Champagne: The Farewell

by Janet Hubbard

  Ted then related the story about Geneviève that he put on his blog. He said that he had been seeking the next part of her biography, but Geneviève had told him that Marc was angry that the person in the story was so obviously her. “I think she wanted her story told,” Ted said. “She was using me to reveal something. I think she wanted the Charles de Saint-Pern story out.”

  Marie-Christine asked, “Because her son is now married to Charles de Saint-Pern’s niece?”

  They sat in mutual awe of what seemed to be in front of them. “The only difference is the name. Do you think Louise is Geneviève Durand?” Jacques said.

  “What happened to the young Louise?” Marie-Christine asked.

  “We heard that she got pregnant and left,” Mimi said. “But that is rumor. No proof, whatsoever.”

  “But what you’re saying is that Marc could possibly be the son of Charles de Saint-Pern. I wonder if Léa had any idea of this.”

  Skeletons in the closet, Max thought. She said quietly, “We don’t know if Marc knows.”

  “But what if he does know?” Marie-Christine asked.

  Jacques cautioned his wife about jumping ahead. “He had no reason to sneak around about that,” he said. “Don’t tell Chloé until we know more.”

  Chloé entered the room and they all pretended to be busy. When Max said she had to make a phone call, Chloé reminded her that they’d be leaving soon for the bar.

  Max went to Jacques’ study and tried to call Hank at his office, to no avail. Ted stuck his head in the door and said that Chloé told them to go ahead to the bar and she and Marc would meet them there. Max raced to her room and dabbed on lip gloss and gelled up her hair. She slipped into her cowboy boots and put on a black blouse that she thought might be too revealing, and thought to hell with it, and ran to meet Ted at the car.

  “I haven’t had a chance to thank you. Really thank you,” Ted said. “The champagne’s on me tonight.”

  “I don’t think either of us is in a position to be treating the other.”

  “The blog is actually starting to pay off.”

  “The information on it is provocative. I’m obsessed with this story of Geneviève now, but worried, too. I hope there won’t be any retaliation from Marc or her.”

  “I started the story about Hans Keller because I was furious with him and I was being vindictive. Geneviève had told me about it when she was drunk. I was also mad at her for not being honest and giving me an alibi. I still don’t know why she did that.”

  He pulled in front of the wine bar in Epernay. “They’re supposed to have a great supply of local champagnes. Many you’ve never heard of.”

  The interior of the bar reminded Max of a Valentine’s Day card with the red and white décor. Large bright red chairs and sofas provided stark contrast to the white ceiling and columns interspersed throughout. They went to a table in the corner. A waiter came at once and Ted ordered the tasting, comprised of five champagnes from different vineyards. “How am I going to get rid of this champagne habit when I’m back in New York chasing perps?” Max said.

  The front door swung open and Max heard a woman laugh, followed by the familiar loud voice of Girard. She turned to see who he was with, and swung quickly back around. “Ted!” she hissed.

  “What?”

  “It’s Girard and Olivier, and Olivier’s girlfriend.”

  “So? Stop slumping down like that.” The waiter arrived with a tray and placed the wine in front of them. “She’s fucking gorgeous. They’re looking around and will eventually see me at which time I will be forced to raise my hand and wave.”

  “I want to leave.”

  “Go ahead if you want to call attention to yourself. Drink your champagne, and try to tell me what just happened to your self-esteem.”

  “I slept with him.”

  “Oh, god. What a jerk, then, for him to bring her here.”

  Max had downed more than half her glass, and Ted put his hand up to request the next round.“You know that the finer the bubbles the better the quality of the champagne, right?”

  “Then this is very good champagne. What’re they doing?”

  “They just ordered a glass each, and it looks as if Olivier is ordering dinner. I hear the rillettes deporc et morilles is excellent. And yes, Girard is staring over here. He just got up. Sit up straight. He’s handsomer than Olivier, actually.”

  “Max,” Girard said from behind her. “I thought that was you. And Monsieur Clay, we meet again.” Ted stood and they shook hands.

  “Come join our table if you like,” Girard said.

  “Chloé and Marc are coming,” Ted said.

  “Then perhaps I can join you for a little bit?” He pronounced the words “leetle beet.” Ted nodded, and he took the seat next to Max. “You haven’t forgotten our dinner, right?”

  “I’ve had some other stuff on my mind.”

  “Monsieur Chaumont invited me here tonight to catch me up a little. Perhaps later I can fill you in. Sorry, Monsieur Clay, but it’s official business and Max has been sort of an adjunct. You were naughty not to tell me about your uncle,” he added, turning back to her. She knew she was glaring at him, but she couldn’t control it. “You must know that you are receiving a lot of credit for insisting that Antoine Marceau’s death was a homicide. The medical examiner agreed with you.”

  “What I’ve noticed is that the French are extremely reticent about offering praise.”

  “I just praised you, and you rejected me.”

  Chloé and Marc entered and waved. They stopped at Olivier’s table and after a few minutes wandered over to the threesome. Girard stood up and shook hands with Marc. Max thought Girard seemed to be fawning over him, or him over Girard, she couldn’t tell which. She had downed her second tasting glass. Ted offered Girard a glass and he refused, saying he’d go home and have a beer. “I grew up here and so never knew what all the fuss was about with the champagne.” Max determined that he was sitting too close to her, and slid her chair back a bit.

  Marc sat down, and ordered for Chloé and himself. “Any luck with the investigation?” he asked Girard.

  Girard smiled, “It’s rarely about luck. But the investigation is certainly moving along. Which reminds me, your friend Yves Brun is the one we don’t have on record. He was too drunk the night of the wedding to answer any questions.”

  “He’s still in Paris. Here’s his cell phone number.” Marc took out his phone and found the number and Girard put it into his cell. Max had felt exhausted ever since Olivier entered the room with the willowy model. For the umpteenth time, she thought about leaving, but knew her cowboy boots would make a big racket if she crossed the tile floor now. She’d just have to wait. Scanning the entrance way from her slightly hidden place behind a column, she saw Hans enter with Delphine Lacroix. She wore stilettos, which were indeed making quite a racket as she walked. Marc sat up straight and stared at them, “What’s he doing with her?” Delphine glanced over and looked almost as shocked to see them as they were to see her.

  One big surprise party.

  Chloé jumped up. “I’m going to say hello.”

  Marc stood up, “I’ll come, too.”

  “No fighting, though,” Chloé warned him. “This is Yves’ issue.”

  Max was left sitting with Ted and Girard again, not only feeling sorry for herself but for Chloé as well, who now had to be on guard that her new husband wasn’t going to hit someone. Her third glass of champagne, she could see, was wending its way to her via the waiter. A few of her cells had gone into relax mode. Chloé returned in a few moments and sat down, looking heavy-hearted. “We can’t believe our friend has taken up with Hans. I don’t mean to gossip, but this is going to break Yves’ heart.”

  Marc had on his surly face. He shrugged. “I say, good riddance.” He raised his
hand for another glass, and turned his attention to Ted, “I hate this blog business. My mother is being ridiculous. I hope you won’t let her go any further with this. It will start involving me, and I won’t be happy. I know you don’t want to cause a rift.”

  Ted sipped his champagne, “That’s not my intention, Marc. The one to speak to is your mother.”

  “I already have. I think your source has dried up.” Tension ran high. They all turned when a woman’s voice trilled. Véronique was laughing up at the waiter. Max didn’t dare look. Girard stood to leave, and offered to drive Max home, but she wasn’t going to abandon Ted again. Or take the chance of Girard groping her. She declined his offer, and went back to her champagne. When she next looked up Olivier was standing by their table, with Véronique at his side.

  “Oh, sit down,” Ted said. Max avoided eye contact with Olivier and dutifully said hello to Véronique when introduced. Véronique leaned in as if they were old friends and said, “I told Olivier that you’re too sexy to be a detective when I saw your picture in the paper. And I was right.”

  “You arrived today?”

  Véronique’s response was playful. “Yes, and I’ve never seen Olivier so busy. He’s been ignoring me, but not much longer, right?” She pooched up her red lips, and said, “Je suis fatiguée. I am tired,” as she translated to Max.

  She’s letting me know she has leverage, Max thought.

  Olivier said, “I must speak in private with Detective Maguire for a minute. Please join me outside,” he said to her. She nodded and stood up to follow him, and realized she was on her way to being drunk. Hans motioned Olivier over and introduced him to Delphine, who smiled up at him.

  Hans leaned in to whisper to Olivier and said, “I’m not as worried about the money.”

  “Oh. A miraculous recovery?”

  “I think it will all turn up. No sense in getting the police involved.”

  “I agree, but understand that I’m already involved.” Max accompanied him outdoors. “Look, Max,” he said, “I’m sorry about this mix-up.”

  “Your personal life is not my business. I was aware that you had a girlfriend…”

  “I committed too early in the relationship with Véronique. It’s not working.”

  “But it’s still a relationship.” She looked up at him, “I really want to continue with the case and I hope we both have the grace to do that, Olivier.”

  She shifted into detective mode, and hoped he couldn’t tell that she was slurring her words. “I was going to call you. We went through photograph albums tonight at the Marceaus and realized, with Mimi’s assistance, that Geneviève had an affair with Charles de Saint-Pern when she was fifteen.”

  “I tried to call you. Among Charles de Saint-Pern’s papers is a document signed by Tristan, Charles’ father, and a woman named Louise Abel. Are you telling me…”

  “Louise changed her name to Geneviève Durand when she moved to Paris.”

  “Will you go with me to Paris tomorrow? I want to meet with Marc’s friend Yves, and I will make an appointment with Geneviève. I also think we ought to meet with Léa’s therapist, a woman named Adèle Lausanne.”

  “It doesn’t sound like you need me for any of that.”

  “I want you to come.”

  “Girard told me that Dr. Legrand is calling Antoine’s death a homicide.”

  Olivier smiled. “Thanks to you for that. I’ll pick you up at eight tomorrow morning.”

  The door swung open and Véronique stalked out to the parking lot, and began speaking in rapid-fire French, “You putain! You could have told me you’re fucking her. She left her sillage in your bed. I should have known when I saw her photo. And the cowboy boots. It’s the worst fashion statement I’ve ever seen. I’m leaving tonight. Drive me home so I can get my car.”

  “We’ll discuss this in the car. I’m coming.” He turned to Max, looking mortified, “What she said has nothing to do with you.”

  I understand French and it has everything to do with me, Max thought.

  “What is sillage?”she asked.

  He answered in an impatient voice, “It’s a scent that wafts by after one has walked past.”

  He turned and walked briskly to his car, and Max thought she must look like a lovesick cat.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  “I’m sorry,” Olivier said for the second time in an hour to two different women.

  “Forget being sorry.” Véronique pulled a cigarette out of her designer bag and lit it with the gold Cartier lighter Olivier had given her, which he now regretted, as he wished she would quit smoking.

  “I don’t consider us in a monogamous relationship. At least we’ve never discussed it.”

  “You’re right, we haven’t. But I’m ready to be.”

  “And I’m not. There is a guest room at my parents’.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding. I won’t stay there if you’re rejecting me.”

  Olivier noticed she was slurring her words, and thought Max had been as well. Véronique had barely touched her dinner. They had fought before and made up within hours, and he sensed that was her expectation now. But this time he felt emotionally detached and knew he had been thinking for some time that it wasn’t working. At the moment he resented the relationship wedging into the investigation. He simply wanted the time to think about all that had transpired over the past twelve hours. “I have to work tonight when I get home, Véronique. Tomorrow is a very crucial day in the investigation. ”

  She sulked the rest of the way home and when they arrived she immediately poured more champagne. Olivier decided to have a glass of Calvados, and took it from the cupboard, furious at Véronique for her jealous tantrum and mad at himself for finding himself in such a predicament. “Look,” he said. “Let’s call a truce.”

  “How do we call a truce when war hasn’t been declared?”

  “That wasn’t a declaration of war back there?”

  “I’m jealous.”

  “I can’t do anything about that.”

  “Olivier,” she said, downing her champagne, “You’re the one man I had faith in.”

  “I’m sorry to disappoint you.”

  “Are you in love with the detective?”

  “No. Of course not.”

  “So you had a little fling. What’s the problem? Come to bed.” She’s changed her tactic, he thought.

  “I can’t. I will be up most of the night working. I told you that.”

  “I’m not going to stay here under these circumstances.” She marched out to her car. Olivier followed her, and she put her window down. “You’ve had too much to drink, Véronique. Stay here and drive in tomorrow.”

  “You’re offering me the couch? Va te faire foutre!” The car sped off. It wasn’t the first time she had told him to go to hell. He quickly dialed Abdel and asked him to pull her over and give her the choice of staying in a small inn, which he would arrange, or being returned to his house. He pulled out his briefcase and began to go over his notes. He yawned, and was about to call Abdel again when his phone rang and Abdel said that she was at the inn and the proprietor would expect to hear from Olivier. He added that she had been quite belligerent. Olivier called the inn immediately to offer his credit card, and then felt badly about how he had treated Véronique, but he didn’t know what else he could have done. He did not have the emotional wherewithal to cope with someone of her temperament, especially tonight.

  He tried to put her out of his mind and rehash the day. The story with Geneviève was almost too fantastic to absorb, as was the synchronicity of what he and Abdel had discovered in Tristan de Saint-Pern’s documents at the same time that Max was finding the picture of Geneviève in the old photograph album at the Marceaus’. There was a convergence occurring that reminded him of why he was in this line of work. Until
this evening, he had had some doubts that they would be able to solve the murders. He thought about Léa again, and how bravely she had been creating a whole new life for herself, taking a risk with a man from a different culture who was financially insecure, and deciding to have a child with him at age thirty-nine. He recalled her commenting that he needed someone to loosen him up, and then spontaneously calling Max over to ride with them to the airport. He slipped into bed and felt the fragrance of Max wafting over him, the sillage as it were, and wished that his arms were around her.

  ***

  A few hours later, with very little sleep, Olivier strode into the Marceau salon and shook hands with Jacques, who was having his coffee alone. He began to tell Olivier about their discovery in the photo album the evening before and Olivier told him that he already knew. He then confided in Jacques about the document signed by Tristan de Saint-Pern. “I’m deeply concerned about my daughter,” Jacques said. “If Marc is the son of Charles de Saint-Pern, I would never forgive his mother for not telling Léa or us.”

  “Perhaps she did tell Léa.”

  “Then we needed to know also. Maybe this is why Léa decided to quickly sell her company and move to America. I told you there was more to my story.”

  “One problem, though, is that Geneviève signed a document which forbade her from ever revealing her son’s identity.”

  Jacques sat, pensive.

  “Max and I are going into Paris today to meet with Marc’s mother, and I want to speak with Marc’s friend, Yves Brun.”

  “Chloé told me about the young men sniffing cocaine. You know I have no tolerance for that. I find Marc to be quite immature. I really have grave worries about the marriage, and have from the beginning.”

  “I know.”

  “Marie-Christine told me in detail about her interview with you a few days ago. I think we’re going to be okay. We need closure on Léa’s murder and Antoine’s death, though.”