Bordeaux: The Bitter Finish

by Janet Hubbard

  She directed the narrow beam of light to a couple of tailored suits in the closet that hung like ghosts, then scanned the bed and night table, noticing a pair of reading glasses on the table and beside them the leather notebook that Ellen used to record wine scores. She walked over and picked it up. There were ten entries, the Laussac wine and Pascal Boulin’s among them. Boulin’s score had dipped down to 88, a baleful score for a wine that had, in the past, reached 98. Laussac’s 2010 score had climbed a couple of points, enough to redeem his reputation.

  She next thumbed through Ellen’s address book which was also lying on the bedside table, and a slip of paper fell out. Bingo! The threatening note. Max jammed it into her jeans pocket. A business card was tucked inside. She removed it and shone the light on it. It was Olivier’s, with his home, mobile, and private office number scratched on the back. How curious, she thought. Why would he have given her his personal contact information? She slid it into her pocket and put the tasting book back on the table. Enough rummaging. She picked up Ellen’s laptop and put it next to the balcony door.

  Typical party noise wafted into the room. A quick look in the salle de bain and she’d be back in her own room. She closed the door behind her. A blue silk robe hung from a hook behind the door, and Ellen’s cosmetic pouch hung from a towel holder. Max’s eyes followed the course of the light into the wastebasket. She picked up tweezers from the shelf and saw beneath the condom wrapper the spent condom. A DNA dream, Max thought. In the world she operated in, lovers and husbands were first persons-of-interest. All she had to go on so far was her mother’s statement about Pascal Boulin, but that could have changed. For a fleeting second she speculated about Olivier.

  She left the bathroom, carefully rotating the skinny beam of light around the room, and froze. A hulking figure wearing a ski mask stood facing her. As he lunged, she stepped back and threw the flashlight at him. A soft thud told her she had hit her mark, but she didn’t wait to see where. Her instinct made her turn sideways into his attack. She rammed the side of her head into his belly, while grabbing and lifting his leg. He fell backwards. Hard. Max planted her foot on his exposed throat and reached down for the small flashlight, focusing the beam on his face.

  She spoke in French in a low voice, “I’m going to remove your mask. Do not struggle or I will crush your neck. You’ll take your last breath ever.” He lay still, panting. As she started to lean over to yank off his mask, she heard a sound at the door. Startled, she lifted her foot from the intruder’s throat, who took advantage of the distraction, grabbing her ankle with both his hands, and giving it a twist. Max went sailing into the table holding the wine bottles, creating a tremendous din as they crashed to the floor.

  A loud baritone voice yelled from the hallway, “Ouvrez! La police!” Max reached down and grabbed the laptop, looped the strap around one shoulder and hurried onto Ellen’s balcony, where she saw the back of a man rushing down the cobblestoned path. She made a split-second decision to jump from the balcony in pursuit. Grasping the railing with both hands, she swung her body over it, and landed right side up on her feet, the laptop still attached. She went past the church as fast as she could on the cobblestone path and paused to listen. Accompanied by jazz music emanating from the hotel, she backtracked to the front of the hotel, then raced to the street that ran past it. A couple had stopped to kiss under a streetlight. She ran up and asked them if they had seen a lone man running and they shook their heads.

  What if he was clever enough to blend in with the hotel staff, she wondered. She walked into the kitchen from the back entrance and looked around. How would she know if he was there? She saw the stairs and rushed up to the ground level floor, noticing a small bar. A perfect place to get her bearings.

  The dimly lit room was divided into four areas; the far section occupied by two men having a drink and engrossed in conversation. A soaring arrangement of lilies in the center of the room emitted a sweet, pungent aroma. In the corner, next to the bar, was a table with three stools placed around it. Winded, and trying to appear normal, Max sat on the far stool and looked out at the lobby. Her back hurt like hell from crashing into the table in Ellen’s room, but it helped to think the masked intruder was probably in worse shape than she was. She set the laptop case down beside her. It was no good to her if she didn’t have Ellen’s user name and password. She glanced at her watch. As much as she hated asking Joe for anything, he was the precinct’s computer guru, and would know exactly what to do.

  She cast a surreptitious glance over at the two men in the corner who were arguing in stage whispers. One of them got up and listed across the room, stopping in the middle to regain his balance. She continued watching him out of the corner of her eye as he lurched past the reception desk and entered the hotel restaurant, his muscles bulging under a tight gray suit jacket. One of those guys who lives in a gym, Max mused to herself. The other was none other than Vincent, who made a beeline over to her, carrying a small plate of food which he placed in front of her, as though he had been expecting her. “You changed your mind,” he said. He smiled down at her, and despite herself, she smiled back. He picked up a morsel of squab and chickpeas and slid it into her mouth, a sensuous act that would have given anyone watching the impression that they had known each other a long time. “I’ll order a proper dinner for you,” he said. “You’re jet-lagged and can’t sleep?”

  “Don’t order dinner,” she said. “I’m only here for a minute.”

  “A glass of wine won’t hurt,” he said. “Here, take a sip of this Graves,” Vincent said. “It’s a Smith Haut-Lafitte, to be exact, a wonderful château you should visit while you’re here.” Max obliged, and then took another taste of the squab, grateful to have something in her stomach. Though the wine was delicious, it wasn’t helping in the least to allay her anxiety. Her status was rapidly deteriorating from intruder-chaser to fugitive. It was time to run upstairs and confess everything to Abdel, who was surely on the prowl for her. She hoped that Olivier had forgotten all about dinner and gone home.

  Vincent’s mobile rang, and while he was talking, it occurred to her that he might let her make a quick call. When he hung up, she asked if he had international minutes, and he handed her the phone. “Call China if you want,” he said, and wandered off to greet a man who had just entered the bar. She had only been there fifteen minutes at most, but that was an eternity if they were searching for her upstairs. It wouldn’t take Joe long to figure out the codes. It was 5:30 in the morning in New York.

  “Detective Laino.”

  “Joe, it’s me, Max.”

  “Yeah?” His voice softened. “You back?”

  “I need you to refresh my memory about hacking into a computer.”

  “You’re not in enough trouble? Whose?”

  “Ellen Jordan’s. The wine critic.”

  The silence that followed told her he was paying attention. “Give me a good reason why.”

  “She’s dead.”

  “Shit, Babe. She was offed?”

  “I’m trying to find out.”

  “This isn’t free, you know.” He was enjoying his few seconds of power over her.

  “Hurry,” she whispered.

  “Okay, here’s what you do.” He started giving clear instructions.

  “Got it. Call you later.”

  She walked toward the table where Vincent was sitting to hand the phone back, but Abdel stopped her in her tracks, wrapping his hand around her upper arm. “People are looking for you,” he said. He took the phone from her hand and handed it to Vincent.

  Vincent looked up at Abdel, “I hate watching men manhandle women.”

  Abdel released Max’s arm as though he had been burned, never taking his eyes off her. She stepped over to the little bar and picked up Ellen’s laptop, and trailed out behind him as he continued texting as they climbed the stairs. She was sure that Olivier was the recipient. Abdel turned back t
o look at her, “We thought something had happened to you. Someone broke into Ellen Jordan’s room, and you were nowhere to be found.”

  “I’ll explain.”

  They entered her room where Olivier sat in a chair facing the door. A tray with a bottle of wine and two dinners sat on the table. Looking from Abdel to Olivier, she couldn’t believe the hostility on their faces.

  Chapter Eight

  April 2

  “I found her in the bar with Monsieur Barthes,” Abdel said in French, obviously put out with her.

  “It never occurred to me that you might be enjoying yourself,” Olivier said to Max, “I apologize for disturbing you.”

  “No need for sarcasm, Olivier. You’ve got it all wrong. I stopped at the bar to collect my thoughts after losing the guy who attacked me in Ellen’s room.”

  Just as he had suspected, she caused the ruckus in the room next door. Remembering her penchant for starting her stories in the middle, he said, “Start at the beginning. You wanted to beat forensics to the evidence. At least admit it.”

  “Okay, I confess. It feels like a stupid move now, but my gut feeling that Ellen was murdered needed some back-up. I wanted a couple of items before forensics got in there.”

  Olivier wasn’t appeased. “Was the intruder waiting for you?”

  “He came in while I was in the bathroom. Ellen’s balcony door was unlocked, which I thought odd. I slipped on my gloves, and quietly went about the business of finding clues. I was ready to leave, but decided to give the salle de bain a quick look. When I exited the bathroom, a stocky guy wearing a mask came at me and we fought. It ended with him throwing me against the table and the wine bottles went crashing to the floor.”

  “And here you are. No bruises, no scratches.”

  “My back hurts, but he might have a hard time swallowing. I was this close to smashing in his windpipe.”

  “You followed him to the hotel bar?”

  “When I rushed to the balcony I saw a man rushing down the street past the church and jumped down and gave chase. He vanished, so I thought he might have re-entered the hotel and hidden in a broom closet or in the kitchen. No luck. I happened to pass the bar on the way back to my room and decided to catch my breath. Vincent was there, and I wanted to tell him that Ellen was bringing him a magnum of wine that she suspected was counterfeit.”

  So that was what Ellen Jordan was bringing me, Olivier thought. “Do you have the bottle?”

  “It’s in the safe downstairs. I decided to wait for you before I reclaimed it. Ellen put my name on a form that allows me access.”

  Olivier stood up. “Let’s go, then.” They moved quietly down the stairs in order not to attact any attention. Olivier spoke to Cazaneuve, holding up his identity card. “Bonjour, Monsieur. I want the aluminum case from the safe belonging to Ellen Jordan.”

  “May I ask what size and shape, Monsieur?”

  Max stepped forward and spoke in English. “Ms. Jordan and I went with you to put it in the safe. I saw you personally write my name on the form. It’s a vertical case, aluminum, and heavy.”

  He gave an exaggerated shrug. “Many guests put items in the safe. I’ll go look.”

  “We’ll come, too,” Olivier said.

  “His sudden amnesia is maddening,” Max said, as they waited for him to wait on another guest.

  Olivier said, lowering his voice, “Do you recall the label?”

  “1945 Château Mouton-Rothschild.”

  “What? That’s a famous vintage!”

  “Worth $32,000 if authentic, and nothing if counterfeit.” She gave him the short version of the bottle’s journey.

  Cazaneuve told them to follow him as he stepped out of the office and down a narrow hallway to a locked door. He opened it and led them to a larger-than-average safe, and began turning the dial. Madame Cassin entered. “Is everything okay?” she asked. The safe door opened, and Cazaneuve peered in. “What are you looking for, Edouard?” Madame Cassin asked.

  He explained in a terse voice.

  He stooped down and moved a few items around, then beckoned Max over to see for herself. The aluminum box was gone. “Edouard, return to the desk,” Madame Cassin ordered her employee, ignoring his hostile look. “We’ll call you if we need you.” She apologized to Olivier, explaining that it was their busiest day of the season.

  “We will have to bring the police in this evening,” Olivier said. “How many people have access to the code?”

  “Monsieur Cazaneuve and I.”

  “Do you keep a copy of the code somewhere?”

  “Yes.” She walked to a mahogany desk, and reaching under the drawer extracted a key and unlocked the drawer. She nervously rifled through it until she found a small sheet of embossed stationary from an envelope, which had the code written on it.

  “How long has Monsieur Cazaneuve worked here?”

  “Eight years. I trained him.”

  “You’ve never had a problem with theft before now?”

  “We have smaller safes in the rooms. Only a few people have complained over the past five years.”

  “Any problems with Monsieur Cazaneuve?”

  “I have to remind him from time to time who’s in charge.”

  “Has he had any accusations by guests or others?”

  She stopped to think. “My senior maid, Martine, and he don’t get along, but that’s to be expected in this business. Nothing serious that I know of.”

  Olivier and Max went back up the stairs, their shoulders slumped. “We definitely have a case,” Olivier said. “I’m not sure about murder, but we have a major theft.”

  ***

  Back in Max’s room, he lifted the silver dome covers off the plates, and poured the wine. “Our dinner is getting cold. Duck breast is a specialty of Bordeaux. “And I think you’ll like the wine.”

  “You’re going to relax enough to dine?”

  “Chaos reigns. Reflect. Repent and reboot. Order shall return. It’s similar to a Japanese haiku.” He handed her a glass.

  “I thought it was advice from your life coach.”

  “We don’t have those. What do they do?”

  “Tell clients to repent and reboot. I’m teasing you, you know.” She ate with relish. “Thanks for not being mad at me for going into Ellen’s room.”

  He was content to be in her presence again, surprised at how comfortable it was. “Why did you do it, Max? You knew I’d be upset.”

  “My dad.”

  “He told you to ransack her room?”

  “He told me the whole story was there, and better to beat everybody else to it. He’s old school.” She looked into his eyes. “I shouldn’t blame him, though. I wanted to find something that might offer up a clue. Something concrete that would confirm what I’m thinking.” Olivier thought he would have felt the same way, but probably wouldn’t have acted on it. “I thought I could get over to Ellen’s room and be out in fifteen minutes, with no one the wiser.”

  “So what story did you find in the room?”

  “I have to admit I was shocked to see your card with all your phone numbers on it.”

  “H-mm.”

  “I thought for one fleeting second that you were her mystery paramour this afternoon, except it’s likely that whoever was with her killed her, and you’re not in that league.”

  He had come to full attention. “How kind you are to let me off the hook. It’s the most absurd accusation ever directed at me, by the way.” He remembered that she took every piece of evidence to its extreme in her imagination, sometimes finding uncanny solutions. “Why was she so intent on bringing the wine to me?”

  “I think once she succeeded in convincing Bill Casey to let her have a bottle, she decided to take it to someone she trusted. She told me that you got her off a DUI charge, and she liked you.”

  “We
got along well.”

  “You’re a magistrate, which to her meant you could decide what to do with it, either take it to a new company she had heard about in France, or maybe taste it with her.”

  “I wouldn’t trust myself far enough to determine the authenticity of a wine, though I do have a good nose, which is the key to tasting.”

  “Ellen was secretive this afternoon, but did say before I left that this evening she would reveal the name of the person she suspected might be involved in a counterfeit operation, and the name of her lover. I called my mother who told me his name: Pascal Boulin.”

  Olivier set his glass down, too shocked to say anything. “I don’t believe it.”

  “If anyone would know, it’s my mother,” Max said.

  A light knock on the door interrupted them. Abdel stuck his head in to announce that forensics had arrived, and Olivier told him to take charge and that he’d join him in a minute.

  “Continue,” Olivier said to Max.

  She sipped her wine. “I was thinking about Vincent,” she said. “The odd thing is he doesn’t match the strait-laced description Ellen gave me of our host.”

  “I have a confession to make,” Olivier said. “I am the chef and the host that you keep making disparaging remarks about.”

  Max’s head jerked up. “You?”

  “You and Ellen were due at my house at eight for dinner. Abdel was planning to pick you up, which is why he was near the hotel.”

  “I’ll be damned.” It was the first time he had seen her speechless. “The only explanation is that my mom and Ellen were matchmaking.”

  “I did think it strange when Madame Jordan called to ask if she could bring her assistant.”

  “I would have died of embarrassment.”

  “It would have been amusing.”

  “Better that than what ended up happening,” she said. “It still hasn’t sunk in that Ellen is gone.”