Champagne: The Farewell

by Janet Hubbard

  “What if each time he tried to return to shore he was pushed out again with a pole or something equivalent?”

  “I’ll call my assistant.” Legrand pushed a buzzer and a young man came in, looking cheerful. They shifted Antoine’s body and the doctor picked up a magnifying glass.

  “H-mm. There is bruising in the kidney region, and now that you’ve mentioned it, similar bruise-like indentations in the chest region. What are you thinking, detective?”

  “I’m wondering if he was drunk, forced into the river by someone, and then when he tried to climb back to shore they kept pushing him back with the long handle of a garden tool. That way there would be no fingerprints.”

  “You have a vivid imagination, mademoiselle. The cruelty of what you are describing is disturbing.”

  I’ve seen too much, Max thought.

  “Bon. We will meet outside in the first room. I’ll join you in a moment.”

  Max and Olivier quietly stripped off their paper gowns and masks and put them in the trash container. Olivier sat in a chair and closed his eyes. “I hope never to do that again.”

  “Are you sorry you went?”

  “No. How did you come up with the garden tool scenario?”

  “It’s like the bottle. I saw it in the yard and filed it away in my memory. Then it haunts me until I can make sense of it. When Legrand talked about Antoine grasping for anything to save himself, I thought about the rose Léa was holding in death. Did you?”

  “I recall it very well. In fact, it haunts me.”

  Dr. Legrand entered and said that he would do his best to get results back within a couple of days. He looked at Max, “You have great courage. I hope you capture the murderer. Just make sure he doesn’t find you first.” They exchanged a vigorous handshake, and she and Olivier maneuvered their way through the labyrinthine halls until they finally came to the exit. They walked outside, stopping to blink in the sunlight. Both stood for a moment inhaling fresh air.

  Olivier’s cell phone rang and Max overheard him asking whoever was on the other end why Philippe Douvier wanted to see him in person. Olivier sounded indignant. “I’m to go there now?” He put the phone down and said to Max, “I have to go to see the Ministère de la Justice. His office is at Place Vendôme, a wonderful spot to walk around.”

  Max knew it well and decided it pointless to bring up the half year she spent in Paris again. The phone rang again. Olivier listened, then said, “I don’t understand what’s going on.” He tossed the phone into his briefcase and looked at Max, “The minister wants to meet you.”

  Uh-oh.

  It felt like the moment to tell Olivier the truth was gone before she realized it was there. No excuse: there had been other opportunities, and her uncertainty about how he would react had kept her from it. Olivier was on the phone with Abdel again, setting up an appointment to go to Léa’s office and another to meet with the young woman Delphine. He drove into a parking place near Place Vendôme, and they got out. Max looked around at the grandeur of the buildings that encircled the square. It was one of her favorite areas of the city. “I have no idea why Monsieur Douvier wants to meet with you, unless Hans Keller gave him a list of complaints about you.”

  They walked in shoulder to shoulder, two stalwart comrades, she thought. A secretary who appeared to be dressed in a designer suit ushered them directly into Douvier’s office, which was grander than any she had ever been in. He arose from his chair and rushed over and shook Olivier’s hand, and then turned to her, giving her an appraising look. She proffered her hand, but he formally bestowed a kiss on each cheek. “We may not know each other but we’re still family, n’est- ce pas? I’m trying to see if you have any resemblance to my wife or your mother, and I see a little in the smile.”

  He dinged a bell and the woman appeared in the door to his office almost immediately. “Bon, Olivier, I know how busy you are with this investigation, but I insist that we share a simple toast.” He asked the secretary to bring in champagne and glasses.”

  Max hadn’t dared look in Olivier’s direction until now, but she decided to have a quick peek and wished she hadn’t. He looked worse by far than he had at the autopsy. She had heard so many awful stories about her French family, how her grandparents had disowned her mother when she married Hank, and how they looked down on the Maguires with contempt. When Frédéric was killed, they hadn’t heard from any of them. Max had thought of all of them as monsters, not in the least like this man who was practically fawning over her.

  “I can see if Hélène is done at the hairdresser’s,” he said to Max, picking up the phone. “I know she would very much like to meet you.”

  “No, no, please. I will try to stop on my way back to New York.”

  “Try! Nonsense. You must. You’ve never met your aunt or your grandmother.”

  “I tried to contact Aunt Hélène several years ago when I was in school in Paris.” She had never been treated so rudely.

  “I don’t really know the details of what happened between your mother and her French family. Your mother was full of pride, I remember that. It was so long ago. I assume you never learned French.”

  Without waiting for an answer, he turned to Olivier and began speaking in French, “We can be more candid in French. My niece is not in everybody’s way, I hope, with her snooping. I owe Jacques Marceau a favor, and that’s why I said yes to his request for her to assist in the investigation. Unofficially, of course. My wife thought it might also help family relations.”

  His delight in seeing me was all show, Max thought.

  The secretary arrived with the champagne and proceeded to open a bottle of Joséphine, made by the Joseph Perrier Company. Max recognized it as the same bottle Olivier had in his fridge. Glasses were handed around, and Douvier raised his glass, saying in English, “To solving this case.”

  No more mention of family.

  He explained that the Minister of the Interior had given the police special permission to confiscate the records of several bank accounts. “Two hundred thousand euros isn’t a pittance.”

  Olivier spoke through clenched teeth. “The amount is paltry for the shares Antoine Marceau signed over to Monsieur Keller.” Max could tell that Douvier was surprised, and trying to hide it. “Keller is a strong suspect, and I won’t compromise this investigation.”

  “You never have, Olivier. That’s half the reason Sarkozy wants to get rid of all juges d’instructions and turn cases like this one over to the chief prosecutors.”

  “They already have too many cases, which is why we investigation magistrates are handed the exceptional ones.”

  “We each have our arguments, but that’s for another day. I did you a favor by allowing you to take this case. I know your relationship to Jacques Marceau. That region is still a tightly knit network, Olivier, and you’re part of it, whether you admit it or not. Now, back to the case. What about the Anglo-Saxon who’s locked up?”

  Max understood that the term Anglo-Saxon was a derogatory term, meaning all those people who were non-Catholics, though no one would ever admit that. Americans, Canadians, Australians, and others were all thrown into the category of Anglo-Saxons.

  “Monsieur Clay?” Olivier said. “I happen to think he’s innocent, but it may take a long trial to prove it.”

  “You’re pretty tight-lipped as always. I’m keeping up through a colleague. Reynard is pleased with your work, but thinks you should share more with the gendarmes and the police.”

  “I work alone. You know that.”

  Max thought Douvier a whirlwind of energy and power, handsome with his shock of gray hair and penetrating eyes. He was at the top of his game, and he conveyed that with every motion. She wondered how the relationship was between him and her aunt Hélène. Obviously it wasn’t great since he had kept Geneviève for nine years. Or maybe the mistress didn’t
upset Aunt Hélène and the marriage was just for appearances.

  “How did you know my identity?” she asked Douvier.

  “We know everyone who enters this country. But it was my wife who grew curious after your photograph was sent in to the Minister of the Interior’s office by Commissaire Girard, who forwarded it to me.”

  Did Girard send in my photograph hoping to have me sent home, she wondered. Now she understood his puzzlement when the word came back that Max had been approved by the minister. And that was why he had started pursuing again. She had more status than he did. A great deal more.

  Douvier hadn’t stopped talking. “My wife saw your photograph on my desk and saw the resemblance. Filling your father’s shoes, I see.”

  “He continues to fill his own, I’m happy to say.”

  She finished her glass of champagne and put it down. Olivier and Douvier shook hands, and she extended hers and Douvier shook it. “My wife will call,” he said.

  No she won’t, Max thought.

  She walked ahead of Olivier, striding purposefully out the door and across the vast Oriental rug and out of the building. She slowed down when they were outside, her heart pounding. “Are you terribly upset with me?”

  “Your uncle is the Minister of Justice? My boss? And you didn’t find it crucial information for me to know?”

  “I’ve never met him. I had no idea that he knew who I was.”

  “And Jacques Marceau knows he’s your uncle?”

  “No. Yes. I didn’t know they had talked.”

  “Then there was a conspiracy to keep me in the dark.”

  They climbed into his car, and he peeled out of his parking space.

  “That’s an exaggeration. There’s no conspiracy for god’s sake.”

  “I feel betrayed, and that’s all I will say about it. For now.”

  “I had dreaded this moment all my life! And then I walk in, and he’s so cool. So happy to meet me. And for a few moments I felt all of his superficial warmth and power focused on me, and I thought my parents were wrong. It was all fake. My father is right.”

  They drove in silence for a while. Max bit her lip to keep back the tears. She had been through two murders in a week’s time, an autopsy, an investigation, family drama—and this fifteen minutes in front of the minister had succeeded in knocking her off balance. Olivier had a piano concerto playing on the radio, and was staring straight ahead. Had she betrayed Olivier by not telling him her past? Wasn’t her past her business anyhow? But still, she had meant to tell him. “I’m sorry, Olivier.”

  “Apology received.”

  “But not accepted.”

  “Correct.”

  Neither spoke the rest of the way back to Champagne.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Olivier drove straight to his office in Epernay. It had happened. The personal had overridden the professional. He had no idea how to bring it back around to a professional basis other than to dictate a course and stick to it. “I’m going to spend the afternoon looking at wills and papers,” he said to Max. “I want you to go with Abdel to interview the woman Delphine, and we’ll compare notes tomorrow.”

  “Go with Abdel? This feels punitive.”

  “Think how Abdel will feel.”

  A Renault Clio pulled up and Abdel hopped out and took long strides to Olivier. He spoke to him in French, “Sir, mademoiselle Véronique called to tell you that she’s back in Paris and driving out for dinner this evening.”

  Merde! Olivier gave a surreptitious glance in Max’s direction and was relieved to see that she seemed intent on watching people enter and exit the Moët & Chandon Champagne House. She obviously didn’t understand Abdel’s announcement. He felt a slight panic forming and decided to call Véronique and cancel the moment he entered his office. That was one of the problems with her. She thought his career a hobby.

  Abdel continued, “Girard wants to talk to you about the autopsy. He didn’t know you were going into Paris.”

  “Are we talking about a committee report? Please inform him that I’m a magistrate and not a politician waiting for a vote.” Abdel hung his head, obviously hurt. Olivier couldn’t wait to be alone. “Take Detective Maguire and interview the young woman, Delphine. You have her last name.”

  “Why am I taking Detective Maguire, monsieur? I can do this on my own.”

  “Because I need her to be somewhere other than with me.”

  “Somewhere?”

  “Va t’en! Go.”

  Olivier watched them get into the car, and dashed to his office and dialed Véronique. She wasn’t answering. He had to stop her, but he also had to go to Léa’s office. Bernard Martin was waiting. He walked the few blocks to the ornate black and gold gate of the de Saint-Pern Company and entered. Bernard was in an impressive office. Away from his wife Caroline, he seemed to have a lot more energy.

  “I know how busy you are,” Olivier said. “Thank you for making the time.” Social discourse was the only comfortable path. Olivier had found that barking at people and demanding answers usually got him nowhere.

  Bernard had several stacks of folders on a large desk. “I can leave you to the files,” he said.

  “Sit down,” Olivier said. “Please.” Bernard cast an anxious look his way. “Look, Bernard, I know some of the stresses that the company was experiencing before Lea’s untimely death. I’d like to hear more from you.”

  Bernard hesitated. “I was once the chef de cave, and, as you know, created the L’Etoile—the same one that is appreciated by kings. In fact…”

  “I know it well.”

  “My life here was all that I dreamed it could be when my cousin Charles was alive. He was so vibrant that it was as though he breathed creativity and power into everyone who came into contact with him. Have you ever known anyone like that?”

  “One or two. Go on.”

  “I had been sickly as a boy, and missed a lot of school. But Charles, who was five years younger, inspired me. An only child, he was adored from the moment of his birth. I don’t think he ever experienced much unhappiness in his thirty-five years. When he died, I felt that a piece of me died, too. I think the entire company collapsed in an indefinable way. Léa tried to maintain everything he had done. But curiously, I started to think each time I entered the company building that I was in a mausoleum. I had divorced my first wife by then. We had two children and it was a hardship for sure. For her and for me. I had met Caroline Rotier and fallen in love. She was so effervescent. Like a champagne!” He laughed until he began to cough, and Olivier tried to seem as amused as the storyteller, with little success.

  “You and Léa ran the company together?”

  “I was an equal in the beginning, and then Léa began to pull away from me. She didn’t like Caroline and the feeling was mutual. And there we were, living on her property. There are approximately forty de Saint-Perns connected to the company, either owning shares or actually working there. We worked hard to uphold the tradition of keeping it all in the family. Jacques and Marie-Christine also were a part of it, and most recently, Marc Durand.” He practically spit the name out.

  “Who will claim this office now?”

  “Marc and I are jockeying over who will inherit it. It’s ridiculous for someone who has been here six months to think he should have the owner’s office. His mother has come to this building twice since Léa died, acting as though she owns the place. I’d leave, but where would I go?”

  Olivier could tell this was going to be his longest interview, and he wasn’t comfortable in Léa’s office. “I want all of this to be on record,” Olivier said. “May I come later to your house, or would you prefer to meet in my office?”

  “Oh, come to the house. I’ll call Caroline now and set up a time.” He got up and pointed to the stacks of papers on Léa’s large mahogany
desk. “These are business reports, earnings and that sort of thing. This is the only will that I found, written some years ago.” Olivier skimmed down the will, which looked official.

  “When Charles died, I had expected to be included in the will, especially after all the work I had done for the company. But Léa eventually ended up with a fortune, and Charles’ father received part of it. Charles’ mother was already deceased. His father only died two years ago. He adored Léa, though he was sad that there were no children. Some of the de Saint-Pern cousins had resentment toward her because Charles had left the family company to her. This is why when Monsieur Baptiste Dupuis began coming around asking questions, many were willing to sell their shares to him.

  “Léa was not herself in the last weeks of her life. She felt betrayed by the de Saint-Perns, like they were ganging up on her. Her beloved Chloé was showing no interest in being a part of the company, until she became engaged to Marc Durand, and Marc became enthusiastic. Léa welcomed him into the firm, which is not the French way at all. I think underneath she was thrilled about Chloé being a part of the company, as she had no children of her own.”

  Olivier didn’t feel it necessary to bring up Lea’s pregnancy. “What’s the consensus among the de Saint-Perns about Chloé?”

  “We all are deeply fond of her. And to be fair to Marc, I think the problem we foresee is his mother. Marc is affable enough, and could be trained if he was willing to start at the bottom.”

  “Why don’t we ride over to Léa’s château, and then we can go to your house?”

  “Good idea. I think Chloé’s at Léa’s house now. I saw her car when I was leaving late this morning.”

  “Bon. I’ll see you there in half an hour or so.”

  The day had turned overcast. Olivier walked to his car in a somber frame of mind. An office employee hauled the folders from Léa’s desk out to Olivier’s car, and he headed for the château. His thoughts trailed back to the autopsy, and how Max had come up with her theory about the garden hoe. Was that her father’s genes working, or would she attribute it to the intensive training in the field she had received? It was, after all, about using all the senses. To him, it was like looking at an oil painting and seeing it as a picture of a pond and nothing more, versus studying the three-dimensional aspects of the work, continuing to look at it until you were almost in a trance, and before you knew it you were in the artist’s psyche. That was true transcendence.