Champagne: The Farewell

by Janet Hubbard

  “Are you sure it isn’t in your room? Everyone seemed so pleasant and harmonious tonight. I started to think that we’re rushing this arrest business.”

  “I had the same doubt until I went upstairs. I think Marc is acting, and it makes me nervous. The hairs on my arm stood up when I was in their room.” She took a deep breath, “I saw a dress on the chair and impulsively grabbed it as I was leaving.” She explained about Marie-Christine’s dress, how she had accused Chloé of taking it, and then it ended up in Chloé’s room.

  “What are you saying?”

  “I think the large woman running through the village was Marc wearing Marie-Christine’s dress.”

  “Okay, can you get it and bring it down to me?”

  “Yes.” She sprinted back to the house and retrieved the dress, returning to Olivier in just a few minutes.

  “It could be dangerous for you here tonight. Come home with me.”

  “That’s not a good idea, Olivier. It would be hard to not let things get personal again and I can’t let my emotions distract me from this case right now. And besides, I feel like I need to be here.”

  He surprised her by smiling. “I understand. Go back to the house and make sure you lock your door when you retire.”

  “I will. Don’t forget I’m a jiu-jitsu competitor.”

  “If I hadn’t seen you in action I wouldn’t let you stay. I can have a gendarme come for the night.”

  “It’s okay.”

  They stood together, both hesitant. Olivier walked away. This time Max watched his back until he was out of sight.

  Chloé and Marc were playing checkers and Jacques was reading a biography of Napoleon when she entered the salon. Marie-Christine and Mimi were in the kitchen, and Max walked in to ask if she could help. Marie-Christine closed the door quickly behind her, and grabbed Max’s arm.

  “What’s going on?”

  “Jacques and I are worried. Chloé seems to be completely enamored of Marc again. It makes me wonder if we’ve jumped to conclusions.”

  “I second-guess all the time. We’ll know more tomorrow.”

  “It’s okay for her to lead a tour, right?”

  “It’s perfect.”

  Max went back into the living room and told Chloé she was retiring to her room. Marc said in a genial voice, “I told Chloé that you were looking for your journal and thought it was in our room, but she said she didn’t think you’d been in there.”

  Jacques looked up from his book which Max was sure he hadn’t been reading.

  Max said, “Oh, I went in looking for you yesterday, Chloé, and thought I may have put it down.”

  “We can look together,” Chloé said. “I’ll come up with you.” She walked beside Max in the hallway. Once no one could hear them, she said, “Marc was upset about the journal. He thought you were accusing him, Max.”

  “Of what?”

  “What do you mean, of what?”

  Theft or murder.

  “I wasn’t. He doesn’t know I keep a journal, and if he did, why would he care?”

  “I told him that it’s your detective diary.” She laughed. “Maybe he’s nosey like you.”

  They had arrived at Chloé’s door. “Come in and look anywhere you want.” Max wanted to sit down and tell her friend of all of her suspicions, but couldn’t trust her not to run to Marc. Chloé turned on the ceiling light.

  “Let it go,” Max said. “Really. It’s not that big a deal. It has all my personal junk in it.”

  Chloé glanced over at the chair and said, “Now, where’s my mother’s black dress? She asked me about it before dinner and I told her I’d bring it down to her.”

  Max shrugged. Marc came up behind her and she stepped aside. “What’s going on, chérie?”

  “Maman’s funeral dress is gone again. I think Mimi must have come looking for it.”

  Marc’s face grew angry. “I can’t believe how much you and your mother have focused on that goddamn dress.”

  “You don’t have to get upset about it. I’ll go ask Mimi…”

  He mimicked her, “I’ll go ask Mimi. I’ll go ask Mimi. This house full of women is driving me crazy. I’ll tell you what, I’ll go ask Mimi. Maybe I’ll tell her she should retire while I’m at it.” He gave Max a scathing look as he wheeled around and marched down the hall.

  “Well,” Chloé said wistfully. “We did have a good day. But this is what I was telling you about Marc’s temper.”

  “Do you want to sleep with me tonight, Chloé?”

  “That will only make him madder.”

  Max decided she should be gone when Marc returned, and headed toward her room. Not very long after that, she heard their raised voices. She tiptoed out of her room and stood outside their door making sure Chloé wasn’t in any danger. Their voices grew softer and soon she heard Chloé saying to Marc that she forgave him. He needed Chloé still. But it wouldn’t surprise her if he didn’t try to bolt tomorrow. That was Olivier’s problem, not hers. Twice more she got up and listened at Chloé’s door, but all was silent.

  At two she walked down to the stone bench and sat down. The night air fragrance lulled her into a peaceful state. When she returned to her room, she was able to fall into a deep and restful sleep.

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Olivier scanned the small group gathered at the Columbarium, the pyramid built to hold ashes, in Epernay. Marie-Christine had brought bouquets of irises and mock orange blossoms, their citrusy fragrance permeating the air. The priest was preparing to start les obsèques. Somehow Hans had worked his way into the crowd, and Olivier was sure that Jacques and Marie-Christine were too polite to refuse to allow him to pay his respects. Delphine, he noticed, stood apart from Hans and everyone else, yet kept casting glances in Hans’ direction. Olivier thought it obvious that Hans had already cast her off now that he was certain to be leaving within the next day or two. Her ex-boyfriend, Yves, stood with Marc and his mother. Ted had joined Marie-Christine and Jacques. That had been a surprise, learning that this little trio was on its way to becoming friends.

  Marie-Christine had confided to Max, and she had told Olivier, that she and Jacques understood that Ted’s blog about Hans and Geneviève had played a role in guiding the investigation. But it was Chloé who had explained Léa’s genuine feelings for Ted, and who had brought him into the fold.

  Abdel had called last night to tell Olivier that the rental company had indeed sent two pairs of shoes to Marc and had only received one back. They still needed to find the missing shoes. After Olivier telephoned Canon and Girard, they had unanimously made the decision to arrest Marc. Douvier had called Olivier, and when told of the pending arrest, asked if Geneviève was aware. To Olivier’s astonishment, Douvier had asked him to drive into Paris and meet him at Geneviève’s apartment. He went, and now, standing in the sun, he relived every moment.

  Geneviève had come to the door, looking disheveled and wild-eyed. Douvier came right to the point, “It’s horrifying,” he said to her, “the control you’ve had over Marc. This is your fault.”

  Geneviève had opened a bottle of l’Etoile, and now she asked if they would like a glass. Both men declined. “Marc will be arrested for two murders tomorrow,” Douvier said, “but something is missing. A plastic bag containing his bloody clothes. And god knows what else.”

  Geneviève flushed, and reached over and poured champagne into a glass. “I never saw a bag.”

  “A witness saw you take the bag. As things stand now, my dear, you might be considered an accessory to murder, in which case you drove him to it, but, if you don’t tell me where that fucking bag is, you will be brought before the judges as an accomplice. Trust me, you will go to jail.”

  Olivier turned his head as the two former lovers stared each other down. “I despise you,” she said to Philippe.
“You deserve to be blamed, too.”

  “One more thing. My name is never to be uttered by you. Any mention of my name in association with this case will put you in jail for the rest of your life. You have one minute.”

  Geneviève poured a glass of champagne and downed it. “Madame Léa de Saint-Pern is hiding it.” Then she giggled. Both men stared. “The fabulous Léa adored Marc, her husband’s son, and he adored her. Until he didn’t.”

  Olivier wondered if there was such a thing as a psychological accomplice. Those people who poison the air with their specific hatreds.

  “Explain,” Douvier said.

  “It’s beneath her casket.”

  “And the money?”

  “Fuck you, Philippe. You left me with nothing. This two hundred thousand is nothing to you. I’m going to tell Olivier now about our little scheme to buy land that you know will soon be designated as Champagne. You should be dragged through the courts.”

  “The money. Five seconds.”

  “It’s in the plastic bag with the clothes.”

  “You’re never to contact me again,” Philippe said. “You will remain under house arrest until I say you’re not. Let’s go, Monsieur Chaumont.”

  Olivier followed Douvier, and as soon as the door closed they heard glass shattering. Douvier was the first to speak as he stood waiting for his driver, “We will talk when this madness is over.”

  ***

  Olivier could have stayed in Paris, but wanted to be in the country. He had been shaken by the scene between Geneviève and Douvier. When he got home, he poured a glass of brandy and went to the garden where he rehashed what had happened. Their exchange had been vitriolic and he saw clearly the disadvantage of being completely dependent on someone. Geneviève had exposed Douvier’s plan to purchase land, and Olivier knew that every word was true. He tried not to think about the ramifications of what that would involve in the future, but didn’t succeed. When a gendarme came to pick up Marie-Christine’s dress the following morning, Olivier had not closed his eyes.

  ***

  The sound of someone crying brought Olivier back into the moment. Some mourners had stepped forward to pour holy water over the urn. Chloé stood with her new husband, the man who he now believed murdered her aunt and uncle. Olivier felt despair for the young woman who had fallen for the wrong man.

  Max was beside Chloé, her head bowed. They had spoken before the service and she had conveyed to him Chloé’s state of denial about Marc. She explained that she had been up most of the night, worrying about Chloé and listening outside her bedroom door for any signs of trouble.

  He wondered if Captain Canon and his soldiers had dug up Léa’s grave yet. Olivier remained in the background as the last people stepped forward. He would grieve for Antoine later. The group broke apart. Most would be going from here to the Marceau home where Mimi had prepared platters of food. Olivier watched Marc take Chloé’s hand, and winced when he saw the grateful smile she bestowed on him.

  This time Jacques invited Girard to come to the house, but he and Olivier decided that he would stand out too much. Girard would wait for Olivier to call. Chloé, they decided, should be allowed to lead the tour, which would keep her out of the way. And Girard had been adamant that Max accompany her, especially when Olivier suggested that she stay.

  ***

  Chloé had a lilt in her step as they entered the reception area of Marceau Champagne in Epernay on Avenue de Champagne, which was in stark contrast to the way Max was feeling. She couldn’t believe she was going to miss the arrest, but had worked to accept that she was back-up, if that, on this case. Still, the idea of listening to Chloé prattle on to a group of Brits about champagne was anathema to her. Chloé went to the desk to receive her instructions and returned to say that they would start in ten minutes with a dozen people.

  Max soon learned the reason for her friend’s insouciance. “Marc thinks Hans Keller will be arrested today,” she said. “And then we can go on our honeymoon.”

  “Did someone tell him that?”

  “Girard did.”

  Girard was trying to throw Marc off-track, Max thought. She also thought it possible that Marc had believed him, pleased that his scheme to set Hans up as the prime suspect had worked. While sitting on the stone bench in the middle of the night, Max had reasoned that Marc had forced Antoine to agree in writing to sell his shares in the de Saint-Pern Company to Hans Keller for the same amount of money that Hans had started accusing Marc of stealing. It was a brilliant ploy. And quite vindictive.

  Max, feeling duplicitous, said that Hans was probably being arrested at this moment. She expected that Olivier, Jacques, and Marie-Christine would be walking in before the tour was over to tell Chloé the sad news that her husband was the main suspect.

  Chloé said, “This will be a good opportunity for you to see the famous crayères, or cellars. The French word is craie, which is chalk.” Max knew Chloé was rehearsing, and wondered how she could be so unsuspecting.

  Chloé said, “The white chalk gives the champagne its acidity and its character. Marceau is small, producing only two and a half million bottles a year.”

  “No wonder Mimi can make cakes out of it.”

  Chloé laughed, “I hope the Brits appreciate your humor. I know you won’t be able to keep quiet. Speaking of which, here they come.”

  Max turned and smiled at the group of tourists, most of them middle-aged and on the dowdy side. Chloé introduced herself and led them into the office where she told them the stages of making champagne, then told them to follow as she led them down a hall and opened a door to a steep staircase, cautioning them to be careful. “Ours is a smaller house,” she reminded them, “and our cellars are not as ornate or elegant as some of those belonging to the bigger houses.”

  “But more authentic,” one of the English visitors said.

  “I hope you brought your sweaters,” Chloé said. “The temperature here is perfect for storing the champagne. Eleven degrees centigrade.” Max calculated quickly that that was fifty degrees Farenheit. She shivered involuntarily. She hadn’t brought a sweater. “These caves were first excavated two thousand years ago by the Gallic slaves to provide building materials for the city,” Chloé intoned. They continued down another flight of stairs and Max asked how far they had descended.

  “One hundred feet.” Air shafts tapered upward to the ground above.

  They stopped at the bottom of the stairs and Max gave an involuntary gasp. The caves were bathed in a soft light, and the sense of mystery and reverence caused the guests to go silent. No wonder France had proclaimed the caves national historic monuments. “There are thirty-five tunnels extending out from here,” Chloé said.

  A tourist asked, “How do you keep from getting lost?”

  “Sometimes I do,” Chloé said. “But I won’t today.” She waved to some workers down the allée who waved back. Max made note of the small tractors used for hauling the champagne racks around. As they followed Chloé, they passed stacks of stored champagne. “These champagnes are blends, some comprised of one hundred different wines. This is why the cellar master plays such an important role. They are the ones who decide what the champagne will taste like in the end.”

  Max wondered how the arrest was going. The sound of a small tractor used to move the crates cracked the silence. Max put her hand up to touch the warty looking walls and drew it back instinctively after feeling the cold, slimy surface. Mushrooms grew on the surface. Light was now provided by dim light bulbs. There were bas reliefs along the walls, with the prominent theme being either angels or wine.

  Chloé had started to describe the process called remuage where the bottles stored on a slanted rack were gently shaken and turned by hand. The tractor came closer and Chloé had to raise her voice. “I apologize,” she said finally, “Let me check to see what’s going on.”


  Chloé walked toward the tractor and the driver, wearing a casquette, or black cap, pulled down over his forehead, a royal blue uniform, and gray rubber gloves, turned the vehicle sharply at her approach and drove out of sight.

  Chloé returned to her group, “He might be new on the job,” she said. “They’re not supposed to come close to the tourists. Now if you’ll follow me, I’ll show you how the corking is done.” The tourists followed like lemmings.

  Max, impatient, motioned to Chloé that she was going to the office to make a phone call. Chloé nodded her head and moved ahead with the group. After a few minutes Max realized she had gone the wrong way and began retracing her steps. She could hear the tractor speeding toward her again and Max decided to ask the driver directions to the office.

  She heard a loud crash, and ran to see what was happening. The tractor had hit a rack of champagne bottles. Whoever was driving had no idea what he was doing. And it occurred to Max that no other workers were around. Something was horribly wrong. She wished she had stuck with Chloé.

  She spotted the tractor up ahead and started running toward it. She would give him a piece of her mind in French. The driver waved, but she couldn’t see his face because of the hat he wore. She waved back, though, and put up her hand for him to stop.

  It took her a couple of seconds to realize he was making a beeline for her.

  What the hell?

  She started running in the other direction. The surface of the dirt floor was uneven, which slowed her down. The tractor was gaining on her. She stopped and, using all her weight, pushed over one of the racks holding fifty bottles of champagne, hoping it would provide a barrier. Several of the bottles broke and champagne began forming a rivulet. She heard the tractor running over the bottles and the sound of its motor getting closer. She rounded a curve and recognized that it was a cul de sac. There was nowhere to go but up the stacks. She turned before hoisting herself up, and was horrified to see the face beneath the casquette.