Burgundy

by Janet Hubbard

  “Bonjour, Yvette.”

  She spoke rapidly and so softly that Olivier leaned in to hear. “How’s the girl doing? I’m sure the police will call it an accident. The sangliers are dangerous, and very fast. I personally would not be caught dead in the woods without a gun.” She suddenly looked alarmed, and ran over to the oven. “Pardon, I have a cake in the oven.” She removed it and placed it on a hot plate, then turned, “You’re still here?” She pointed out the window. “I can see him. He’s a wreck over all that has happened. As if I’m not.”

  Olivier had barely understood her words, they were spoken so rapidly and with no thought. “Is Roland home?”

  “Roland! Oh, not yet. He is eighteen, you know.” Olivier had never seen anyone so anxiety-ridden. “He called. He may be with Alain. You didn’t tell me how the girl is.”

  “She’s in a coma.”

  Yvette said, “I have to make a phone call.”

  “Bon. I hope your cake turns out well.” Could a woman this fragmented follow a recipe? he wondered.

  “Merci, Olivier.”

  Olivier wandered desultorily toward the two figures he could barely make out on the slope, behind the house. The warm weather was encouraging the vines to issue tiny shoots of green. Soon the entire landscape would be transformed into a panoply of abundance and beauty.

  Olivier peered into the distance and could vaguely make out Mont Blanc, over one hundred kilometers away. A rare sighting. He was near the cemetery now, looking down on the village that had changed very little since his childhood. For decades, the vignerons here had planted vineyards for the many co-ops, rarely making their own wines. The wine merchants, of which there were many firms, then purchased the grapes from the growers and created their own brands. It was prohibitive for individuals to purchase the extensive equipment needed to make wine, though some persevered, often with mediocre results.

  Alain, who was a co-op president, elected by all the co-opérateurs for a couple of years running, was opposed to the changes that were manifesting as more and more young producers were moving in, wanting to follow in the footsteps of their neighbors up north, who were producing sustainable wines. According to Olivier’s parents, Alain was up against the young director of the co-op, who wanted to disallow the big machinery used for cultivating the fields and return to the old-fashioned method of horses and plows.

  Olivier waved to the young man who was standing a few rows over and staring at his approach. The man eventually put up a hand, and bent down again. Alain looked up as Olivier approached. “See the roots?” he said to Olivier, pointing to a hollow in the ground, exposing the ancient plant’s rootstock. “I’m replacing this one after half a century.” Olivier knew from the higher elevation of the vineyard and the mention of the vieilles vignes that a higher-end wine would be produced from these vines. “Amazing that something so old and gnarly can produce such a fabulous fruit, d’accord?” He studied Olivier for a moment. “Are you and your fiancée planning to have a family?”

  “Eventually. Of course.”

  Alain laughed. “If you don’t hurry, you’re going to be too old and gnarly.”

  Olivier suddenly thought he understood women who were constantly being asked if they were still ripe enough to have a baby, though the question was phrased with a bit more discretion. Alain said with a scowl, “Stop looking so insulted. I’m just joking, Olivier. Men at sixty are producing heirs. It’s just that Yvette and I started so young, then had only the one. She said she could never love another as much as she loved Roland, and so that was that.”

  “Farmers used to have big families,” Olivier said, “to share in the workload, of course, and as many more children died then, they needed replacements.”

  “I wanted more children,” Alain said. “Life can get pretty dull when the kid leaves home. Then you wait for the grandchildren, and these days it might never happen.”

  “I’m here about the girl Lucy, Alain.”

  “I figured. I guess whoever shot her will be a hero. She was running from the law.”

  “I’m trying to learn exactly what she was running from.”

  “Maybe a boar was chasing her.”

  Olivier thought he was being sarcastic, but realized he wasn’t. “The boars exited at the opposite end of the field. As I recall, you went into the woods.”

  “I shouldn’t have had anything to drink. I was a little sick to my stomach. Do they know what caliber bullet hit her?”

  “Not yet.”

  “At least six of us were shooting .30 caliber bullets. Even your lever-action rifle had .30 ammunition. Did you shoot, by the way?”

  “No.”

  “I saw your guest, the tall, skinny American named Hank, raise his rifle. Or at least Jean-Claude saw him.” Olivier wasn’t surprised to learn that the men had been talking among themselves. “A few of us were practice-shooting earlier in the morning. Jean-Claude has a target-shooting area. It’s going to be difficult to tell who shot when and where.”

  “Did you see anything in the forest?”

  “No.”

  The young man Olivier assumed to be Roland was a row away; as he got closer Olivier could see from the earbuds he wore, that his beatific expression was probably due to the music he was listening to. Alain yelled over at him and the boy looked startled, then bent down to dig into the ground.

  “He can’t live without his music,” Alain said. “I don’t know what’s happening to kids these days.”

  “I’d like to talk to him,” Olivier said.

  “Oh, that’s not Roland. It’s his cousin who helps me sometimes. My wife’s sister’s son. They’re all good boys.”

  “The sister who operated on Lucy?”

  Alain was caught off-guard. “Oui.”

  “I need to know if Roland was with Lucy the night before she was shot. There’s no proof, but I hope he will tell me if he was.”

  Alain’s voice grew suddenly harsh. “Leave him be. He has a scooter and goes off and comes back, but we don’t keep up with his every move. His mother forbade him from seeing Lucy, I know that.”

  “I assume you would rather have me ask Roland a few questions than have the police at your door, correct?”

  “So you’re here in an official capacity. I should have guessed. I’d rather have the local police come, to tell you the truth. I don’t like having a friend spying on me.”

  “I’m trying to help. I don’t have a son, but if I did, and if he were in trouble, I would be grateful to an old friend who tried to help. Au revoir, Alain.”

  Olivier felt he had no choice but to leave. Making his way down the hill, he was frustrated that he had learned nothing, not even Roland’s whereabouts. If Roland showed up now, the family had been warned, and they could create a story. All the guns had been turned over to the police, who were, he was certain, not on the victim’s side, especially now that Lucy was named a suspect in a murder case. He slowly made his way back to his car, waving to Yvette, whose face he saw in the kitchen window. She didn’t wave back. He couldn’t believe that he was perceived as the enemy in the village he loved above all others.

  In that moment he made a decision. It was just that sentiment, he suddenly realized, that had made him hold back from requesting a full-on investigation. He hadn’t wanted to see the darkness that had started to cloud his childhood memories. He would see the local prosecutor immediately and ask to be put in charge of Lucy’s shooting, and if his team could prove the link of this case to Yves Laroche’s murder, then he would ask to be in charge there, too. Driving back to Max and the family, he recalled the bet he had with Max, and smiled. At least he thought about his and Max’s bet, now stripped of its playfulness. Who cared about choosing an apartment in Paris when a girl’s life hung in the balance?

  Chapter Thirteen

  The day was fleeing too rapidly, and Max was tired. The hunt. The
shooting. Getting Lucy to the hospital. And now Hank wanted to return to what he was now referring to as the crime scene, a term Olivier refused to utter. It was already two o’clock, and overcast. Rain was predicted. Juliette was along because she had brought a picnic hamper and neither detective had the heart to let her down. They suggested she come with them out to the field, and they could picnic there. It had only taken her three seconds to know what they were up to, but in the end she agreed. Max suddenly saw with a new clarity how difficult Juliette’s role had been, spending her life with a man who had always put his cases above everything else. Then Max had joined him at the NYPD, and learned to do the same thing.

  Hank and Max stopped in at Jean-Claude’s to tell him that they were going to take a walk and maybe have a picnic. He asked after Lucy, and then offered them a rifle in case they ran into a boar. “What are you looking for?” he asked.

  Max decided to be honest with him. “My father and I are detectives, and we hate conjecture. We need to know why Lucy Kendrick was shot. This is unofficial, of course, but we won’t stop until we have some answers.”

  Jean-Claude said, “Accidents happen. She was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  “Anne mentioned a cabin that her daughter used as a retreat. Can you take us there?”

  He hesitated. “I guess so. But I have to take my son to an appointment now. You think Lucy was hiding out there?”

  “Who else knew of the cabin?”

  “It’s never been a secret. Yvette accompanied me there once, when I wanted to get a few things belonging to my wife. You met Tim. The Brit. He takes guests mountain biking, and I caught him there once with a woman and ran him off. Anne took Lucy there, I’m sure. I saw she raced to the hospital to care for her. Lucy has become a replacement for Caroline.”

  “Even your son brightens up at the mention of Lucy’s name.”

  “My son is like my mother-in-law. He’s desperate for a mother and she for a daughter.”

  And what about you? Max wanted to ask but didn’t.

  Juliette joined them, and Jean-Claude told Max he had to leave, quickly sketching a map of the path to the cabin. “Lucy’s Vespa is in my garage,” Jean-Claude said, “in safekeeping.”

  “Was anything in it?” Max asked.

  Again, there was that slight hesitation that indicated someone was probably lying. “No.”

  They started toward the field where Lucy was shot. “Let’s do this methodically,” Hank said to Max. “We’ll walk through the woods while we still have a little light.”

  Juliette, spotting a stand ahead, said, “I’ll go there and be the lookout.” Max thought she was making fun of them, but she was perfectly serious. Juliette went up the three steps and pulled out a small set of binoculars, and put them around her neck. “I brought these to watch the birds,” she said. “But it will work for humans, too. I have a snack if you need it,” she said to her family, “but don’t tell Maman. At least don’t use the term snack.”

  Max smiled, knowing that it was a social crime in France to snack before mealtime.

  “Thanks, Ma.”

  Max and Hank made long strides toward the tree line. “Lucy emerged from the woods at a run here,” Hank said, pointing, “so let’s go in that way and see if we see any tracks.”

  They moved rapidly. Max watched her father, impressed. “I used to do this tracking stuff in the Army,” he said. They were moving too swiftly for her to answer. “We know the bullet went clean through her arm. She was in a running position when she was hit, her right arm up. The bullet had to come from our end of the line, maybe six men in. If you move to the center, where Olivier was, then it’s the wrong angle. I had my gun raised to shoot, and if you hadn’t yelled I might have. Just saying I understand if somebody shot her by accident. The reason I’m questioning that theory is that not one of them said he could have done it. Their reticence makes me suspicious.”

  He stopped. “Look, Max, a bullet hole.”

  Max studied the indentation in the tree trunk. “But they shoot in this field all the time. It could be old.”

  “Maybe. But it could also be new.” He looked around, found a small branch and stuck it in the hole. “A hundred to one it’s a .30 caliber bullet that hit this tree.” He bent down and raked his hand through the weeds. “It’s my lucky day. Here’s a .30 caliber bullet, waiting for me to see it. Now we need to learn about the entry and exit of the bullet, and the distance.”

  “Meaning, if she was shot from two hundred yards away or closer.”

  “Yep. Most of our gunshot wounds are up close and personal. We have to reason that she could have been shot from behind, meaning from the woods. The shooter had to be close, I would guess fifteen yards, for the damage it did.”

  “The surgeon was so abrupt I couldn’t get much information. You’re sure the bullet passed through her arm?”

  “If it was still in her, the doc would have said so.”

  He dropped onto one knee. “Looky here,” he said. “These are fresh. Someone with big feet running. Little feet in front. Looks like he tripped here. Little feet kept going. Little feet stopped in her tracks. Fell. Then the backtrack. Big feet turned and ran back. Let’s go.”

  Max walked rapidly behind him for a kilometer and then they were in a yard in front of a small cabin, a charming dwelling that made Max think that country living for a young girl could be magical. Hank went to the door and found it unlocked. They entered and looked around. Two single beds, a quilt pulled up on the bed on the right in a careless fashion, the other one undisturbed. “Someone was here, alright,” Hank said. “My guess is that Lucy was either here alone and someone frightened her, causing her to run, or she was trying to get away from a person she was with.”

  They stood in stillness. Hank visibly relaxed. “We have to get back to your Ma, but we can take a one-minute breather.” He looked at her. “You okay?”

  “Sure. Why not?”

  “Why not? You’re about to change your life in a major way. A new country, clear across the ocean from your mother and me. Switch jobs. All this with a couple of crimes to solve as well.” He leaned against a small, white table. “I won’t go all sentimental on you, but being in this little house built for Anne’s daughter, and realizing that the little girl who played here is dead, kind of chokes me up.”

  Max understood. He was losing her. Anne had permanently lost her daughter. And they had an orphan they were trying to protect.

  “Do you look at this and wish you had grown up in a place like this?” he asked. “You could have. Maybe if you and Frédéric had grown up here, he’d still be alive. But I was adamant that it was New York City and the NYPD, no matter what. I couldn’t picture myself anywhere else. But you have roots here. You’ll be bringing up your kids here. It amazes me.”

  Max crossed the tiny, enchanting room and put her arms around her father. “I am glad I grew up where I did. With you and Maman and my little brother. They were all the roots I needed.”

  “Let’s go disobey the French rules and have a snack,” he said, suddenly grinning.

  Max laughed.

  He followed the same path, stopping when he saw fresh tracks. “These are new, and they lead to the field where your Ma is. Let’s go.”

  Arriving at the edge of the woods, they noticed two figures on the hunting stand. Juliette was talking to a large, stocky young man. “This is Roland,” Juliette said. “He hasn’t eaten since yesterday. I explained who we are and gave him some cheese and bread and saucisson.”

  “Bonjour,” Roland said. His rifle was propped against the railing. “My cell phone didn’t work and I was scared to come out of the woods.”

  It took Max and Hank a second for the shock of seeing him to dissipate. “You were with Lucy,” Max said. It was more of a statement than a question.

  “Is she dead?” he asked, but he seemed more intereste
d in what was going into his mouth.

  “She’s in a coma, but she will live. Your tracks were behind her, then she was shot and you took off running back to the cabin.”

  “That’s how it happened.”

  The air had grown chilly. Hank said, “Let’s go up to Anne’s. We can talk there.”

  “Am I a suspect?” Roland asked, still leaning against the railing as though he didn’t have a care in his head.

  Max glanced over and saw Hank’s intolerance building, though he hadn’t understood what Roland was saying. “We can have you arrested, if you prefer,” Max said. “Or you can answer a few questions for us.”

  He led the way up to the house, a broad-shouldered farm boy with big feet and a big head with hair dipping into his eyes.

  “Your parents have been worried,” Max said.

  “They’d be relieved if I disappeared for good.”

  “All teens say that.”

  “I did disappear. Last year. And they sent the P.I. from Lyon to find me. Stupid.” He had not raised his voice, and remained unperturbed.

  “Where did you go?”

  “I was hiding out in the suburbs of Paris with some friends. Yves Laroche found me, and my dad came and got me.”

  They were approaching the house and Max could see Anne shielding her eyes, curious who was coming up her road.

  “Which means they do care.” She turned to Hank. “I will go back for Maman.”

  Anne came rushing toward them. “You must be chilled,” she said. “Come inside and I’ll make a warm drink.” She stopped and looked at Roland. “You are Alain’s and Yvette’s son, right?”

  He nodded, but didn’t reach out to shake her hand. Max thought of young Luc who, at age eight, had demonstrated excellent manners. They insisted to Anne that they remain in the kitchen. She began preparations for vin chaud, a red wine heated with spices.