Rum Runner eBook_for Epub_Revised

by dannal

  Vivienne Monet parked her car in the space closest to the front door of La Maison de Verre rum distillery near Le Francois. She slammed the door again and again at least six times before the latch decided to catch and stay closed. The ’73 Citroen looked like a shuttle bound for another planet, but Vivienne would not have traded it. Not for a brand new Mercedes. Except for the failing bits of trim, she kept the vehicle in excellent running order. It had belonged to her father. The truth was, it was all she had left to show for him.

  La Maison de Verre’s distillery had gone through total restoration at least three times during its long history, with the most recent having been completed only three years ago. Vivienne took in the grand elegance of the plantation’s main villa, a massive colonial building with a second floor balcony and matching window shutters hung in stark white against the red brick of the structure. The building looked ancient, and brand new at the same time.

  The villa represented so much of the history of rum production on Martinique, having produced rhum agricole since the 1890s. To some this place was practically holy ground. Today the palatial villa lived on as a literal museum of rum…and gift shop.

  As she dropped her keys in her pocket, Vivienne caught sight of a couple of men standing beside a beat-up Ford pickup. Landscaping equipment littered the bed of the truck: Vivienne spotted the push handles of two lawn mowers, a weed eater, and the long handles of what must have been shovels or rakes, all of which stuck out of the truck as if thrown in haphazardly.

  The two men, both large and strong-looking island natives, were obviously groundskeepers at the rum plantation. One man was older, maybe late forties, while the other looked to be twenty to twenty-five; she wondered if they might actually be father and son. But the thing that startled her, and drew her attention to them in the first place, was the baseball bat the older man tossed into the truck bed, while the younger man dropped in a splitting axe whose edge showed the glinting, shiny surface of having been freshly sharpened.

  Interesting gear for grooming the garden, Vivienne thought to herself, as she mounted the steps to the villa’s front porch, and opened the door.

  The entire first floor of the nineteenth-century villa contained a tidy display of antique rum-making equipment, arranged and displayed proudly: an evolution of old cane-crushing presses, from one generation to the next, took up an entire wall; a tarnished copper pot still that must have boiled only eighty gallons of juice at a time stood next to a placard explaining the rum distillation process; and a colorful timeline of rum bottles, revealing how they had changed through the ages, occupied shelf after shelf, all just out of reach behind a red velvet rope.

  Vivienne walked past it all and mounted a staircase, ignoring the posted sign that read: Employés Seulement, or Employees Only. At the top of the stairs, Vivienne found some of the museum’s more opulent pieces: silver pitchers and trays for serving rum punches, likely on the villa’s grand balcony over a hundred years ago; ancient China vases overflowing with freshly cut torch lilies and red flowering heliconias; some of the finer antique rum bottles, still filled with amber fluid, having been filled many decades ago; paintings of the different generations of the Molière family hung in gold-gilded frames, eerily watching Vivienne as she walked the hallway to a red door.

  Another painting on the far wall, this one at least a meter tall and depicting a black man holding a shotgun in the crook of his arm, the weapon’s open breach venting wispy black powder smoke. Two hounds stood beside the man, one of them clutching a limp pheasant in his jaws as he looked up at his master with obvious admiration. Vivienne noticed a small brass plaque at the bottom of the frame engraved with the name Vidal Roche Molière.

  Vivienne knocked on the red door beside the painting and waited.

  “Entrer,” a deep voice shouted from within.

  Vivienne opened the door and stepped inside. The room was rather dim for a working office. Several pieces of antique colonial furniture crafted in rich mahogany decorated the wide room, extending the museum feel of the building. A huge, cluttered desk sat near a shuttered window opposite Vivienne.

  She approached the desk, which was occupied by an obese bald man who sat crouched over the desk holding a Cuban cigar between his thick, knobby fingers. The man’s button-down shirt was wrinkled and dirty; probably not the first time it had been worn since laundry day. A bottle of La Maison de Verre fifteen-year-old rum sat beside him, nearly empty, while his glass of rum and ice rested close by, filled nearly to the top. The shiny face of a new smartphone sat on the desk next to the rum bottle, the only bit of evidence that would place the unappealing man into the twenty-first century.

  “Ms. Monet,” Vidal Molière said, not bothering to look up from an open manila folder which lay on the desk in front of him. Papers and paper-clipped photographs filled the folder. “It is my pleasure to see you again. Please tell me, what progress have you made in the discreet investigation I have hired you to perform? Do you have the identity of the rum runner?”

  “Bonjour, Monsieur Molière,” Vivienne said, clutching a manila envelope of her own in her left hand. “I have completed my investigation, but I must say I did not uncover as much illicit activity as I expected to find, based on the anecdotal accounts you passed on to me—”

  “Do you have a name?” Vidal Molière interrupted. He looked up from the disheveled pile of papers, photographs, and candy wrappers that littered his desk. He glared sharply at Vivienne. “And a location?”

  Vivienne knew that Vidal Molière was only forty-three, but he might have been fifty-five, if judged by the wrinkles around his mouth and on his forehead, and the baggy circles around his eyes. He looked much better on the painting, Vivienne thought. The private investigator had learned to read people over the years, and what she saw in Vidal’s eyes seemed like something devious, something dangerous. Of course it was just a hunch she had, but she was pretty sure this guy was a total creep.

  “Look, Mr. Molière,” Vivienne said, clutching the manila folder in her hand as if protecting a holy relic. “I was hired to find out the identity of the supposed 'rum runner’ who has been rumored to distill and distribute unregulated rhum agricole to a variety of sales outlets throughout the island, as well as a good portion of the Caribbean. But first, I must say, I spotted some of your boys outside, and I can tell they are getting ready to trash somebody. I can only finish this job and provide you with this information if you give me your word you do not intend to harm the named person or persons inside this report. If you wish to give this information over to the authorities, that is acceptable to me, but I cannot be party to any kind of personal vendetta you might have.”

  “Mademoiselle Monet,” Vidal said, standing up from his chair. Funny, Vivienne thought, he didn’t get much taller. “This plantation has been in my family since 1899. My great-great-grandfather, Herbert Molière, actually worked for Homère Clément for nearly twenty years, cutting cane in the Rhum Clément fields, saving every cent he made until he had finally saved up enough of his own money to purchase the land you are standing on right now. And then, my great-great grandfather built the original distillery with his own hands.

  “Perhaps history would recognize Monsieur Clément as the father of rhum agricole, Ms. Monet, but it was Herbert Molière who perfected rhum agricole, and ensured that La Maison de Verre rum would become a lasting legacy, and continue to be enjoyed today, nearly a century after his death.”

  Nice speech, Vivienne thought. And what has Vidal ever done to contribute to his grandfather’s legacy? Drinking his rum? Spending his money?

  “I can appreciate that, Monsieur—” Vivienne attempted to interject, but was cut off again.

  “Those of us who run legitimate rhum agricole operations have worked hard to ensure our compliance with the French government to secure our designations so that we can call our products Appellation d'Origine Contrôlée rhum agricole Martinique. This interloper has moved onto Martinique with no regard for the heritage of the ve
ry product he produces. His disdain for the rules—which those of us with legitimate products are required to follow—would very likely cause my grandfather to rise up out of his tomb, and go after this charlatan himself.”

  “The rum runner is not representing his product as AOC rhum agricole Martinique,” Vivienne said, surprised she was so quick to defend Max’s honor. But this guy was a troll. “His intention is not to infringe on the legacy of rhum agricole, but rather is only trying to create something unique and extremely limited, something for a boutique market.”

  “Our V.S.O.P. rums and our Master Distiller’s Choice line of rums are also intended to appeal to a select, boutique market of rum buyers. This criminal is in direct competition with our most unique offerings, as well as those from other legitimate producers. I have a very real problem with that, Ms. Monet.”

  Vivienne was about finished with Vidal Molière. “Promise me that you will not send anyone after the rum runner, and I will finish the job,” she said, holding the manila folder between her hands. She half expected she might rip it in half rather than hand it over to this rodent.

  “You have my word, Ms. Monet,” Vidal said, holding out his hand.

  “His name is Maxwell Craig,” Vivienne said, passing the folder to the wrinkled, pot-bellied heir to the La Maison de Verre rum empire. “He is an American expatriate, and his property is on one of the Le Robert ilets. All of the details are inside.”

  Vidal Molière opened the folder and flipped through its contents. “There are exterior pictures of the island, and a few of Maxwell and this other fellow…Josue Remy. But there are no pictures of the distillery, his aging barrels, his still, etc.”

  “I’m sorry, Monsieur, but I lost a fair amount of my collected data,” Vivienne said, knowing that she would not replace the photos Max had deleted, not if Vidal paid her ten times as much. She was glad Max had deleted them.

  “As such, I will be unable to pay you the remainder of your fee,” Vidal said, tucking the folder under his sweaty arm. “The retainer you’ve already received should suffice as payment. As a small consolation, you may go down to my aging cellar and choose one bottle of La Maison de Verre rhum agricole; my cellar master will assist you in choosing any item you wish.”

  Vivienne turned and headed for the door without another word. As incensed as she was, she thought she might hurt Vidal Molière if she were to remain in his presence for another moment.

  From the ground floor, Vivienne descended a steep spiral of stone steps, arriving into a darkened cellar that suggested a medieval dungeon. It also reminded her of the time she had visited Florida as a child and had ridden on the Pirates of the Caribbean boat ride. She stood surrounded on either side by walls of stone, fronted by stacked-up, carefully stamped barrels full of aging rhum agricole. She half expected she was walking into some sort of ambush. But Vidal had no beef against her, only Max and Josue.

  Vivienne met the cellar master, who was waiting for her by a barrel, which stood on end with a large, very old ledger that sat open on top. He was a distinguished-looking elderly man with a neatly-trimmed white beard and spectacles. He wore a crisp white shirt and a neat red bowtie, and he had a kind smile for Vivienne when she approached.

  “He said you could take anything?” the cellar master asked, a skeptical look on his face.

  “Anything,” Vivienne repeated. “You could go and ask him if you do not believe me.”

  “No, no, that’s quite all right,” the man said, and Vivienne bet the old man wanted to go into Vidal Molière’s office about as much as she did. The cheap slimeball probably couldn’t stand to part with any more of his precious cash, while his family’s rum was so plentiful that it likely held very little value to him; even giving away his rarest merchandise was of little consequence to him. She would be certain to grab the most valuable bottle she could.

  “Go ahead, Mademoiselle. Look around. Some of the older rums are further back. If it were my choice, I suppose a 1944 Réserve de l’Héritage de la Famille would be the one. Only about five or six left, I suppose.”

  “Wrap it up,” Vivienne said. It wasn’t Euros, but it was a valuable bottle; she would be able to trade it to somebody for something at some point.

  The cellar master packed the bottle carefully in a small, hand-crafted wooden crate, tucking bits of straw around the bottle for protection. He then placed a flat wooden board on top and gently tapped brass nails into the face with a small hammer. The kindly old man handwrote an adhesive label, identifying the crate’s contents, and then made a note in the ancient-looking ledger, likely removing the antique rum bottle from the cellar’s inventory. He melted a stick of wax over the crate with a candle, dripping it to overlap the gap between crate and lid, and then he removed a pewter seal from his pocket, pressing it into the molten wax. He then handed the crate to Vivienne.

  “It’s all yours, Mademoiselle,” the cellar master said. “Save it for a special occasion.”

  “Merci,” she said. She went upstairs, and waded through the villa’s first floor museum, stepping out onto the front porch outside. The sun assaulted her eyes. She had just gotten used to the dim light of the rum cellar.

  Vivienne put on her COACH sunglasses and took a look around. The first thing she noticed was her Citroen, sitting where she had parked it. The second thing she noticed was that the white Ford truck with the baseball bat, axe, and the two rough-looking landscapers was nowhere in sight.

  “Zut,” she said.

  Isobel sat in the sun at Maisie’s, her blonde hair covered by a large straw hat, and her eyes, as well as half of her face, were covered by her oversized sunglasses. A contented expression spread across her face, and she took a tight-lipped sip of her planter’s punch. It had not taken long for her to catch on to the quality drinks the island had to offer.

  “Hey, Isobel,” Max said, grabbing the chair opposite the Scottish tourist, and making himself comfortable. He gestured toward Angelique by making a shaka symbol with his hand and tipping it back toward his mouth like a tipped drink. She nodded.

  “There you are, Maxwell Craig,” Isobel said, her face lighting up in a dazzling smile. “I was beginning to write you off as a lost cause.”

  “Are you sure you’re going to be okay here?” Max asked, holding up his arm to block the sun from his eyes in a mock gesture, even though he wore tortoise shell wayfarers. “I don’t want to see you get sunburned any more than you are.”

  Isobel reached arm’s length into the bottom of her handbag and held up a white tube with a blue cap. “SPF 100,” she said with a slight smirk. And then, as if to prove she could handle the sun, Isobel removed her big sunglasses and set them down on the weathered table in front of her.

  Max stared directly into Isobel’s face, and he couldn’t get over how stunning she looked: her lips were glossy and pink, her blonde hair had been carefully curled and brushed out, and her dark eye liner and shadow gave her a beautiful, mysterious look. It all made what he was about to say incredibly difficult.

  “I’ve got to be straight with you, Isobel,” he said, looking into her bright, quizzical eyes. “I think it’s best if I don’t see you anymore.”

  “Oh, jeez,” Isobel said, sounding surprised and embarrassed. She picked up her sunglasses and stuck them back on her face. “You’re married, aren’t you?”

  “No,” Max said, clenching his jaw. His mouth felt dry. “Not anymore.”

  Angelique set Max’s Ti’ Punch down on the table and he drained it. “Another, please,” he said, and the young waitress took away his glass as quickly as she had set it down.

  Tears began to stream down Isobel’s cheeks.

  Max felt bad. She had been so happy just seconds earlier. And now she looked stone-faced, and her lips curled into a frown. He might have ruined her whole vacation.

  Isobel sniffed and wiped her cheeks. “Did you get divorced, or did something else happen? I mean, I got to be honest, Max. The way you said that sounded a little bit…ominous.”

/>   Max took a deep breath. He folded his fingers together under the table and gritted his front teeth together before speaking. “About six years ago I was on vacation with my wife, Lovelle, and my kids. I had a girl named Lucy, sweet, redheaded, little thing, she was four. And I had a son, named Lionel, with almost pure white blond hair and freckles, he was two.”

  “Had?” Isobel said, her voice sounding rough and raspy, and the tears trickled down again.

  “It happened in Islamorada, in the Florida Keys. At the time I had been an accountant working for a large TV ministry in Orlando. The head of the ministry is a guy named T.L. Wilkinson—Terry—great man. Terry was exactly the same man on camera as he was when they were switched off, just very genuine. Very humble. Kind of a mentor to me.”

  Max paused and took a sip from the fresh drink Angelique had just brought him. “You can imagine, me working as an accountant, crunching numbers every day, and chasing after two small kids. Well, I guess I got to a place where I was really stressed out. I needed to blow off some steam. I had always wanted to go fishing in the Keys, and when my wife said I should make the trip down, I said ‘No, we should all go’.”

  Isobel looked ghostly white. It pained Max to have to share all of this with her, but she had to know.

  “I’d chased a school of bonefish into a channel that led me deep into some mangroves, hard to see past them, it was like a twisted maze. At first, I worried I’d get the fishing boat we rented into a tight spot where I couldn’t turn around. Last thing I wanted to do was to damage it or get it stuck and lose my deposit. But then we came upon two other boats.

  “One boat had three guys in it. I remember it, ’cause it’s burned into my brain like a Polaroid. There’s a tall well-built guy with peroxide blonde hair, I suppose he was only about twenty-five. The second guy looked short and dumpy, but he easily handed over a heavy bundle to an older couple on the other boat.