Champagne: The Farewell

by Janet Hubbard

  “I use it when chasing criminals.” He looked perplexed, and she didn’t explain. They were distracted by Geneviève, who was coming down the aisle in an upswept hat that had a huge bow on the front. Max was sure she had had a facelift. She wore a creation of off-white that was cut to enhance her reed-thin figure. Her dark rimmed eyes, sleek hair pulled back off her face, and the elaborate hat made her look like an exotic bird.

  Marc had walked out into the chancel, wearing the traditional gray tailcoat over a vest and light-striped trousers. She thought her mother would deem the top hat and gloves a bit much. She also recalled Chloé’s exasperation about a shoe mix-up and assumed that it had been resolved. Chloé, she had learned, had been clear with her parents that if they tried to prevent her from marrying Marc she would elope with him. There had been so much confusion that Max had forgotten to ask if Marc’s mother had revealed the identity of his father. How odd that she would only agree to tell him the eve of his wedding. Max wondered what would prevent her from making up a name?

  The organist began playing “Solemn Procession” from Denes Agay, and heads swiveled to observe the bride slowly walk down the long aisle with her father. Chloé looked straight ahead, smiling at the man who was waiting for her. The ceremony was lovely, and after the couple had signed the church register Chloé turned to her new husband for a kiss. Max glanced to her left and saw Olivier’s ex-wife staring at her, obviously curious. Felix Mendelssohn’s “Nuptial March” played loudly, and the couple rushed up the aisle and waited on the stairs to greet their guests who poured out behind them. After the requisite photography session in front of the church, they ran down the stairs where they were pelted with rice and rose petals. They climbed into a Peugeot 210, circa 1932, for the short trip to the Marceau home.

  “Come ride with me,” Olivier said, and Max agreed. Just then his parents walked up and Olivier introduced them. The day had a surreal quality to it, far removed from Max’s life in New York that had her dealing on a daily basis with the seediest people imaginable.

  “I’m your translator today,” Olivier said.

  All the more reason to continue the language subterfuge, Max thought. “Thanks. I have a feeling that Ted will be spending all of his time by Léa’s side. I thought she looked jealous of Geneviève last night, though I can’t imagine why a successful and beautiful woman would care about her.” Just when it hovered on the tip of her tongue to reveal that Ted had had a fling with Geneviève, Max decided not to say anything. She didn’t want Olivier to think her gossipy.

  “Madame Durand is rumored to be the mistress of a top politician. I have no idea who that might be,” Olivier said.

  They had arrived at the Marceau estate where the elegant reception was already in progress. Olivier pointed down below the terrace where the guests, the women in their splendid hats and men in dark suits, mingled. “Voilà! It’s time to celebrate.”

  The waiters seemed to have walked out of a Champagne poster in their classic casquettes, or caps, and aprons. They moved with grace through the crowd, dipping their trays for guests to take a glass of champagne. Women in crisp black and white uniforms carried trays of appetizers. The weather on this late Saturday afternoon was perfect, calm and sunny but not too warm. Olivier took Max’s elbow and led her down the path. Ted, holding Léa’s hand, waved and she waved back. Max whispered that she was surprised to see Hans Keller moving among the guests. “Herr Keller is doing exactly as he said he would to his caller yesterday, which is to attend the wedding if he had to in order to seal the deal,” Olivier said.

  “What did you say to him that made his face turn blood red?”

  “That I wasn’t going to repeat his words to Madame de Saint-Pern, but that they were recorded in my brain in case there were any threats or coercion.”

  “I think you’d like my dad.”

  Olivier’s parents joined them and in a few moments each of them held a tall, slender flute of champagne. Max removed her jacket and placed it on a chair. “What is the painting on your arm?” Olivier’s father asked curiously.

  “It’s a tattoo. A drawing of a woman in a martial arts pose. I take jiu-jitsu lessons.”

  “And the words, ‘kick ass’?” He read it slowly.

  “Hmm. I’ll think of the right word in French and get back to you,” she said, moving quickly ahead and entering the tent.

  ***

  White freesias and roses encircled with green foliage stood in the center of each table. Max noticed that the women who had entered the tent had removed their hats and she excused herself to go to her room to freshen up. Her hair stuck up like an artichoke, but she finally managed to tame it by dabbing water on it. She could barely admit to herself that the prospect of the evening ahead with Olivier made her feel more vibrant than she had in years. She heard music in the distance and realized that she would be expected to dance. She went to her window and peered out, admiring once again the slopes of the vineyards that rose to the tree line. She hadn’t danced since her brother died. She hadn’t made a conscious decision to stop, but the inclination hadn’t been there. She thought that deep down she had simply stopped all activities that made her joyful. She scribbled in her journal, “Dance. Talk to future therapist.”

  As she arrived at the stairs, she heard voices below and hesitated. “I don’t want this German fellow outbidding me,” a man with a cultured voice said.

  “I knew nothing about Hans Keller making a bid. Léa went behind my back.” Max tried to lean over to see who had responded, but only had a view of the top of his head, which was covered with a few strands of hair.

  “I’m paying you a lot to keep me in the know,” the first man said.

  Max heard a loud sigh. “There’s another problem. Marc is starting to side with Hans Keller.”

  “Ambitious, huh? “ There was a pause. “Who is he anyhow, this Marc Durand, other than the husband of Chloé Marceau? Who is his family?”

  “No one seems to know. Or care. He wants my place in the company.”

  “Get me the formula for the L’Etoile and find out tonight what Keller is offering. It’s imperative that I know before morning so that I can top it. You will get that vacation house.”

  “D’accord.” Max sensed a hint of defeat in the answer. When she shifted her weight from one foot to the next in order to lean down again and look over the bannister, the wooden step creaked. For a second all was silence, then she heard a door open and close. She casually walked down. At the bottom of the stairs she found herself face to face with the tall, slender man she had noticed at the wedding who had striking blue eyes and gray hair. He had stayed behind to slay the dragon. “Bonsoir,” he said. “Je m’appelle Baptiste Dupuis.”

  “Enchantée.” Then, switching to English, “I’m a friend of Chloé Marceau’s. Max Maguire.”

  “My wife was admiring your hat. Where do you come from?” he asked in heavily accented English.

  “New York.” He’s worried that I understood his conversation in French, Max thought. Let’s see how he gets the information he needs.

  “I came in to find a washroom,” he said. “My wife is waiting for me.”

  “I’m staying here at the house. It was time to get rid of that flower garden on top of my head.” They began walking together back toward the reception.

  “How do you manage with the language barrier? Or perhaps you speak French?”

  They were almost at the tent. I was right, she thought. He suspects I overheard his conversation, and he’s worried. “I’m hopeless with French,” she said. His relief was palpable.

  When they entered the tent, Marie-Christine, looking regal in blue, walked over, and shook hands with Dupuis, who was joined by his wife, Jacqueline. Wispy thin and chemically blond, Max estimated her to be a decade younger than her husband. She gave Max an appraising look to ascertain how snobby she wanted to be wit
h her. “Vous êtes une grande femme,” she said, looking up with not a trace of admiration. “Et très forte, aussi, je vois.” She hesitated, “Oh, pardon, I speak in English now. You are very big, and appear to be quite strong.”

  Max hated being called big because she was tall and had muscles. “And you are très, très petite, in English very small, like a ladybug,” she said, smiling.

  Max maneuvered her way to the center table where Jacques and Olivier sat in conversation. The first course had arrived, a gazpacho et sa glace à la moutarde de Meaux, which Olivier described as mustard ice cream in gazpacho. Max was introduced to Bernard and Caroline Martin. When Bernard spoke, Max recognized his voice as the one she had heard speaking to Baptiste Dupuis at the foot of the stairs. Later she would stand and see if his balding pate was a match, just to make sure. Caroline’s suit was too pink and her hair too red. Yeasty white breasts protruded from the tight bustline of her jacket. Her face was extremely pale. She giggled often, and loudly. Her husband told Max he was a cousin of Charles de Saint-Pern, and an officer of the de Saint-Pern Company. And a back stabber, she thought.

  When the time was right, she would definitely repeat the conversation she had heard to Léa.

  Bernard switched to French with Jacques. “Things are changing too rapidly. I might be forced out of my home if Léa caters to your new son-in-law. I realize that Léa owns it, but still, I’ve been there for twenty years.”

  “It’s Léa who wants the couple to live next to her. You may not have to worry if Léa sells. But if she says anything again about kicking you out of your house, I’ll step in. I’m adamantly opposed to Chloé living there.”

  If Léa was trying to get him out, Max thought, she might be suspicious about his dealings with Dupuis. Marie-Christine came and sat next to her husband, followed by Léa and Ted. Geneviève arrived next, looking uncharacteristically upset. Ted leaned over and asked her if she was okay, and Max overheard her say that she and Marc had had a spat, but it was nothing. She picked up her glass of champagne and took a sip. It occurred to Max that there wasn’t a Durand table; in fact, she wondered who in the room represented the groom’s side of the family.

  The second course arrived, a salade de homard bleu en vinaigrette acidulée. Blue lobster in an acid vinegar salad. Olivier explained that the lobster came from Brittany, and that when caught they were blue, but changed color after they were cooked. Olivier freely poured the red wine that was being served with the gigot d’agneau juteux and haricots verts du jardin. Geneviève barely ate anything. Olivier engaged her in polite conversation, and Max noticed how she placed her hand on his arm when she spoke. “And you,” Geneviève said to Olivier, “I read recently where the juges d’instruction are about to be eliminated from the system.”

  “There are only sixty-four of us, so it does feel as if we could become an extinct species. Sarkozy wants to return to the seventies when the ministry could block politically sensitive investigations. It always boils down to the personal.”

  “Judging from the investigations you are known for, Olivier, I agree. On a different note, I find it incongruous that an examining magistrate bar-hops around Paris with Véronique Verize. The Véronique. I’m impressed.”

  Quelle bitch, Max thought as she watched her place a hand on his arm again. Olivier cast a glance her way that indicated his helplessness.

  At midnight Chloé danced with her father, and Marc approached their table to invite his mother to dance. Max thought if she had any advice for Chloé for the future it would be to move far from Geneviève. But I’m not one to talk about getting away from parents, she reminded herself.

  Before she could offer up any resistance, Olivier swept her out to the dance floor. “What appears in a gossip column, as you surely know, is rarely the truth,” he said, referring, she knew, to the comment about Véronique. Ted grabbed her hand before she had time to respond, and they danced with abandon to “YMCA,” stopping to throw up their arms with the other dancers. The groomsmen picked Marc up high in the hair and twirled in a dervish-style dance in great circles. Strobe lights with their laser effect added to the intensity of the music, and it all felt overwhelming to Max, as though everyone was slightly out of control. Marc, she noticed, had become more disheveled with each passing hour. Chloé had told her that all the young crowd were planning to stay awake all night and that she should change into jeans later on and return for the “real” party.

  When Max went back to the table, she didn’t feel steady on her feet. She had taken her shoes off when the dancing began. She noticed that guests were starting to leave. A slow dance was playing and the DJ announced the last dance. Olivier stumbled slightly as he led her to the floor. “Tu es envoutante.”

  She laughed. “Bon. D’accord,” and too late realized she had good, I agree with you.

  He laughed and pulled her close, then leaned back, “What does this ‘kickass’ on your arm really mean. In English?”

  He was just enough taller to cause her to look up, and she felt herself drowning in his charm. Though tipsy, she felt completely in the moment.

  “It means…if you don’t kiss me I’m going to kick your ass.” She burst out laughing at his surprised expression.

  “It’s against French law to threaten a magistrate,” he said.

  “Then arrest me.” He took her by the hand and they exited the tent.

  Chapter Six

  Olivier felt as if something foreign had inhabited his mind and taken over all decision-making. Perhaps it had to do with seeing his ex-wife making out on the dance floor with her lover, combined with more alcohol than he was accustomed to.

  “Où?” he asked. “Where?”

  “Ma chambre?”

  “Chambre,” he corrected her pronunciation. They made their way up the back stairs of the wing where Max’s room was. It occurred to Olivier that he was in his friend’s house, and at any moment Jacques or Marie-Christine could come around the corner. No matter, there was just something about this woman that he could not resist—so sexy in a simple sheath dress that revealed the tattoo of a woman warrior. He reached for her and cupped the back of her head as he brought his lips to hers. She opened the door to her room without even breaking their embrace. As soon as the door closed behind them, his hands found the back of her dress and he slowly began to pull the zipper down. The dress fell to the floor, and she stood there in matching lace bra and thong. She was as voluptuous as he had imagined. This woman is such a dichotomy, he thought, as the image of the tough detective chasing down criminals vanished. His hands travelled sensuously up her arms until they touched her face gently, and he leaned in to bring his lips to hers. Her hands blindly found the front of his shirt and began undoing the buttons when suddenly the bedroom door flew open and Ted stood there with a stricken look on his face.

  Max grabbed her silk robe. “Ted! What are you doing?” Music from the tent floated in as the party continued on the terrace below.

  “It’s Léa! She’s on the ground. She might be dead.” Olivier’s first thought was she was having a miscarriage. Until Ted stammered out, “Her face is bashed in.”

  After a stunned silence, they all moved at once. Max grabbed a flashlight from her bedside table as Ted walked alongside Olivier, babbling in French, saying that he was to meet Léa half an hour ago, that this was all his fault, and who would hit a woman for God’s sake. Olivier, assuming Ted was in shock, turned and gently asked him to stop talking. Olivier instinctively glanced to the parking area, noting an American-made SUV, which he thought belonged to Baptiste Dupuis, who had presumably left an hour ago.To his right, across the terrace and on the other end of the house, he saw lights on in the tent and heard rowdy laughter.

  Ted led the way through the grass, down toward the lower part of the yard where the afternoon reception was held, stopping a few yards from the reception tables that hadn’t been taken down. Silver ice b
uckets were lined up on the serving table, their metal glinting in the moonlight, with up-ended champagne bottles protruding from the tops.

  A few feet from a stone bench, Léa lay curled on her left side in a fetal position, her hair draped over her face. Olivier scanned her body, noticing the pistachio colored skirt pulled up slightly, one shoe on, the other off. A half-opened red rose was clutched in her left hand. He knelt to feel her pulse, while Max dropped on her knees and gently rolled Léa over onto her back. When Max gasped, Olivier followed her gaze to Léa’s face. The left side of her forehead was a reddish-black pulp. Her cheekbone was smashed and the swelling had forced her right eye closed. A cloud crossed in front of the moon and they were pitched into darkness for a few seconds.

  Max swore when her flashlight didn’t work. “Ted, go find a flashlight,” she commanded, and he ran back toward the house. The moon emerged from behind the cloud, and Olivier moved his hand up to Léa’s neck to check for a pulse. When he shook his head slightly, indicating that he had not found one, Max began CPR, pressing twice on Léa’s chest, releasing, and pressing again. Time seemed to stand still for Olivier. Max continued her desperate attempt to revive his friend. “Still no pulse,” he said, finally, fumbling in his pocket for his phone. When Max didn’t stop, he said gently, “Arrête.” His hand reached for her shoulder. “Stop, please. Elle est morte.” He reached down and closed Léa’s other eyelid. Then in English, “She’s gone.” He touched his watch and a light flashed on. Two-twenty.

  Max gingerly moved her hands to feel the back of Léa’s head. “My guess is her assailant hit her from behind and she turned to face him and he slammed her hard on the cheekbone and…he must have been in a rage to have attacked her face in that manner. Chances are he knew her. The other thing I noticed is that her pearl necklace is missing. Maybe she took it off…”

  Olivier wondered if he sounded that objective when he confronted families who had lost someone close to them and if they felt as infuriated as he did now. “You are in France,” he said sternly. “Not New York City. Or on American TV.” She took a step back. He saw the slight rise of her eyebrow and her eyes turn steely, yet he didn’t care. She had already labeled Léa’s death a murder, which it so obviously was, but he wasn’t ready to hear it. He had never experienced a loss of this magnitude, so shocking in its violence that it threatened to overcome him. And underneath he already knew he held himself responsible. He had been on the premises and should have been able to make sure this crime didn’t happen.