Bordeaux: The Bitter Finish

by Janet Hubbard

  “What are you suggesting? The fact that it’s you standing before me, asking me questions, suggests that someone committed a crime with my cheese. That’s sacrilège!”

  “I agree. May I have the list no later than tomorrow?”

  “I will do my best, but as you can see, every housewife in the vicinity comes in here several times a week. And these days it’s not just housewives. We have many male customers as well, along with tourists.”

  “Try to recall anyone coming in who wasn’t a regular customer.”

  Monsieur Delorme’s wife beckoned to him and he stood up. “Who’s the poor victim?” he asked before walking away. “Anyone we know?”

  “It will be announced soon. I’m especially interested in anyone who purchased blue cheeses.”

  “Do you know which one?”

  “It was bleu d’Auvergne.”

  Monsieur Delorme’s mouth turned down. “I feel sorry for the producteur de fromages, and for myself,” he said. “People will be afraid to buy the cheese once the news is out.”

  Olivier nodded his head in commiseration. Local producers had dropped to around three-thousand, compared to the many thousands who were producing unpasteurized cheese in the 1970s. Instead of cheese-making being a natural occurrence, it was now artisanal, a word Olivier had grown to dislike for its snobbishness. “Commissaire Zeroual will check in with you tomorrow.”

  The proprietor watched Max and Abdel for a moment. “What woman doesn’t like cheese?” Shaking his head, he strolled over to his wife, equally distressed that an attractive woman was steadfastly refusing his fare.

  Olivier joined his assistants. “These used to be the rooms of a medieval convent,” he said in an attempt to be civil.

  “I’d like to see more,” said Max.

  “There’s no point if you don’t eat cheese.” Just like that, he was back in the game, unable to control his competitive spirit, and annoyed with himself because of it. He ambled over to a small table. “Here’s a chèvre. A goat cheese.”

  “I know what goat cheese is.”

  “But you’ve never tasted anything quite like this. French women don’t put on weight eating cheese by the way.” He cut a thin slice, “Here, this is the best on the market.”

  Max shook her head slightly and started toward the door. “Later.”

  Abdel wore a smug expression. He was winning again, and Olivier wondered if he had confided their game to Max. Olivier watched as Max turned and smiled at the proprietor, explaining that she would be back to taste, but that today she wasn’t feeling well. Olivier shook hands with the Delormes, and quickened his pace in order to catch up.

  As the three colleagues climbed the hill, Olivier spoke to Abdel in French, “We both lost. What got into her?”

  “She wasn’t hungry,” Abdel said,

  “I think she understands French. It’s subtle, so subtle that I almost missed it. And why not, with a French mother, and a semester abroad when she was in college? Everyone in Champagne was amazed by her intuition, when maybe it was simply that she understood everything she heard.”

  Abdel stared at him as though he were crazy.

  “Come,” Olivier said. “I’m going to test her.”

  Max was slightly ahead of them. The two men caught up and Olivier spoke in French to Abdel, loud enough for Max to hear. “Véronique Michaud is coming to do a photo shoot at Château Cheval Blanc and invited me to a dinner tomorrow evening. I may have to ask you to meet her at the airport.”

  Max stopped to gaze in a window, seemingly in her own world. “I saw Véronique on the arm of a famous rock singer,” Abdel said. “She continues to be a sensation wherever she goes.”

  “The public is obsessed with celebrities,” Olivier sniffed.

  “What will Max do while you’re at the party?” Abdel asked.

  Max turned and spoke in French, her voice steely. “I don’t need either of you arranging my evening fun. I’m sure that I can find something to entertain me.”

  Olivier looked at Abdel as if to say, ‘I told you so.’ Obviously sensing a spat, Abdel excused himself to go and make phone calls.

  Max turned and locked eyes with Olivier. Hers were narrowed, and he knew she was angry. “I played the game in the cheese shop because I wanted you to know,” Max said. “I thought I was being funny. I don’t see any humor in Véronique coming to town, however.”

  Olivier suddenly realized that he and Max could be on a slippery slope. He had swept her back into his life last night, and while he didn’t regret it, he couldn’t believe how suddenly he was on the defensive. “I hardly find it amusing that you lied about your language ability the entire time you were in Champagne. Even at the end, you didn’t feel like revealing the truth?”

  “I did, but the moment didn’t come up.”

  They walked along in silence, both feeling betrayed.

  When they entered the hotel lobby they were interrupted by someone calling out “Madame! Madame!” Madame Madeleine Cassin, the hotel owner, handed Max a bouquet of flowers, then extended her hand to Olivier for a handshake.

  “For me?” Max asked. She took the flowers, then opened the card and read out loud in English, Please join me for a wine tasting at the Château Laussac tomorrow at four, followed by dinner at my favorite restaurant. I don’t take no for an answer. I look forward to seeing your smile again, Vincent

  “You have an admirer,” Olivier said.

  “The answer to our problem of what to do with me tomorrow night just dropped out of the sky,” Max said, smiling. She paused to ask Madame Cassin for a vase of water, and the woman took the flowers and said she’d have the maid deliver them to her room within the hour.

  Olivier regretted using his invitation from his ex as a means of exposing Max’s subterfuge, but at the same time there was nothing to apologize for. “About our respective invitations…”

  “As far as I’m concerned, Olivier, this is not about us, but about an opportunity to acquire information. It makes sense for me to go with Vincent.” Olivier nodded in agreement, but didn’t feel happy about the way things were turning out. They entered the office, where Abdel hovered over the desk, making notes. He glanced up, appearing slightly nervous, but relaxed when Max was all business.

  “I need to add a few things to our growing list of evidence,” she said. She sat, and Olivier did, too. “Before Ellen’s tasting book was stolen, I looked through it. She had only graded around ten wines, and Pascal’s was among them. She lowered the score of his Terre Brûlée to an 88.”

  Olivier said, “You must be mistaken. He’s never come in that low.”

  “I’m not mistaken, but of course we can’t prove it because the tasting book was stolen. I could imagine Pascal being desperate to get his hands on it, though some of the other scores were also lowered.”

  “Are you implying that Pascal was the intruder in your room?”

  “If he’s big and stocky, I’d look into it.”

  “He would have to know that she lowered it,” Olivier explained. “And no matter what, I don’t see him breaking and entering.”

  “Monsieur Laussc’s 2010 wine went up two points,” Max said. “He might also want that book to use as proof in his suit against the appellation committee.”

  Olivier thought it far-fetched that either man would risk his reputation to acquire the scores, and said so. “What do you have so far?” Olivier asked Abdel, who was busy typing their discussion into his computer.

  Abdel was ready. “I spoke with Monsieur Bill Casey. He verified that Ellen Jordan left his apartment with a magnum of 1945 Mouton-Rothschild that she was taking to Bordeaux.”

  He needed to verify the obvious? thought Max stifling her annoyance. Abdel continued reading from his notes. “Monsieur Casey said that Ellen Jordan’s birthday dinner went sour once she declared the wine fake. He’s now sorry he gave
her the second magnum to bring to France, and wants it back.”

  “Sounds like he wants to give up learning the truth in order to make more money,” Max said. “Wait until he hears it’s been stolen.”

  “He’s offering another tasting from the same lot,” Abdel said. “He knew that Madame Jordan was taking the wine to you, Monsieur, and called your office to extend an invitation. He was no doubt assuming that you would be attending Madame Jordan’s funeral.”

  “You’re flying over for the memorial service?” Max asked.

  “We can discuss this later,” Olivier said. “Find out the name of the maid who cleaned Madame Jordan’s room, Abdel, and put her at the top of the list to be interviewed. She may have seen something. Continue with your notes.”

  “Monsieur Barthes told me he took a room here and was entertaining a few clients between the hours of 5:30 and 8:00, a few doors down from Madame Jordan. I checked with Madame Cassin and it’s true. The room was charged to his company. This is how he had such ready access to the private floor.”

  “That makes sense. Anything else?”

  “The wine auctioneer, Paula Goodwin, is to attend the dinner at Cheval Blanc.” Not waiting for Olivier to ask, he listed a few facts. “She’s a big success story. Started out working in a retail store, and went on to acquire a Master of Wine certificate. She has been at Blakely’s Auction House for a decade. I have an entire report here.” He placed it on the desk in front of Olivier.

  “She sent regrets to Ellen that she couldn’t make the en primeur because of illness,” Max recalled aloud, “then showed up at the hotel the day Ellen became ill. She was on her way to Paris.”

  “Make sure that’s what she did,” Olivier told Abdel.

  “She flew over on Bill Casey’s private plane,” Max said. “She had a client who wanted to buy the three remaining magnums of Mouton-Rothschild, which Ellen wasn’t happy about for obvious reasons. They seemed friendly enough.”

  “I wonder if they were allies in the rarified world they inhabited,” Olivier said.

  “I think they tried to present a united front as the two most powerful women in the wine world, but I wonder, too.” Max paused. “A friend of Paula’s wanted to meet Ellen, and she told her as she was racing off that she would call her from Casey’s plane back to New York and tell her who. I just remembered that.”

  Another leaf blowing by, Olivier thought, that probably needs to be picked up and examined. Every hand wave or smile took on significance after someone was murdered, he realized. “Abdel, see if there is a phone record of Madame Goodwin calling the hotel late afternoon,” Olivier said.

  It was time to map out the day. “Abdel will check on the maid’s status, and continue collecting information about guests at the hotel,” he said. “I have to make a quick trip to Paris later today for a meeting with Douvier, and tomorrow morning I will meet with Monsieur LeGrand and see what the forensic autopsy revealed.”

  Just as he thought, Max’s eyes were wild with hope. He had already decided that this small, investigative excursion would give them a chance to spend time together. “Any chance I can go?” she asked. Imagine, Olivier thought, Max is becoming predictable. Or maybe, he thought, he was just getting better at anticipating her responses.

  “I don’t see why not. The train leaves at 3:00. We’ll be in the city by 6:15 or so.”

  “It might be the only chance for me to meet my grandmother. I’ll call to see if I can stay with her.”

  Olivier felt flattened by her pronouncement. How could he object, though, without sounding as though he had an ulterior motive?

  Chapter Thirteen

  April 4

  It was more challenging than Max had imagined maintaining a professional boundary with Olivier, especially now that they had rushed into bed together. There were still a lot of questions left unanswered, and no opportunity to air out feelings. Olivier, she knew, had hoped for a night in Paris—she could still read him pretty well—but she had jumped in with the grandmother visit, which she knew was more a reaction to the threat she was feeling around Véronique’s arrival than to any sense of urgency about meeting her grandmother.

  She dialed the number of the consulate and was told that the mortuary certificate, the foreign death certificate, and transit permit could be picked up tomorrow in Paris. She next telephoned her grandmother.“C’est ta petite-fille, Max Maryse,” she said in French to the woman who answered. “I’m going to be in Paris this evening and would like to meet you.”

  “C’est trop spontanée! Mais je n’ai pas le temps de préparer quelque chose!” Isabelle de Laval replied. Max apologized in her best French for being too spontaneous and said that a simple meal would be fine. Isabelle hesitated, then said, “Alors, Maxine, viens a diner à sept heures. Au Revoir.”

  I am no longer Max, nor am I to speak English, and I am due for dinner at seven, Max repeated after hanging up. She tossed a few items into her tote bag, and sat down to scribble notes in her journal. She listed the missing magnum, wine-tasting book, and blue cheese as evidence, then made a second list of what she had seen that provided clues—the condom, the threatening note, the emails from Pascal Boulin, Bill Casey, and Paula Goodwin. She made an additional note: word had gone out quickly about Ellen Jordan’s pronouncement that a famous vintage wine was fake. Mistake # 1: Ellen opened the door to someone she trusted. Mistake #2: Ellen didn’t open door when I knocked, but cheerfully sent me on my way. Mistake #3: I didn’t insist on her opening the door.

  She decided to go to Pascal Boulin’s wine shop to find a special bottle for her grandmother. She ran down the carpeted stairs, but stopped when she heard a woman’s voice exclaim, “Morte! Ce n’est pas possible!” Max stepped back out of sight, straining to hear the conversation. “Two deaths in twenty-four hours in my hotel!” the proprietress said, “Madame Jordan, and now my head maid.” Max peered around the wall and saw that Madame Cassin was in conversation with the concierge, Edouard Cazaneuve.

  Cazaneuve said, “I forgot to tell Martine that staff was not to enter Madame Jordan’s room. She changed the sheets after Madame Jordan was taken to the hospital. I went up to tell her, but it was done and she was in the assistant’s room, turning the bed down.”

  “Why are you telling me this?” Madame Cassin asked.

  “I’m saying that she may have caught the virus from Madame Jordan. Or eaten something that Madame Jordan ate…”

  “Such as?”

  “Something from the kitchen? Or cheeses that were in Madame Jordan’s mini-fridge. There was a nice variety.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I saw them.” His voice had taken on an arrogant tone. “I’ve caught Martine stealing a few items in the past and told her if it happened again I’d report her. She looked guilty when I looked in on her in Madame Jordan’s room and caught her standing in front of the refrigerator.”

  “You should have come to me immediately.”

  “I saw no point. It’s my job to oversee the maids.” He stopped to answer the telephone and when he hung up said, “That same night Martine was responsible for Monsieur Barthes’ suite. She told me as she was leaving that she thought she had enough in tips to buy her and her husband a mini-vacation.”

  “What sums of money are you talking about? I don’t like this.”

  “No idea.”

  Exasperated, Madame Cassin said, “With Olivier Chaumont personally involved, there is more going on than we know. With only you and me having the code to the safe, well…the heavy package was quite valuable, evidently.”

  “What are you saying, Madame?”

  “I certainly didn’t remove the package. Did you by any chance leave the door to the office unlocked?”

  “No. Maybe Madame Jordan’s assistant took it. I’ve been keeping my eye on her. She sneaks around like a lizard.”

  Max stood rooted to the spot, too
horrified over the maid’s death to be insulted by Cazaneuve’s remark, though she wouldn’t forget it. They were dealing with a double homicide, she realized, even though one was unintentional.

  99

  Abdel was making a chart of names when Max entered the office. “I’m making a list of the people staying here at the hotel,” he said, “and a list of the guests who attended the Laussac dinner. Pure drudgery.”

  “I have news…”

  Before Max could utter the news of Martine, the door flew open and Madame Cassin entered and said in French, “I’ve just learned that our senior maid Martine has died! Her husband called.”

  Abdel asked Max to go find Monsieur Chaumont adding, “He’s at Monsieur Boulin’s wine shop at the bottom of the hill.”

  She took off. The wine shop was tucked between two limestone buildings, but stood out because of its red gabled roof and red door. It was difficult for Max to negotiate her way around the shop that was no bigger than the average living room, with boxes piled up everywhere. She paused to look around, then stepped into a dimly lit hallway, and was about to shout hello when she heard Olivier’s familiar voice. She stepped behind a high stack of wine boxes to listen.

  Olivier said, “Pascal, you were, as far as I know, the last person to see her alive. A maid saw you knock at her door at 2:30 in the afternoon.”

  Max recognized Pascal’s voice from the bistro. “I never checked the time, but I went to her around that time and stayed a couple of hours, then met Sylvie at the bistro across the street. I know it was 4:20 then because I was supposed to meet Sylvie at 4:30 and I arrived a few minutes early.”

  “What time did you leave the bistro?”

  “I had to check on something at the winery before driving to your house for dinner. Perhaps 5:15 or so. I sent Ellen an email from my office.” Max recalled that it came in at 6:45. “Ellen never responded. Why all these questions?”

  “Ellen, we are almost certain, was murdered.”A stunned silence followed. “Forensics took a used préservatif from Ellen’s room. We’re conducting a DNA test.”