“Why?”
“Because you’re certain that you’re not seeking romance, which means you’re closing a door, and as I don’t want to talk about murder the entire time we’re sipping champagne, it’s a casse-tête. A deep problem. In fact, I was going to invite you to dinner at my parents’ home after we have drinks.”
“I’ll open the door a crack.”
Her lips were turned up in a mischievous grin. She knew he was teasing.
“Just to peer out? How boring, Max.”
“What to do next depends on on whether or not I like what I see.”
“That’s fair enough.”
“Dress code for drinks?”
“Another casse-tête. A very major problem. “A tout à l’heure.” He laughed as she exited his car, and she waggled her fingers mid-air.
He drove off to la boucherie near his parents’ house and ordered two Wagyu steaks, then stopped at the market for escargots and mushrooms. His parents’ house to drop the food off. The investigation had hit a wall, the first of several he was sure. In his mind that meant they weren’t being creative, and the solution to that was to stop thinking so much. Thus the reason for drinks and dinner with Max. He liked it when things felt rational.
He had time for one more interview before he called it a day. He tapped in the number for Abdel and asked him to call Marc Durand in. He drove into Epernay, which was closer, and went directly to his office, where he would glance over the initial interview Abdel had conducted with Marc. Abdel jumped up, clearly upset.
“What’s going on?”
“Commissaire Girard wants me to move to Bordeaux now. My transfer is complete.”
“But I specifically requested you on this case.”
“He said that you have a new assistant. Did you see the photograph of Detective Maguire in the paper?”
Olivier nodded. “A big indiscretion, but not her fault. Girard is wrong, Abdel.”
“What? That I have to pay for her mistake?”
“I’m fast losing patience with Girard. Don’t worry. You won’t be going to Bordeaux.”
“Monsieur Durand is on his way.”
“Good. You were here with Dupuis. What did you think while listening to him boast about his many acquisitions while wearing his customary Dior suit?”
“He wants the de Saint-Pern Company as much as Hans Keller. He knows too much not to have someone feeding him information. But who that is, I have no idea.”
“Dupuis would never lay a hand on anyone, don’t you agree?”
“No. He’d send his bodyguard.”
“Did he say why his car was in the parking lot long after everyone thought he’d left?”
“He stuck to the story about his wife’s handbag. Said her migraine pills were in it. By the way, the reports are in from the shoe prints. I have all the sizes that were anywhere around the body, and am checking them out, one by one. The bridal couple’s close friends, Delphine Lacroix and Yves Brun, mentioned that they had bought cocaine. Supplied by Antoine Marceau.”
“I know about it. Antoine surely doesn’t need money.”
“Wrong. He’s been cut off from the family trust.” Abdel went to his table to go over interviews, and Olivier glanced at the notes from the night of the murder that Abdel had given his secretary to type up. Marc Durand had asked Ted Clay to walk his mother back to the inn around one-thirty as she wasn’t feeling well and he had wanted to be with Chloé. Later, he didn’t know how much later, he had sniffed cocaine with his friend Yves. No, Yves’ girlfriend Delphine wasn’t with them. Nor was Chloé, who would have been furious. He had changed into jeans and t-shirt because his suit was uncomfortable. They went back into the tent and danced some more, and when someone mentioned they saw lights down below, he and Yves ran down to see what was going on. That was his first knowledge that anything had happened. He went to wake his mother up to inform her, but he didn’t know what time that was.
Marc entered the room, dressed in black pants and a white, tailored shirt. Though he appeared calm, he tapped a cigarette out of a pack, stopping to ask politely if he could smoke. Olivier thought cigarette smokers didn’t know how their habit gave them away, displaying their nervousness, and putting a blueish-gray veil between themselves and the outside world. Abdel went out and returned with an ashtray, which Marc balanced on his thigh. “It’s weird being here,” Marc said. “I’ve never been in any trouble, until suddenly I’m in the middle of the murder of my bride’s aunt.”
Olivier told him that he understood, then got right to the point by asking about the fight he had with his mother when she had shouted, “You are nothing and you’ll end up with nothing!”
“My mother and I argue a lot. I admit to being stubborn, which is sometimes necessary as she likes to direct my every move.”
“Did she approve of this marriage?”
“Yes. She’s very fond of Chloé.”
“And the argument?”
“Oh, that. She was probably referring to Monsieur Bernard Martin who has been fighting me every inch of the way at the de Saint-Pern Company where I’m now employed. My mother has had to struggle most of her life to make ends meet and she thinks Monsieur Martin wants me ousted. I told her that Chloé and I were talking about leaving anyhow, and he could have it. I don’t remember everything we said, but that’s the gist of it.”
His voice was even, but he didn’t make eye contact. And his story of the argument didn’t match his mother’s.
“Were you angry at your mother on your wedding day?”
“I was tired of her.”
“And so when she asked you to take her back to the inn…”
“I didn’t want to leave. I thought she would start some emotional harangue and decided to ask her old friend Ted Clay to walk her home.”
“He didn’t resist?”
“He said sure.”
“Did Léa de Saint-Pern hear him say that?”
“She complained that she was tired and wanted to go home, and Ted said he’d be back in ten minutes. Everything was okay.”
“Had you sniffed cocaine when you asked Ted to walk Madame Durand home?”
“I don’t remember. Maybe a little.”
“And you bought it from Antoine Marceau?”
“I think so.”
“There are others you buy an illegal drug from?”
“Okay. I got it from Antoine.”
“I couldn’t help but notice when we were at his place that you two don’t like each other. I’m surprised he’d sell you cocaine, when you could turn him in. Which, in fact, you are doing.”
“He doesn’t like me. I don’t know why.”
“Let’s switch to the de Saint-Pern Company. You were brought in as an intern, and then began to earn a salary. How was your relationship with the owner, Léa de Saint-Pern?”
“Good enough for her to want to introduce me to her niece. Who, of course, is now my wife.” He was smiling.
“No conflicts?”
Marc frowned. “Oh, a few. I’m ambitious and impatient. She wanted me to start slowly from the bottom and work my way up and I wanted to create a new champagne, which alienated Bernard Martin. But it didn’t take me long to find out that ole Bernard was skimming money off the top and I reported that to Léa.”
Olivier wondered if this had to do with the skeletons in the closet. He recalled that Marc had reported the necklace to Girard, too. He glanced over at Abdel, whose eyes told him that he was writing it all down. They would definitely have to check in on Bernard Martin.
“What did she do?”
“She was angry. She also knew that Bernard was persuading de Saint-Pern shareholders to opt for allowing Baptiste Dupuis to buy their shares.”
“And you conveniently chose this time to introduce Mon
sieur Hans Keller to Madame de Saint-Pern?”
“I helped to make that introduction.”
“Did Monsieur Keller lead you to believe that if he managed to buy the company, you would be given an important position?”
“There was no contract, of course, but yes, we talked about it.”
“Do you know the identity of your father?”
Marc lit a cigarette and blew out the smoke, and the only giveaway that he was nervous was that his hand shook slightly. “That is private information that has nothing to do with the case.”
“You’re right, monsieur.”
Marc stabbed out his cigarette. Abdel had already turned on a fan and now he got up and raised a window. Marc seemed oblivious to the trouble he was causing. “Is that all?”
“That’s it. Thank you for your cooperation. The three men shook hands and Marc left.
Olivier said, “He’s a competent liar. We’ll have to double check everything he said.
“I’ve already started.”
“And we’ll have to weigh his testimony against his mother’s.”
“A mother will never contradict her son.”
“This one would if it meant saving her own skin.”
“Then she isn’t a mother.”
***
Olivier entered the salon and Jacques came over to shake hands. Marie-Christine came in and said, “Max will be here in a moment. I gather there was quite a bit of discussion between the girls on what she was to wear since you’re not revealing where you’re taking her.”
“And I’m not telling you either.” It was good to see her smile again. “I’m doing this for myself as well as to get Max out,” he said. “I’m too bogged down in details, and it hasn’t been easy for me to stay as detached from my emotions as I need to be.”
“We understand, Olivier,” Marie-Christine said, and put her hand on Jacques’ arm. Olivier wondered if they had made peace with each other, though he couldn’t imagine this new-found harmony being the result of an accusation of murder.
Max entered the room and Marie-Christine said, “Well!” indicating that she was pleased. Max looked stunning in flowing white pants and a simple white tank top, a linen jacket casually slung over her shoulder, and sandals. She had tamped her hair down a bit, and wore a thin necklace that appeared to have diamonds in it.
“Chloé lent you her necklace,” Marie-Christine said. “It’s lovely.”
“You look great,” Olivier said, and they all laughed when she replied that he did, too. Once in the car, she said, “I know we aren’t to talk about the case, but I did want to say that I have huge concerns about Antoine.”
“Because of the drinking?”
“That, but something more. He knows more than he’s letting on about Léa’s killer, but he wants to be sure because he knows no one will believe him. I mean, he’s lied his whole life.”
“Did he confide in you again?”
“He said he’s worried that the murderer thinks he recognized him and he’s frightened.”
“Then I’ll offer protection. Don’t forget, though, that paranoia goes with alcoholism.”
“My father’s father was an alcoholic. Thank god I’ve never had to live with that.”
“Neither have I. But you are constantly arresting drug addicts, you said.”
“Our prisons are overflowing with drug users. I have compassion for the users, but hate the dealers. They run around with suitcases full of money and have no qualms about the people they’ve killed with their drugs. The suitcase of money reminds me that Chloé reported that the little triad, Hans, Geneviève, and Philippe Douvier, are paying cash for land in a village called Serval.”
“I wonder if the two hundred thousand that Hans claims is missing was in fact the downpayment for the land, even though he’s claiming he brought it as a downpayment for the de Saint-Pern Company. When there was no contract. Max, do you know how sensitive this information is? Chloé mustn’t speak of it to anyone. I’ll talk to her.” He put up his hand. “But for now we’re off the case. D’accord? Do you agree?”
“Okay.”
“We are entering an area called Les Faux de Verzy comprised of twisted beech trees that have only shown up in two other places, Sweden and Germany.”
Max saw a sign advertising the Parc arboxygène, an extreme adventure park. “I’m in the wrong clothes to ride a zipline.”
“Just wait.” He drove slowly until they reached a sign that read The Perching Bar and parked. “Here we are.” They got out and started walking to a rickety footbridge that ascended into the trees. They clutched the handrails because the bridge swayed with each step. They stepped off one walkway and started up a second until they finally reached a wooden deck ten meters above the ground.
Max stopped, and looked out onto the Plaine de Champagne and the lush treetops. “This is fabulous,” she whispered. “I dreamed of living in a treehouse when I was a kid. You don’t find too many in New York City!”
Olivier was pleased. He took her hand and guided her inside, where there were swings and ice buckets hanging from the ceiling. The interior was all wood and glass, and the sofa was covered with white leather. After ordering two glasses of the champagne Zéro, made by local winemakers Melanie and Benoit Tarlant, they strolled out to the terrace, where they clicked their glasses and sipped.
Olivier closed his eyes, “Do you smell the honey and lemon and mandarin?” Max sipped again. “That’s stretching my olfactory sense a bit, but maybe the lemon. And it has a fine mousse. Ted taught me that.”
Olivier smiled. “I like the citrusy freshness. It’s quite lively.” He felt the tension easing. It had been a perfect plan to come here. Max breathed in the sweet air. “It’s funny about time. To be in places where it doesn’t exist. Any chance I can sleep here tonight?”
He laughed. “You’d end up regretting missing a dinner created by a master chef.”
“I like your modesty.”
“Tell me about the tattoo.”
It means I’ll kick your ass if you don’t kiss me. A line he’d never forget. She recalled the same moment, he thought, because she blushed, and sipped her champagne a tad too fast.
“I got the tattoo when I was eighteen after my brother had just been killed by a drunk driver. He was only twelve. I was crazy with guilt and anger and despair, and for a while I ran in a pretty bad crowd. It only lasted a summer, but it was intense.”
“He was your only sibling?”
“The onliest, as we used to say. Though he was a lot younger, we were very close. I adored him.”
“And he probably adored you.”
“I think so. Hey, I didn’t mean to get too maudlin. I always worry that people think I’m trying to elicit sympathy.”
“Which didn’t occur to me. It’s an important life event.”
“Good way of putting it. Everything changed. What about you? Do you have siblings?”
“I have a brother in Australia who owns a vineyard. They produce Sauvignon Blanc, It’s quite good. I’m sorry to say I haven’t seen him in two years. My parents left to go there after the wedding. I’m in the middle of a move to Bordeaux, as you know. I’ll go soon, I hope.”
A waiter came and refilled their glasses. “This wine is in my mind a scintillating combination of the grapes that are by law required to make champagne—chardonnay, pinot noir, and pinot meunier. The key is the formula, how the winemaker combines the three.”
“That reminds me. The night of the wedding I had run to my room to remove my hat and stopped in the hallway when I heard two men speaking below. It was Baptiste Dupuis and Bernard Martin, who was at our table.”
“Could you understand what they were saying?”
“They were discussing a formula. I thought Bernard sounded nervous. And maybe defeate
d.”
“Bernard is on my list to interrogate, but that’s business.” Olivier enjoyed the desultory conversation, and the sensation of sipping wine above the treetops. “I managed to watch one of your American crime shows, I don’t recall which one, two nights ago. Abdel swears by them.”
“In reality, of course, cases don’t get solved in an hour, and most of us are haggard from lack of sleep and we drink too much.”
“I also read the article that Girard recommended about your father. Hank Maguire. He does sound a bit like Clint Eastwood. A hero in France, a country where there are very few.”
“Why is Eastwood singled out?”
“The French are locked into believing you settle on your career and life, and that’s the end of it. Eastwood has proved that you can keep changing and getting better.”
“Many of us are brought up to believe that way. I plan to stop being a detective when I’m forty and try something different. Lots of us on the force plan to change.”
“And your father?”
“He might go to sixty-five. You know, I’ve never been on a case without him or someone he’s assigned to look out for me.”
“So you don’t know what you’re capable of?”
“I hadn’t thought about it that way. Some days it makes me feel like he doesn’t have any faith in me. But when I’m rational, I know that it’s about losing Frédéric.”
She was soft, and open, her mysterious fragrance causing him to swoon. She had no idea how she was affecting him, and he was determined to keep it that way. He stood up, “Look how light it is at eight o’clock. June is the perfect month.” He paid and led her to the footbridge, passing people on their way up. It was trickier going down. As they stepped onto the second walkway, Olivier pulled Max to him and kissed her softly, then again. She pressed up against him as they kissed, and when she pulled away and looked into his eyes, he was mesmerized. They laughed at the sensation of the bridge moving beneath them, and their clumsiness as they made their way down. In the car, he reached over and took her hand.
As he stopped in front of his parents’ house, Max said, “I’m back in the fairy tale I was in before Léa was murdered. Maybe it will be like time travel, when it becomes harder to go back and forth.”
Champagne: The Farewell Page 16