Paris. From here, I could be standing along the Seine, looking across at the Musée d’Orsay.”

  “I wish we had more time here,” Olivier said. “Lyon is the gastronomic capital of France. I will make sure you visit the Halles Paul Bocuse, which is on the other side of the Rhône River.” They crossed the bridge onto Rue Octavio Mey, passing many signs for couscous restaurants and then pulled into an empty parking space. Abdel emerged from a nondescript apartment building and Max leapt out of the car to embrace him. “You’re the first to know,” she said. “Olivier and I are getting married.”

  “About time! When?”

  Olivier had joined them. “Soon.” Abdel glanced at Max, who rolled her eyes, but she was smiling.

  Glancing behind him, Abdel said, “My cousin is inside.”

  Max thought Olivier was right, this was going to turn into something nasty. They entered the small bachelor’s lair, and sat on a small sofa after Abdel introduced them to Ali. “I have already spoken with the police,” Abdel said. “They’re awaiting the results from the medical examiner, who initially declared the cause of death to be suicide. But my fellow officer who is local said that Yves Laroche landed in such a way, splayed out, his face hitting the pavement, that he changed his mind and suspected that he was pushed. The case will be put before the prosecutor if there is any suspicion, of course.”

  “If they determine murder, the girl is a definite suspect?”

  “Witnesses saw her. She stands out, you know.”

  “No, I don’t know at all. She could easily become a scapegoat.”

  “The police are interviewing neighbors, and examining the video camera outside the building. Laroche was hosting a party so people were coming and going all night, according to other tenants.”

  Max said, “Lucy must be close by. Not that hard to find.” She turned to Ali, who was studying his smartphone. “She stopped here yesterday?”

  “Yes. At my garage. I told Abdel.”

  “What time?”

  He shrugged. “Maybe noon.”

  “Was anybody with her?”

  “She had a guy with her; at least I think he was with her. He went for a slice of pizza while I fixed her Vespa, then lurked around in the parking lot until she was ready.”

  “What’d he look like?”

  Ali shrugged again. “You know, like any guy. Young. Wore jeans and had on a hooded sweatshirt and a wind jacket.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me about him?” Abdel asked, giving him a remonstrative look.

  “You didn’t ask.” Ali grew defensive. “I think you’re on the wrong track. That girl wouldn’t hurt anybody. Hell, she’s no bigger than a puce.” A flea, Max translated.

  “You don’t know anything about her,” Abdel said, a stubborn expression on his face.

  “With all due respect to Abdel,” Ali said to Max and Olivier, “the police here like to jump to conclusions.” He leapt up off the couch and paced in a small circle, looking from one to the other. “Aw, come on, guys. Don’t link my name to this. I’ve been arrested twice. They’ve been watching me. In no time, they’ll label me a co-conspirator or something. These are tense times.”

  “Did you know Yves Laroche?” Max asked.

  “No.”

  Max thought he was lying.

  Olivier turned to Abdel and Max. “It’s not a case yet. Let’s hope the poor guy jumped. Why don’t we go for a walk and then I’ll take you both to a restaurant I remember from a lifetime ago? Authentic regional food.”

  Max and Abdel exchanged disbelieving stares, yet she knew, as did Abdel, that good cuisine and wine were Olivier’s antidote to the human condition.

  Ali grabbed his coat. “I have to get to work.” Olivier stepped aside.

  Max said, “Ali, one more question. How did you hear about Yves Laroche dying?�
��

  “Lucy told me.”

  They all stopped.

  Abdel said, “When?”

  “Last night. She called me.”

  Olivier said, “What did she say?”

  “Her exact words were, ‘Some nasty shit is going down. You’ll see it on the news. I’m lucky to be here.’”

  Abdel said, “You weren’t at that party, were you?”

  “For half an hour.”

  “Pourquoi?” Abdel grabbed Ali by the arm. “Did you buy drugs?”

  “Mais, non!” He shook Abdel off.

  “You are all idiots!” Abdel shouted. “Do you know if she has a cell phone?”

  “I never saw one. She carries around a banged-up laptop.” He marched out the door.

  “This is what I have to deal with all the time with my own people,” Abdel said, walking alongside Olivier.

  “The girl could be a sociopath,” said Max. “Charming, woos everybody into trusting her, then bam!”

  They followed Olivier across the bridge to the Vieux Lyon, and soon were at the restaurant l’Apostrophe. Olivier entered the bar area and looked around. “This is it,” he said. “Nothing has changed.” Checkered tablecloths covered the tables. A little sign advertised a Côtes du Rhône for three euros and a glass of white for the same. A waitress led them to a table, and after much discussion on Olivier’s part, Max ordered, against her better judgment, the tablier de sapeur, or tripe, and Olivier and Abdel had the boudin aux pommes, which Max knew was a blood sausage, which was made up of pork, dried pig’s blood, and suet.

  Olivier said, “This is the three of us celebrating Max’s and my engagement. No crime talk until after the meal. D’accord?”

  “Why don’t I take a few photographs of our engagement luncheon and put it on Snapchat?” Max said, and was pleased that she got a laugh out of Abdel.

  Abdel explained to Max how he had applied to the police department in Paris because he wanted to continue working with Monsieur Chaumont, and said that he was surprised to have been accepted so quickly. “You have a good reputation,” Olivier said. “Saving my life last year went into your report, though that may be a mark against you.” They laughed. Max couldn’t believe the three of them were together again.

  Abdel said, looking at his boss, “Monsieur, happiness becomes you.”

  “I am happier than I have ever been. At almost forty, I am getting married to the woman I love, I am moving back to Paris, and I will be doing work that will be deeply gratifying.” He looked at Abdel. “My brother is unable to come all the way from Australia for the wedding on such short notice. I want you to be my best man.”

  “But, Monsieur…”

  “No buts. You must do this for me.”

  “Of course. I am honored.”

  Abdel looked at Max. “Who will stand with you?”

  “My sidekick is coming from New York. Carlos. And Chloe and Ted, of course.”

  Olivier reminded Abdel of their friend whose wedding he and Max attended in Champagne a couple of years ago, and he nodded. “That was a sad day when the bride’s aunt was killed.”

  The plates arrived, and were placed in front of them. Max thought her dish looked like a sizzling chicken-fried steak.

  Olivier was now caught up in the food. “How is yours?” he asked Max.

  “Fine, if I don’t think about it being the stomach of a cow,” Abdel laughed.

  “Mine is really quite wonderful,” Olivier said, offering a bite of the sausage, which she declined. They sat conversing over coffee, and Max glanced around the restaurant that had not changed its décor or its menu in decades. She’d been told that people came here knowing they would be in a cozy, familiar atmosphere, eating traditional French food. She turned her attention back to the conversation, which was winding its way around to the millions of refugees arriving in Europe from Syria, Iraq, Afghanistan, and God-knows-where-else, seeking an environment free of war and persecution. “I was in their shoes once,” Abdel said, “Or at least my parents were. I hope we can keep the borders open.”

  “The same is true for my father’s family,” Max said. “They came to America to escape the potato famine in Ireland.”

  Olivier said he had grave concerns, especially for Germany, where because Chancellor Merkel was allowing such a flood of refugees in, there could be backlash. Europe was changing in front of their eyes, Max realized, and looking from Olivier to Abdel, she was aware that the three of them were facing big transitions, due to consequences of recent terrorist activities.

  Eventually, it was time to leave. As they stepped out into the bright sunlight, Olivier’s cell rang and when he saw it was Hank he put it on speaker. They stopped to listen.

  “I took Isabelle’s car and drove to a medieval village where there is a monastery,” Hank said.

  “Oh, yes, I know it,” Olivier said. “Le prieuré de Blanot. A Roman church, originally built in the tenth century.”

  “I’m not calling to tell you I had an epiphany or anything. Or maybe I did. As I was leaving I stopped in at a little café and ordered a beer. After my eyes got used to the dim light, I looked around and knew that the girl huddled in the corner was that girl Lucy. The hood of her sweatshirt fell off when she shifted position, and she glanced up from her laptop, and looked directly into my eyes. There was only one other patron, and the waiter-bartender. I got up and walked over to her table and said, ‘Hey, people are looking for you. They’re worried about you. I’m on your side.’ I told her I was a detective in New York, and gave her my card. She suddenly yelled in rapid French to the waiter who rushed over and told me in broken English to leave. I followed him to the bar and tried to explain. When I turned around, the girl was gone. I rushed out the door, and she already had the Vespa running. She had put on sunglasses. She said, ‘I know you’re with Uncle George,’ in English, and roared off. She’s definitely acting like a fugitive.”

  “I need an accurate description.”

  “Easy. Five six, slender like a young Patti Smith, cropped hair that’s more blond now than silver, dark blue intelligent eyes with heavy, arched eyebrows, ears close to her head, long neck, full lips, no makeup. Not beautiful in the classic sense, but a magnet. Now that we know Uncle George exists, I might do a little homework. I’ll call a couple of my cronies in New York to see what they can find out. Over and out.”

  “Meet the other member of the team,” Max said to Abdel. “He’s bored in the country.”

  Abdel laughed. “And yet, there’s still no case?”

  Olivier said, “Not until we know how Yves Laroche died.”

  Abdel’s cell rang; he picked up and was off in ten seconds. “Pushed.”

  “Merde!” Olivier said. “Abdel, can you give up your vacation and lead this investigation?”

  He grew quiet, then said, “Where will you be?”

  “Australia. You can do this. I will speak to the judge here and ask him to put you in charge, or at least here in Beaune.”

  Max held her breath watching Abdel, sure he would say no, but after an interminable silence, he nodded. “We won’t be able to nose around without permission once this is official,” Olivier added.

  They parted ways and Olivier and Max began the drive back to Auxey-Duresses. “Abdel might have a conflict of interest with his cousin somehow involved,” Max said.

  “He will need an informer. This will be good for him.”

  “I haven’t seen a dark-skinned person since I got here. That isn’t a problem?”

  “What is that supposed to mean? You’re suggesting people will be prejudiced against Abdel?”

  “Marine LePen is stirring things up with all the refugees flooding in. I guess that’s what I’m saying.”

  “France is not Germany, where over eight hundred thousand have been invited in. Holland has only okayed fourteen thousand, if I remember corre
ctly. The French hate prejudice of any kind.”

  “Hank was outwitted by Lucy,” Max said. “That doesn’t happen often. He won’t let it go now.”

  “He can play backyard detective if he finds it entertaining. We won’t be here.”

  “Maybe we should set a date. Most couples do that.”

  “You have a point. April twenty-eighth?”

  “Suits me. Let’s make a bet,” Max said. “We haven’t done that in ages.”

  “What are we betting on?”

  “Lucy will be my bridesmaid.”

  Olivier spluttered. “I don’t want to bet on something so absurd.”

  “Come on, chéri, admit it, you’re worried I’ll win.”

  “Okay, whoever wins gets to make the final choice on which apartment we take in Paris.”

  “Great one! High five!” She held a splayed hand up.

  “I’m driving.”

  She laughed gustily, as though she had already won.

  Chapter Eight

  The maid came to the door and invited Olivier and Max into Anne’s living room. Dominated by a massive stone fireplace where flames shot skyward, soaring ceilings with intricate moldings, parquet floors covered with worn Persian rugs, and furnished with sofas and chairs arranged to create intimacy, the room could otherwise have been overwhelming in its stateliness, yet greeted them warmly.

  Hank was sitting at attention in a cushioned chair. “About time you got here. Anne and I scoured Lucy’s room, and found a journal in the armoire.”

  He handed it to Olivier who read aloud, In the event of my death, here’s the story.

  Hank said, “Lots of notes about picking grapes. But on one page she wrote that she was excited that her friend, Yves, had offered to help her find her father. On another she wrote about being held under lock and key in a loony bin in Westchester County, which is where she was when her mother died. The docs said the cause was an aneurysm, but Lucy writes that her uncle George Wyeth, who owns the hospital, was responsible for her mother’s death.”

  “How awful,” Max said. “He had control of her, it seems. Her mother must have given permission, as she is a minor.”