by Harvey, JM
“A small town in Italy no one has ever heard of,” he replied as he pushed his own empty soup bowl aside and reached for a small silver bell at his elbow. He rang it once and Agnes appeared through the kitchen door with a silver tray and began to clear the dishes.
“That soup was wonderful, Agnes,” I told her. “I’d kill for the recipe.”
She smiled. “I’ll print it out for you. Not much to it really. Cheese, flat champagne, salt, butter, and white pepper.” She carried the bowls back through the kitchen door.
Armand opened the bottle of Domaine Leroy and poured it into an oblong decanter to breathe before setting the bottle aside. He then polished off his third glass of d’Yquem.
“Is that where you were raised?” I asked.
Armand nodded, suddenly frowning. “Yes,” he said, his tone turning short and clipped. He smiled to cover for it. “We were very poor.” Despite the smile his eyes looked stormy. “Things were difficult.” He finished his second glass of d’Yquem and poured another. He moved the top of the bottle toward my half empty glass but I waved him off. He seemed disappointed but said nothing.
I could tell he didn’t want to discuss his past, but I wasn't going to let it go. “When did you move to Argentina?
“1995,” he said. “I was very young, just eighteen at the time, but I had already been working in wineries and vineyards for three years in Italy.” He grinned, “And I, like most poor boys, was hungry for success. I bought ten acres of old vines in Mendoza. At the time no one exported wine - the only market was local - but there were some of us who thought we could compete with California, Australia, and Italy. The soil in Mendoza is thin and sandy, the weather is uneventful, though arid, perfect for cabernet and Merlot. I made Malbec from cabernet and Merlot grapes. It was tough going for a few years, and then the economy hit the skids. That was hard on the locals, but it was good for me. Labor and construction costs plummeted and land was selling cheap.” He shrugged. “Timing and hard work,” he added with false modesty. “I sold it all three years ago and came to the States.”
Agnes came in with the platter and placed a plate in front of each of us: duck leg and thigh atop a bed of salad greens. It smelled wonderful and looked like it would add ten pounds to my posterior.
“Confit de canard with escarole and a balsamic reduction,” she said.
“It smells wonderful,” I told her, and she smiled and placed a folded piece of paper on the table beside me.
“The soup recipe. Your mother-in-law hated it. She didn’t like white food,” she said, and winked at me before she exited.
Armand poured me a too-large amount of the Burgundy in a fresh glass and we both went through the tasting ritual. First we swirled and tilted the glass to the light, revealing the wine’s long, broad legs - the tracery of wine left in the bell of the glass after the rest of the wine had returned to the bottom. Legs like that indicated a promising sugar content. Next we sipped and swished, then sucked air across our palates before swallowing. None of this is very ladylike, but it is the correct way to sample wine.
“The fruit is massive,” I said. “Very mellow and broad across the tongue,” I added. “This is absolutely wonderful, Armand.”
To his credit, Armand did not fake humility, nor did he crow pretentiously, he merely said, “It was quite the find. Actually, I have to thank Blake. One thing he is good at is tracking down rare vintages.” He dug in and so did I, accompanying the duck with small sips of the red wine, which was bold enough to stand up to the strong, gamey flavor of the duck.
It was at that point I decided to quit beating around the bush. I hadn’t come here for dinner or to learn about Armand’s childhood. I had come here to find out about Blake Becker’s possible involvement in wine fraud. I would not mention the Domaine de la Romanée-Conti outright, since I had been warned off by Hunter, nor did I want to baldly accuse Blake of malfeasance – just in case Armand was in on it, a thing I highly doubted - but if I could maneuver Armand into talking about the wine without asking directly…
“You said Dimitri recorked some of your wine? I guess you’re a pretty serious collector?” I said. Recorking is usually done every twenty or thirty years. Not only is it important for the preservation of old wine, but it also allows the owner to taste from the bottle to assure himself he still has bottled wine rather than very expensive salad vinegar.
“My collection is mostly my own wine, but I do have a few rare bottles. Dimitri recorked quite a few bottles for me, but only two vintages that really mattered.”
I waited for him to say ‘Romanée-Conti’ but he sipped his Burgundy and took a bite of duck. I followed suit, chewed and swallowed, barely tasting it.
“I love Burgundy,” I said and sipped my own wine.
“Me too,” he said, without looking up from his food. Not helpful.
I tried again, being even more direct. “What do you collect?”
“The classics,” he said. “Quality over quantity.” That was unenlightening, and he seemed bored by the subject, far more interested in the duck. He smiled again. “And it’s not just about the wine,” he added with a smoldering smile. “It’s about the food and the company. I like to surround myself with beautiful things.” The wine must have really been kicking in, because he actually winked at me.
I flushed, not with embarrassment or delight, but annoyance, though I forced a polite smile. “Wine makes the meal,” I said. “But some bottles would overshadow even the most elaborate feast.”
He nodded again and chewed, but his eyes remained on me.
“What was the best wine you ever tasted?” I asked.
He shrugged and looked thoughtfully at me. “Have you ever tasted Romanée-Conti Cheval Blanc?” he asked.
I almost jumped out of my chair and yelled ‘Bingo!’ but somehow I kept my cool.
“I have,” I replied. “It’s my ex-husband’s favorite wine.” A bottle of it made an appearance at every gathering at the de Montagne mansion, though it was more about showing off than sharing great wine; I didn’t offer that detail. “I had a ’62 once. I think it might have been the best wine I ever tasted,” I added, trying to lead him along.
“Ever have a ‘47?” he asked.
I almost forgot to breathe for a second. “No, have you?”
“Of course not,” he laughed, “It’s far too expensive. But I own eighteen bottles. They were some of the bottles Dimitri recorked for me, but the fill levels were too low, a half-inch below the shoulder, to risk having a taste. I didn’t want to top them off, though I do own a case of the ’97.”
“That’s very impressive!” I exclaimed, gushing like an idiot, trying to encourage him to expound. “Eighteen bottles?”
He nodded, happy with the attention. “I bought them five years ago at an auction in London. I made the cover of wine spectator that month. I could sell them and make a tidy profit.”
I nodded at that, wondering if Blake wasn’t planning on making a tidy profit of his own off Armand’s wine. And, more chillingly, I was wondering if Dimitri had found out about the forgery and confronted Blake with the labels. And if that confrontation had gotten him killed. As hard as I found it to believe Blake was a cold blooded killer, I could imagine him acting rashly, impulsively, grabbing a knife off the workbench and...
I mentally shook myself. In the end, I knew only one thing for certain: I’d give anything to go to Star Crossed and inspect those bottles of ‘47.
Armand pushed his duck aside and poured another glass of the Burgundy. That was his fifth glass of wine so far and he was starting to show the effects; bleary eyes and a little sag to the jaw. And his smile had made the final transition to a leer.
“You really are quite beautiful,” he said.
I looked down and said nothing. Thankfully Agnes made an appearance at that moment with another tray. This one held two plates of sliced apples and pears, and slivers of three different cheeses, but the bottle balanced on the center of the tray caught my eye. The bottle was
dusty and sealed with a wax cap cut away from the neck, the label torn and brown, but I could clearly read Taylor Scion 1900. Taylor is one of the most famous bottlers of port wines in the world.
“Ah,” Armand said, leaning back from the table and arching his eyebrows. “I’ve been looking forward to this all day.”
Agnes placed the tray on the table, put our plates in front of us and exited as Armand took the bottle and pulled the already loosened cork.
“Not all that rare, really,” he said, “The harvest that year was abundant, but it is one of my favorite vintage ports.” He reached for the two small sherry glasses and filled each one to the brim with the dark, ruby-colored wine. As he placed a glass in front of me, the densely rich, almost too-sweet smell tickled my nose.
We sipped. For a wine more than a hundred years old, the fruit was still lively and full bodied, while the tannins and acidity were perfectly balanced. I swallowed and sucked air across my palate then grimaced. The finish was sickly sweet, almost cloying.
Armand too was grimacing. “That’s way too sweet,” he said. He took another sip and so did I. This time it tasted less intense. By the third taste it was all sweet fruit and rich toffee flavors.
“Odd,” he said, and took another sip. “Well, it seems to be smoothing out, but I’ve never tasted a bottle this sweet. And the aftertaste…”
“It’s lovely,” I said and sipped some more myself, almost draining the small glass.
“Not half as lovely as your eyes,” he said.
Involuntarily, I barked a sharp peal of laughter. I just couldn’t take it anymore. “You’re quite the dog, aren’t you Armand?”
He was silent for a moment, the look in his eyes almost frigid. Then the look thawed and he laughed right along with me. He shrugged. “Can’t blame a guy for trying,” he said with another wink, but it didn’t seem so lecherous now, just amusing.
The tension I had been feeling from all his attempts to herd me into his bed evaporated. I was suddenly glad I had come, and not just because I had found out a few things. I decided I really did like Armand. And I was going to take the chance of confiding in him.
“Armand,” I began, “I want to discuss something with you that can go no further than this room.”
That got his interest. He sat up straight in his seat and leaned forward. “This sounds good,” he said, giving me an encouraging smile. But that smile didn’t last long.
“I think Blake Becker might have killed Dimitri,” I said.
Armand cocked his head and rocked back in his seat. “Blake?” he said incredulously.
I nodded. “I think Blake might be counterfeiting wine.”
Armand stared at me for a long moment and then burst out laughing. “Blake? No way, Claire. He isn’t that smart. He couldn’t switch Coke for Pepsi without screwing it up.”
“I don’t know…” I began, then quickly told him about the Magnum of 1911 d’Yquem Blake had served at the tasting last month – a wine Dimitri had insisted was actually a 1982.
That killed his laughter. He sat there transfixed as I ran through my litany of charges against Blake, from the story he had told about Samson and Dimitri fighting just minutes before the murder, to the burglary at Samson’s home, to Jorge’s assertion he knew who the real killer was – and his cryptic comment about using that information to end Angela’s contract with Blake - and finished with Blake’s refusal to turn over Dimitri’s collection of rare wines to his widow. By then deep frown lines had etched themselves into Armand’s face, aging him by five years. The only things I left out were the Cheval Blanc labels and Gavin’s Fine Wine and Spirits website, out of deference to Hunt. But the words were on the tip of my tongue.
“Jorge said he saw the killer?” Armand asked. “Why didn’t he tell the police?”
“Jorge hates Hunter,” I replied. “All police, really.”
“But you told Hunter what he said?”
“Yes,” I said, then made a face. “Hunter thinks I should mind my own business.”
Armand nodded at that, like he thought it might be good advice.
“Like most men,” I said with a little heat, “He doesn’t like to ask for or receive directions, no matter how lost he is.”
Armand nodded at that as well, a brooding look on his handsome face. Suddenly he didn't seem so drunk. He reached for the bottle of port. “Another glass?” he asked as he filled his own to the brim.
“A small one,” I said, but he filled my glass to the top as well. I didn’t argue: I had gone lightly on the dinner wine so I felt I could indulge myself a bit now and still drive myself home. And I was relieved to have gotten all that off my chest, though I knew if Hunter ever found out he’d be furious. Still, Armand had the right to know. And I had told him only what I had found out on my own, most of which Hunter had dismissed.
“Wine fraud,” Armand said. “I thought we had seen the last of that.”
I had to laugh at that, but it was not a humorous laugh, it was brittle and tight. “Where there’s money, there’s crime,” I said.
He nodded grimly. “A 1982 d’Yquem masquerading as a 1911,” he said.
“A magnum,” I added and his scowl deepened.
“A magnum of 1911 is ridiculous,” he said, his expression even more troubled. “But you could make a do-it-yourself magnum with two standard bottles of d’Yquem and an empty magnum bottle. And I had eleven bottles of the ’82 stored at Blake’s until this morning.”
“Eleven?” One more fact that finally completely convinced me Blake had manufactured that magnum of d’Yquen from Armand’s collection of smaller bottles. In that moment I desperately wanted to tell him about the imperial-sized bottles of Domaine de la Romanée-Conti’47 up for auction at Gavin’s, but I couldn’t. I would definitely tell Hunter. He could decide whether to tell Armand almost a million dollars in wine had potentially been stolen from him.
I wasn’t just thinking of Armand; I was also thinking of my own library of wine. I decided in that moment I’d be sending a truck to Star Crossed tomorrow to pick it up – after doing an accounting of every bottle.
Armand nodded again. “I had a case, but there was some seepage. Probably from rough handling, Dimitri said. He recorked them for me. We used one of the bottles to top off the rest and then polished it off between us, so now there’s only eleven. Hopefully.”
“Dimitri mentioned at the tasting dinner he had sampled a 1982 d’Yquem just a few days before. That was yours?”
He nodded. “I guess I’m lucky I got my collection out of there. But I’ll need to open every bottle of the d’Yquem and check them,” he said.
Once again I had to bite my tongue and cross my fingers Armand was right.
The rest of the dessert passed in gloomy silence. The apples, pears, and the cheeses - bleu Stilton, sharp cheddar, and a smoked Gouda - were well suited to the sweetness of the port; neither of us ate much, though we both finished the second glass of port.
Agnes came in, cleared the dishes and promised coffee was on the way. I was glad for that; I had started to feel a little lightheaded. With only two small glasses at dinner, and two ports, I was surprised I was feeling so affected, but I was prepared to wait it out or call Victor for a ride. There was no way I was staying overnight at Armand’s.
Agnes brought coffee and disappeared back into the kitchen. I reached for the cup and almost spilled it, my fingers suddenly clumsy. I had to two-hand it to get it to my mouth.
Armand and I chatted desultorily about the previous harvest over our coffee, but I was feeling steadily more lightheaded with every passing moment. My vision was growing fuzzy and my ears felt hot and prickly while the rest of my body felt cold and clammy.
“Are you all right?” Armand asked, setting his cup aside. But Armand looked almost as bad as I felt. His face was flushed and his eyes looked sunken. He reached across the table toward me and knocked over his cup, spilling coffee across the tablecloth. He said something I couldn’t understand, the words were so slu
rred together.
“I’m not feeling well,” I said slurring my words as well.
He shook his head then fell face first on the tabletop, his forehead colliding with the wood with a meaty thump.
I tried to stand and push my chair back at the same time. Bad idea. I stumbled backward, landed rump-first on the chair and then fell sideways like a chainsawed tree to the carpet, but I barely felt it. My eyelids felt heavy and my limbs were like rubber. It took a huge effort to roll up onto my knees. From there I climbed the back of the chair like a ladder until I was standing on trembling legs.
“Agnes,” I said, but no actual words emerged. And then I was falling again as a dark waved crashed over my brain and drove me down into the black.
Chapter 23
I was roused to semiconsciousness by a dank, sweaty smell that made my nostrils shiver. It was like a dog kennel on a wet day, sour and animal-fetid. I shook my head and groaned as the movement set off a pounding pain behind my eyes. A car door slammed and I felt myself moving slowly, almost drifting. And then the darkness sucked me back down.
I wasn’t down for long before I was brought back to bleary wakefulness by an icy wetness climbing up my calves. It reached my knees, then ran cold fingers up my thighs. My eyes fluttered open and I caught a glimpse of night sky, dotted with stars before the dark wave towed me down again. I could still feel the cold water rising, climbing above my waist to my chest and over my shoulders. And then I was choking and gagging as it coursed into my mouth.
Still only half-conscious, I floundered and splashed, twisting and trying to stand, to raise my head above the water. But something was pinning me down! Something strapped across my chest! I fought it in a mindless panic, tearing at it with my hands. And that panic is what finally snapped me almost fully awake.
I found myself in my Jeep, strapped into the driver’s seat, surrounded on all sides by water rushing in over the lip of the open windows. For a moment I thought I was dreaming, a comforting thought despite the terrifying nature of the dream. My head lolled and my eyes slid shut, but another mouthful of water brought me chokingly awake again. This was no dream. I realized it at the same moment I realized the Jeep was sinking!