He explained about the culture of the magistrats, pointing out that the French magistrate was employed by the state and was put in charge of the most difficult criminal investigations, while the procureurs were directly under the power of the Ministry of the Interior and were sometimes compromised in their decisions because the Minister was the one who recommended promotions.
“Which sets up competition, right?
“It can.” Max was child-like in her enjoyment when entering the Valley of the Marne. He had always secretly thought it like entering a magical kingdom. The light from the chalk fields highlighted the emerald fields that stretched as far as the eye could see.
“It’s the chalky soil that gives our area a hazy appearance,” Olivier explained.He pointed out the giant statue of Pope Urban II who had his hand up in a blessing or a greeting, and Max said she’d like to go up in it another day. They drove past the champagne companies lining the Avenue de Champagne in the capital.“The Marceau Company is down that way,” Olivier said. “They give wonderful tours of the caves far below. It’s a custom for family members to start out giving tours in their teens. I hope you get to go.”
***
“Mademoiselle is a detective with the NYPD and is writing an article for a small paper about our investigative system,” Olivier said to the chief prosecutor. He was surprised to find himself lying about her role, and realized that he wasn’t comfortable thinking of her as part of the team. “I thought of you immediately, with all your expertise on the subject.” A quick glance at Max told him that she knew why he was dissembling. Reynard looked pleased from the flattery, and offered them seats in his office.”
“It’s a pleasure, detective,” he said. “I know that your police are not encumbered by judges overseeing an investigation, so this should be quite different.” He seemed happy trying out his English, and soon the two were engaged in a conversation about the French judicial system. Olivier had noticed that almost everyone Max talked to immediately started jabbering in English, no matter how few words they knew, barely giving her a chance to speak French.
Max fed back to Reynard exactly what Olivier had just explained to her, and he was won over by her intelligence. Reynard explained to Max that he had to discuss something private with Monsieur Chaumont, and she stepped outside.
“I’m handing this case to you,” Reynard said, “but I have some concerns. Your attendance at the wedding could be perceived as a conflict of interest, though Girard assures me that you are only acquainted with Jacques Marceau. As he is a leading figure in the area, it would be difficult to find someone who hadn’t made his acquaintance. I spoke at length with Captain Canon, and later with Commissaire Girard about the American Ted Clay, and suggest you focus on him. I think it odd that he went to Detective Maguire’s room to report the crime, don’t you?”
“I believe they’re old friends.”
“Still. They could be in collusion and then you’ll have a real mess on your hands.”
“I’m aware of that.”
“I’m not completely convinced that there is no conflict of interest, but Minister Douvier has approved. In my mind this is a case for the égendarmerie, and I’m worried that Captain Canon doesn’t hold you in high regard.”
“Nor do I respect someone who makes lewd remarks about a dead woman’s body. Which I plan to put in a report if I need to.”
Already a stand-off, Olivier thought.
“The press is all over this, and I will handle that for now. I want it stressed that there are to be no leaks.”
Olivier had high regard for many of his colleagues, but he hated being grouped with the likes of Reynard, one of those people who would stop at nothing to get ahead. Reynard had managed to ace the competitive examination they all had to take to enter the École nationale de la magistrature (ENM), where a law graduate is transformed into a magistrat. What bothered Olivier most about the man, he realized, was that the education process made people like Reynard the new nobility, replacing the nobility of blood of the ancien régime, of which he himself was a member.
Reynard had worked hard, Olivier knew, first as a substitut du procureur in a small court, and moving up to procureur in the Champagne commune. But what Olivier also knew was that Reynard’s climb up involved all kinds of chicanery and subterfuge, and thus Olivier didn’t trust him. For his part he was ready to thwart the unscrupulous climber without a backward glance when the time came, although he would have to be exceedingly careful in doing so.
Olivier knew that Reynard envied him his heritage and was a little in fear of the reputation he had acquired over the years for boldly calling out public figures for their crimes. Olivier had held to an ethical code that had cost him in some ways, but it had also increased the respect people like Girard had for him. He was glad when it was time to leave. Max was standing in front of a retail champagne shop, and waved. She dashed over.
“You don’t like him, do you?”
“I don’t trust him. He’s too ambitious.” They were in the car, and heading back to Sourières. “The case is mine, though, and that’s what counts.”
“I’m glad to know why I’m here. The article I’m writing?”
“Oh, that.”
Max’s presence felt distracting all of a sudden. She was a keen observer and had gotten people to confide in her, but he could do that, too. He could actually force them if he wanted to.
“Actually, why are you here?”
She shot him a surprised look. “Because I’m a damn good investigator. And I’m taking this murder personally, which might make me even better.”
“How old are you?”
“Twenty-nine.”
“And you started late. How much experience does that entail?”
Her eyes became slits again, as her eyebrows shot up, and she folded her arms across her chest. “I’ll have my resumé faxed over.”
“Abdel took care of that.”
She went quiet, which surprised him, and made him uncomfortable. After ten kilometers, she spoke. “I think I should work solo from now on, Olivier. And no one will even know that I’m snooping. I don’t need to be competitive. I’ll send you a report of any findings as often as you want, but I’m not returning to the states until this case is solved.”
That wasn’t what he wanted. Or was it?
“I’m not used to team work, Max. Abdel is the first time I’ve worked with someone steadily, and it took a long time for us to understand each other. I will give it a try with you.” The words had come out in a begrudging tone, he knew.
“I can tell that isn’t your first choice. I’ll stay solo.”
While the atmosphere in the car wasn’t tense, Olivier felt on edge. She had grown quiet again. But when she spoke next, he wished she hadn’t opened her mouth.
“Oh, I forgot to tell you what Jacques told me this morning. The man who was Geneviève Durand’s, shall we say, ‘benefactor’ for nine years, is the Minister of Justice, Philippe Douvier.”
The news came as a thunderbolt out of the sky. The man who was head of all the magistrates in France had as his mistress a potential suspect in his case? A sense of fear, doom, Olivier didn’t know what to call it, fell over him.
Chapter Thirteen
“And he’s my uncle,” Max wanted to say, but stopped herself. That information could jeopardize her uneasy status among these magistrates, police, and soldiers, and besides, she didn’t even know her uncle. She thought Olivier had been shocked at her announcement about Douvier, but he hadn’t said a word. He had become impossible to read, like many other introverts she knew. She also thought it was a little more challenging for him to separate the tender moments they had shared from the work at hand. She was a pro at it because of the time spent with Joe. No matter, she was in a precarious position, where she could end up a scapegoat like Ted. She wasn’t playing game
s when she told Olivier she’d prefer to work solo. He needed space, and so did she.
As if he had read her mind, Olivier said, “I hope you don’t mind that I’m not talking.”
“I’m grateful.”
She leaned her head against the headrest and closed her eyes. She had been on hyper-alert for most of the day, trying to be acutely aware of everything that was going on, the way her father had taught her, while at the same time making sure that she remained in the background.
Her thoughts drifted back to Geneviève’s apartment and to the woman who in one sense had to be admired for her survival tendencies. Had she been banished from her family the way Max’s mother had been for being with the wrong man, or for having a child out of wedlock? Perhaps she was from an old, noble Champagne family and had lived autonomously all these years. On the other hand, she didn’t hide a strong, vindictive streak.
Max decided she would ask Jacques if she could read the background report on Geneviève. They were getting close to home, and Max yawned. Olivier turned the music down. “I’ll drop you at chez Marceau, and as I will be interrogating tomorrow morning early, you can have Jacques bring you to the office in Epernay. Or Commissaire Girard will be passing by and can pick you up.”
She was duly annoyed by the reference to Girard, but didn’t want him to know it. “I’ll figure it out, thanks.”
It had started to rain, and she stared out the window and thought about the condensation on the outside of the chilled ice bucket that she had touched. The line-up of champagne buckets popped into her mind. She had a fleeting image of Geneviève bringing out the champagne in a crystal ice bucket. She understood what Antoine had been referring to when an image was right there, and then became elusive before any meaning could be made of it.
Another image of the kids in the forest beyond the fence entered her thoughts. And remained. They had been been drunk. Chloé had been in a hurry to get home and had pulled her away before she could satisfy her curiosity. What were four children doing getting drunk in broad daylight?
“Olivier!”
“Quoi?” She had startled him out of his own reverie.
“There was an ice bucket among the many on the table that still had ice in it, and an unopened bottle of champagne. I took Abdel to see it, but someone had taken it away.”
“I don’t understand anything. You’re speaking too fast.”
He entered the Marceau property. The green lawn of a couple of days ago looked swampy with the soggy grass and bent-over peonies. Dark clouds hovered overhead.
“Okay, there was an ice bucket on the reception table near the crime scene that I figured someone had brought down for a rendezvous with either Léa or someone else. I have been haunted by it.”
He glanced over at her, an impatient look on his face. “And?”
“Yesterday morning, remember, Chloé and I went through the gate to the other side of the forest toward the river. There were some kids behaving strangely. I know now they were drunk.” She wanted to switch to French, but that would have become another issue after all of her denial. “I’m going down there because I have a hunch.”
She opened the door and started walking through the grass, stopping to step out of her shoes.
“Your raincoat is here. Your clothes…”
“Never mind. I think I know where the murder weapon is.”
She saw him pause, and then he was following her. Her heart was pounding, for it was her first “aha!” moment. Her father said he lived for those, the way a writer lived to have the perfect dénouement. She stopped at the gate. Locked! Jacques must have started locking it after the murder. She thought she could climb over, but what about Olivier? He was upon her, “This is ridiculous. I will go to Jacques and get the key.”
“I’m going ahead. If you tell them, then they’ll all come running, and what if you’re right and I’m completely on the wrong track and they’ll think I’m crazy?”
“You’re worried about that?”
She had climbed up the four-foot wall by sticking her toes into crevices the way she did at her gym in New York, and wrapping her hands around the top of the ornate gate and hoisting herself up. Olivier stood staring up at her.
“You’ll have to take your shoes off,” she said. “You can put your toes in where I put mine.”
He stepped out of his loafers and dropped his trench coat, and started climbing up, sliding down twice and yelling “putain!” three times before he managed to pull himself up. “I could have the police do this,” he said.
Max was crawling under the dense brush, in the ungroomed part of the estate, in the same vicinity where she and Chloé had seen the boys. Olivier yelled something, but a loud clap of thunder drowned him out. She shrieked, and he demanded to know what was wrong.
“I’m terrified of thunderstorms,” she admitted. Thunder clapped again and a streak of lightning split dark clouds above their heads. Max could barely see Olivier for the veil of rain in front of her.
He grabbed her arm. “This is dangerous. I’m going to call in the police.”
She stood up, water dripping from her hair into her eyes. “No! I know it’s here!”
“Here includes an entire forest!” he yelled. The area they were in was much larger than she had originally thought. She knelt down and moved through the tall grass, moving her hands around on the ground. The boys had been close to the wall, she recalled, and she went in that direction.
Olivier said in a fake calm voice, “Max. Explain.”
She told him the story between her startled shouts each time it thundered. “The ice bucket was there. I think whoever killed Léa took the full bottle of champagne from the bucket and clobbered her with it, put it back and ran from the scene. Between the time I went to Antoine’s and returned, the murderer had snuck back in, taken the bottle, and run through the gate, which has never been locked until now, tossing the unbroken bottle into the woods. I saw these kids who were drunk in the woods when I walked with Chloé yesterday and they ran when I showed up. What if that’s the bottle?”
“Okay,” he said, as though he were calming a person who was about to jump off a ledge. “We’re going to the house to bring in the police with searchlights. And you can return with them.”
Like hell, she thought.“You go.”
“But you’re afraid. You can’t stay here alone.” He was growing frustrated again.
She stood her ground for another moment, then started toward the gate, bedraggled and defeated, kicking the underbrush as she went. Olivier was now leading the way, both of them soaked through to the skin. Still barefoot, her toe hit something and she stumbled and almost fell.
“OW!”
Olivier turned back to her, as if to say, what now? She bent down and saw the empty champagne bottle. Affixed to it was the special label Jacques had ordered for the wedding: Pour le mariage de Chloé Marceau et Marc Durand. Le 21 Juin. They both stared and then Olivier said, “We don’t want any extra fingerprints on it.” He took off his shirt and picked up the bottle with it. “Let’s go,” he said.
Not even a “thank you” or “kiss my ass,” Max thought.
Max was undeterred. She knew what it was, and she had been right to pursue her hunch. She felt great. They were at the gate, and Olivier stood back while she climbed over first. She took the bottle, cradled in the shirt, and waited for him to pull himself up and over, which seemed to take an eternity. The rain had let up. Olivier limped slightly, and it struck her that his state of dishevelment made him look sexy. She smiled as he approached, ready to celebrate, but he simply said, “I need to find my shoes.”
“Oh, they’re over here.” She skipped over and picked them up and handed them to him. He had taken the bottle back, still wrapped in his shirt. “You do think this find is significant, don’t you?”
“I don’t spec
ulate. We’ll have it tested for fingerprints for sure.”
“I speculate about everything. First, there was the feeling of the cold ice bucket. And it locked into my subconscious. Then the kids who were drunk. That stuck. I watched Geneviève struggle with the weight of the champagne bottle when she took it out of her ice bucket, but even more than that I couldn’t get the crystal bucket out of my head. And I thought, wait, those bottles are made out of super thick glass. I’ve read that they’re indestructible. They probably don’t break easily, at least not if they’re whacked against somebody’s face. Even when people pound them against ships, a lot of them don’t break. I began to speculate, what if…what if…”
They had arrived at his car, and he opened the door and placed the bottle on the seat, along with his shoes, then turned and looked at her. “I want to get this to the forensics lab right away.”
“May I come?”
He stared at her askance. “I don’t see any reason, and you’ll catch cold if you don’t get dried off soon.”
I wonder what he’s like at Christmas, she thought. She had just found the murder weapon, she had shared most of what she knew with him, and she felt like more of an outsider than when she had started.
“I have a mother,” she said, and walked toward the house. Once in her room, she stripped and took a hot shower, then sat down and made notes in her journal. She wrote about her intense frustration at Olivier’s condescension, and then his rejection when she wanted to go with him. She wrote down everything she could remember from the hour or so spent at Geneviève’s. And she recorded the brief time spent at Claude Reynard’s. She wrote about finding the murder weapon, then placed the journal on the bedside table. The family must be gathering in the salon by now. She slipped into skinny black pants and a shirt, and, picking up the journal, scrawled in big letters: To hell with Olivier Chaumont.
Champagne: The Farewell Page 11