Give Him the Ooh-la-la

by Lise McClendon

  “Gone.” Amanda sniffed. “Somewhere in North Carolina. The police were here for an hour. They made coffee.”

  Pascal was waving at her, frantically pointing to an old brown brick building with a fire escape hanging above the sidewalk. Merle took a breath and began walking toward him.

  “Why was he in North Carolina?”

  “I have no idea. That’s the thing. He left yesterday morning and he didn’t come back.”

  “He didn’t call you last night?”

  “Oh, Merle. He died last night, they said. He was driving and something happened. He lost control, that was their words.”

  Pascal was pointing to the building door. “Let’s go, Merle. Hang up the phone.” Merle kept the phone to her ear. “I need you,” he hissed.

  “I will come as soon as I can, Amanda. I’m sorry about Clifton. He seemed so — full of life.” The old woman began to sob and Merle ended the call.

  “What happened to Clifton?” Pascal asked as they went up the six steps to the door. A bank of mailboxes with buzzers was fit into the wall on the right. He bent to examine the names.

  “Dead,” Merle said. He straightened, frowning. “Car accident.”

  Pascal cursed under his breath. “Bad luck.”

  “For you or for Clifton?”

  “Both of us.” Pascal looked at the boxes again. “Here. ‘All the World Inc.’ Toulemonde: tout le monde. Press the buzzer. You remember what to say?”

  She stepped closer and pushed on the button. Her mind buzzed with the news of Clifton and she took a second to focus on the task at hand.

  No answer. How long do you wait? Pascal gestured to hit it again just as a scratchy voice came out of the speaker. “Yes? Who is it?”

  “Hello? This is Francine Bennett. I believe you have something that belongs to me. If we can’t come to some agreement I will have to call the police about the theft of my phone.”

  A long pause. Then: “I don’t know what you’re speaking of. Do I know you?”

  “You know you do. Check your handbag.”

  Another long pause. Just then someone came out the door, two women, young, laughing, already dressed in sequins and pearls. Pascal caught the door and pulled Merle inside with him. He headed for the stairs. “Third floor. 3-B.”

  Less than ten seconds later they stood outside the shiny black door of 3-B. Merle caught her breath and slipped on the sunglasses that matched Francie’s. Pascal stood to one side, out of sight of the peep hole. She straightened, raised her fist, and tapped on the door. She kept her head down. The sound of footsteps inside stopped behind the door.

  “I just want my cell phone back. I don’t want any trouble,” Merle called. “Please. Just give it back. I have a reward for you. Look.”

  She held up the $100 bill to the peep hole. “Open the door and it’s yours.”

  “How do I know I can trust you?” the voice behind the door said.

  “Because you have my phone. That’s what this is about. You stole it from me at Curry on Murray. It has a tracker in it and I followed you here. Give me my phone and I give you the hundred. No questions asked.”

  Merle held her breath. She didn’t look much like Francie but their voices were similar. She heard a clicking as the locks were undone. Pascal crouched, ready.

  The door swung open. Before anyone could say anything Pascal stepped into the breach, pushing the door wide. Merle was right behind him. She closed the door quickly.

  “What is the meaning of this?” Denis Toulemonde stood there in a hair net and pink sweater, wearing trousers, barefoot. “How dare you?!” he sputtered, his eye makeup smeared. “Get out of my apartment before I call the police!”

  “What will you tell them about the cell phone in your handbag?” Merle asked, crossing her arms.

  “You—” he sputtered. “You aren’t Francine Bennett.”

  “She was too afraid to come. She’s my sister. I told her I would get her phone back and here I am.” She held out her hand, palm up. “Hand it over, Miss Bosom Drearie.”

  Toulemonde froze, looking at Pascal who had yet to speak, then at Merle, then back at Pascal. His mouth was open, tongue on his teeth. Merle backed up, leaning against the door, as Pascal stepped farther into the immaculate sitting room, small and tidy with a velvet fainting couch and other old world touches. He moved in front of an oil painting, tucking his hands behind him.

  “This is a Pissarro,” Pascal exclaimed. “Well, well. You’ve done very nicely for yourself, Monsieur Toulemonde. A lovely still life. What is it worth? Five-hundred-thousand Euros, a million?”

  “I inherited it,” Toulemonde said, sliding the hair net off his scalp and stuffing it in his pocket. “And it’s not a Pissarro anyway. It’s a copy. It was my grandmother’s.”

  “Fascinating. Where’s the cell phone?” Merle asked.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I have been here all day.” His French accent was getting more pronounced. He ran a hand down his pink sweater and had the decency to look abashed.

  “Except when you were at Curry on Murray with my sister who you just admitted knowing. Picking her pocket. Or should we say, pocketbook?”

  Merle held out her own phone and showed him a photo she’d taken as the two departed, in the fake hug, cheek to cheek. “Nice sweater. You are Bosom Drearie, are you not, Mr. Toulemonde? Why try to hide it? The jig’s up.”

  He crumbled then, collapsing dramatically into a chintz armchair, bent double, hands on his head. “Please. I have to keep my worlds separate. Please.” His voice had turned to a whine. “This is— it will ruin everything.”

  She stepped back. It was Pascal’s turn now. Instead of feeling anxious she felt sorry for the little Frenchman. He was making pitiful crying sounds and gulping air.

  “That can be arranged, monsieur,” Pascal said ominously. Denis looked up, mascara running in black rivers down his cheeks. “You have some information we require.”

  He looked confused, glancing at Merle, at the big silver handbag on the floor by the door, then back at Pascal. “You’re the — the policier.” Light dawned in his eyes. “You threatened me.”

  “And I am back to do it again.” Pascal smiled at him. “If you do not cooperate with the names of the sellers of the Frères Celice vintages we will expose you as this.” He waved a hand over Denis’s figure. “Your business as a wine consultant—” he said consultant like a dirty word— “will be over. Your little intrigues as a seller of counterfeit wine, done. But that, mon ami, is terminé. Because we will be watching you. If you fail to cooperate in this investigation we can only assume the worst. We will tell every wine auction and broker in this city and beyond that you are not to be trusted. You deal in fraudulent wine. You knowingly pass off wine that is worthless as the finest vintages. You cook up labels in your kitchen. You pour cheap wine from Argentina into Bordeaux bottles. You are a fraud, a criminal.”

  Denis gaped at him. “No. Monsieur, please. I do not do these things. Do not —” He broke into a sob. “Please, monsieur. What do you want?”

  “The truth about Clifton Gillespie.”

  He dabbed his eyes with a tissue. “Who?”

  “He gave you these bottles of Frères Celice ’47 and ’48. Or did you do your own handiwork on the bottles?”

  “I don’t do that sort of thing. I hear about it, bien sûr, there are rumors. But I never have knowingly sold anything that wasn’t genuine. I stake my life on it, monsieur. My mother’s life.”

  Pascal tipped his head, his eyes boring into Toulemonde. “All right. It was Gillespie. Where did he get the bottles?”

  “Who is this Gillespie? Is he a wine broker?”

  “In a way. He contacted you nearly ten times in the last months and you pretend you do not know him. He gave you the Frères Celice.”

  “No, no. I know no one by that name, I beg you.”

  Pascal put his hands on his hips. “Well, then, I hope your blue blood customers enjoy buying their over-priced wine fr
om a drag queen. Come, Merle. I believe we are done here.”

  “Wait.” Denis jumped up. “I will show you all my records. You will see. I know all my customers, buyers and sellers. I am completely honest, monsieur. You must believe me.”

  He held his hands up like he surrendering at a stickup. “Completely honest, monsieur, in every way.”

  Twenty-Five

  The train from Penn Station to Levittown took an hour, stopping to let passengers on and off through Queens into Long Island. Pascal and Merle spent most of the time on their phones, standing near the exits for privacy. Merle called Francie and told her to go home, that there was something she needed to do for Amanda. She reassured her younger sister that all had gone well at Denis Toulemonde’s and she was a hero for the French wine industry.

  She couldn’t follow everything Pascal was saying, rattling on in French. He spoke to several people. One sounded like the envoy from the consulate, Antoine Girard. That conversation was intense. Something about Mateo LeBlond?

  Merle found a seat. The train clicked along, stopped, disgorged people, wheezed forward again. She tried to call Amanda to explain she had to take the train today but she’d be there soon. The line was busy. She must have been calling Clifton’s relatives.

  On her phone she scrolled back to her photos of Toulemonde’s account book. Zooming in again on the page where someone named A.M. Wilson had consigned two bottles of Frères Celice ’47 to Wine Toulemonde for auction. September 16th. Toulemonde claimed it was a man, Mr. Wilson, with gray hair, about sixty-five.

  Merle shut her eyes, thinking hard. Had Clifton stolen wine to sell? Did he steal it in Florida, or get it from Amanda? Or was she calling the shots? Was it wine that Harry’s father had imported years before? Or was it counterfeit as the vintners believed?

  Pascal dropped into the seat next to her. “One more stop?” She nodded. “Did you reach her?”

  “She never answered. She may not even be there.” She glanced at him. “Would Toulemonde call and warn her?”

  “I think not,” Pascal said. “Just the whiff of illegality would be devastating for his business.” He waved his phone. “I am wanted back in Manhattan.”

  “By whom?”

  “Girard. It seems Mateo LeBlond has got himself arrested. He has been grabbing women in the buttocks while drinking heavily.”

  “Oops.”

  Pascal smiled. “I am heartsick.”

  *

  The yellow cab dropped them off in front of Amanda’s cottage. A police car sat in the driveway, a white Nassau County cruiser. The drapes were closed across the picture window when they knocked.

  A policewoman came to the door, a middle-aged officer with hard, puffy eyes and brassy hair pulled back off her face. “Yes?”

  “I’m Merle Bennett. Amanda is my aunt. She called me to come out.” She gestured toward Pascal. “And this is my friend, Pascal d’Onscon.”

  The officer sized them up then pushed open the storm door, letting them inside. “She’s pretty messed up by all this. I didn’t want to leave her alone.”

  “Thank you, officer,” Merle said, offering her hand. “We’ll take it from here.”

  “She’s lying down in the back,” the officer said as she gathered her things and slipped out the door.

  Merle stepped quietly down the hall toward the bedroom. The door was open just a crack, the light out, the curtains drawn. Amanda was not lying down however but sitting on the edge of the bed with a small trunk in her lap. She had the lid up and appeared to be touching whatever was inside. Merle paused, watching her. The expression on the woman’s face was strange, hard, determined, but smiling.

  Merle tapped on the door. Amanda jerked, letting the lid of the wooden trunk drop shut with a clunk.

  “Aunt Amanda?” Merle pushed open the door. “I’m here.”

  “Oh, thank goodness. At last.” She rose quickly from the bed, setting the trunk to one side on the bedspread. “I thought you’d never get here. Come, I’ll make us some tea.”

  Merle wrapped an arm around the old woman as Amanda held onto her. She didn’t look distraught but her grasp was tight and warm. She pulled Merle toward the kitchen but stopped in the living room. Pascal stood by the sofa, hands behind his back.

  “My sincere condolences, Mrs. Gillespie,” he said, lowering his head.

  Amanda stiffened. “Thank you, Pascal. You didn’t need to come.” She let go of Merle and shuffled into the kitchen, banging the tea kettle against the faucet as she filled it. The ritual of making tea, the ordinary task of boiling water, the comfort of steam, was universal. Merle found the sugar bowl, spoons, and cups and set them on the plastic-top kitchen table. Pascal sat down and waited silently. When everything was set Amanda hesitated, holding onto the metal chair, then lowered herself slowly.

  “It was nice of the police officer to stay,” Merle offered, blowing on her hot tea.

  “Judy is a good person,” Amanda said.

  “You know her personally?” Pascal asked.

  “Now I do,” Amanda snapped. “She’s been here for hours.”

  “What did you find out?” Merle asked. “About the accident.”

  “He lost control. That’s all they said.”

  “Why was he in North Carolina? Did he tell you he was going south?”

  “I guess he wanted to go home. He didn’t like the cold weather up here.”

  Pascal said, “But he didn’t ask you to go with him?”

  Amanda shrugged. “We had a little fight.” She looked at Merle with pleading eyes. “You know how it is.”

  “What about the wine in the car with him?” Pascal was on point, dogged.

  “What wine?” Amanda said, her eyelids flashing. “There was wine in his car?”

  Merle frowned. He’d never told her that.

  “A case of French wine. Some of it broke. It made it look like he was bleeding more than he really was.”

  Amanda began to breathe faster, her ample chest rising in jerks. Her eyes darted around the kitchen. Pascal was watching her closely. He glanced under the little table then behind him.

  Merle took the old woman’s hand. “Amanda, we know about the Frères Celice wine you sold. It’s okay. Really.”

  Amanda pulled her hand away. “What are you talking about? I’ve just lost my husband, the love of my life. How can you start questioning me?” Her face squeezed and she looked like she was going to cry.

  “No one is questioning you, Mrs. Gillespie,” Pascal said mildly. “Why would we question you? Have you done something wrong?”

  “Stop it, you — you awful, horrible man,” she shrieked, getting to her feet. Her tea cup tipped over and spilled hot liquid over the tabletop. Merle went to the sink for a towel to sop it up. “How could you bring him here when I’m so fragile?”

  Pascal folded his arms, smiling. “Fragile? Does that have a different meaning in English?”

  She threw up her hands and cried out. “Get out! Get out of my house!”

  “Now, Amanda, don’t upset yourself,” Merle said, patting her on the shoulder. “Pascal didn’t do anything. And we have to call a cab when we leave. We didn’t drive ourselves this time.”

  “Yes, madame, I am so sorry to cause you distress,” Pascal said even though no one believed him. “Perhaps we should all have a little wine to relax. Forget this tea business. Wine is the ticket. That’s what we do in France.”

  “I don’t like wine.” Amanda fell back into her chair again, her temper gone.

  Pascal glanced at Merle. She said, “Is that why you sold the Frères Celice? Because you don’t like wine?”

  Amanda shook her head slowly but said nothing.

  Pascal said, “I imagine that case of wine in Clifton’s car cost a bundle. Such a shame. Eight-thousand times twelve? Ouch. What is that, Merle?”

  “Ninety-six thousand dollars.”

  “Down the drain,” he added.

  Amanda’s chin jutted out, her jaw working. “How could he? Afte
r all I did for him.”

  “The bastard,” Merle added for good measure. “Stealing your wine.”

  “Was that the last of it?” Pascal asked. “In Weston’s cellar?”

  “There’s more,” Amanda said quietly.

  “I doubt it,” Pascal said. “You must have sold it all off by now. Buying the beach house and the four condos in Florida was expensive, wasn’t it?”

  The old woman glared at him. “Not for someone like me.”

  “Someone smart, very clever, you mean.”

  She smiled coquettishly and somehow Merle knew he had won. “And patient. The patient ones always win, if they’re smart.” They smiled at each other for a long beat then Merle interrupted.

  “Can I see it, Amanda? I always wanted to see Weston’s wine.”

  *

  Beneath the hall runner, a heavy old Oriental, on a spring-loaded mechanism for easy access if a person had a key, the trap door to the cellar waited. Amanda pulled the key from her cleavage where it hung on a long chain. She muttered about Clifton’s betrayal, how he must have taken it off her in the night and snuck downstairs. Pascal pulled the latch and the well-oiled hinges pulled back, revealing a steep flight of stairs. A light came on automatically. Pascal offered his hand to the old woman and she took it, stepping down the wooden steps.

  “There’s a railing on the right,” she called, her mood light, almost excited. Showing off her big secret at last.

  Merle then Pascal stepped below, bending to miss hitting their heads on the edge of the flooring. The basement was unexpectedly large, and high-ceilinged. The air was musty and cool. Somewhere a fan rattled. The floor was cement. Besides a few paint cans it was empty.

  “This way,” Amanda said, pulling a cord for another lightbulb. Merle was having flashbacks of the cellar in Malcouziac, the wine cave hidden behind a half-century’s junk, inside a wooden door very much like the one in front of her now. Weston had fashioned this cellar like his original one and squirreled away another stash of fine vintages.

  Amanda unlocked the door with a second key and turned on a light inside the cellar. It was clean, cool, and tidy in here, racks lining the two long walls. The wood racks were half empty, nearly three-quarters.