Bordeaux: The Bitter Finish

by Janet Hubbard

  “Merde! I’m being accused! I don’t want my name bandied about. Sylvie…”

  Max thought the popping sound she kept hearing was Pascal cracking his knuckles.

  “Does Sylvie know about the affair?” Olivier asked.

  “Of course not.”

  “Did you go back to Ellen’s hotel room after you left the bistro?”

  “No. I told Ellen before I left her room that I had to end the affair.”

  “How did she take it?”

  “She was upset, naturally. I tried to tease her by saying, ‘Ellen, let’s try not to have a bitter finish.’ Max knew the term ‘finish’ defined the after-taste of a wine, but she thought the play-on-words in that situation was unkind. Pascal continued, “She said to me, ‘You are the one who will end up with the bitter finish, Pascal.’”

  “Do you know what she meant?”

  “No. But I knew she could be vindictive.”

  “Someone broke into her hotel room and stole her tasting book. Abdel will have to take your fingerprints.”

  “I’m not a thief!”

  Max considered Pascal a strong suspect. He was a farmer, familiar with plants, and he had a chemical lab for testing wine. The motive was there.

  “When did the affair start?” Olivier asked.

  “A year ago. We met in Paris for dinner, and later I went to New York. I explained to her from the very beginning that I would never leave Sylvie.” Olivier was quiet, and Max could imagine him studying Pascal with his penetrating gaze. She wondered if Pascal knew about the magnum of wine Ellen had with her. If so, could he have somehow gotten access to the hotel safe?

  “Did she mention a special bottle of wine she brought with her?” Olivier asked.

  “No.”

  “She was going to confront someone about counterfeiting.”

  “She said nothing to me about that.” Pascal said, sighing, “I won’t be a scapegoat. If I have to, I will find the murderer.”

  “Ellen had many enemies. Let me do my job,” Olivier said.

  “You know, Ellen was waiting for someone. She told me that she was expecting someone after I left. She also demanded that I cancel the evening with you.”

  “And?”

  “I left a message at your house with Zohra, and told Sylvie that I was too busy to go.”

  “Ellen didn’t mention the name of who was coming to visit?”

  “No.”

  Max heard them stand and prepare to leave. She took a step back further into the shadows, not daring to breathe. Hearing their voices in the retail shop, she quickly moved out into a narrow corridor, and nearly colliding with a woman a foot shorter. It was the hummingbird from the bistro. What is it about these tiny-boned women that makes me feel like I drank too much milk as a child? Max thought.

  “Customers are not allowed to come back here,” the woman said in English.

  “I’m sorry. I was looking for someone to help me.” Max followed behind Sylvie and saw from the window that Abdel and Olivier were huddled in conversation. Their heads turned simultaneously as they looked toward the shop. Abdel was probably telling Olivier that he had sent her to the shop. Just then someone bellowed from the rear of the store, causing Max and Sylvie to freeze. Pascal stomped into the room, swearing. Max pretended to be studying the bottles of wine on the shelves.

  “Where are our vintage cases of wine that were waiting to be loaded on the delivery truck?” Pascal demanded of Sylvia.

  “They are where they were this morning. In the shipping room.”

  “Call Olivier on his cell. They’re gone.” Sylvie said pardon to Max, and ran to the door to call to Olivier, but he and Abdel had reached the top of the hill. She pulled out her mobile and in a moment was speaking rapidly to someone about the theft.

  Pascal noticed Max for the first time, and walked over to her. “I’m guessing you are…were…Madame Jordan’s assistant?” He spoke with a strong accent.

  “Yes. I’m Max Maguire.” She wondered if Ellen had told him anything about her.

  “Were you with her when she died?” he asked in French.

  “Je ne comprends…”

  “Putain,” he said under his breath.

  The front door bell jingled. Abdel entered and shook hands with Pascal and Sylvie, and gave a brief nod to Max. “Monsieur Chaumont is waiting for you to accompany him to the maid’s house,” he said.

  While waiting for change from her wine purchase, Max overheard Pascal demanding to know why Olivier couldn’t return. Abdel replied, “He’s a judge, not a detective. I can either inspect your storage room now, or you can deal with the local gendarmes who usually take care of these kinds of break-ins. What’s missing?”

  “Fifty cases of our famous 2010 Terre Brûlée.”

  “You don’t have a professional security system?” Abdel was asking Pascal as Max slipped out the front door and quickly climbed the hill to Olivier’s car.

  Olivier looked grumpy. Before she had buckled her seatbelt, he said in French, “I know you were behind the boxes eavesdropping on my conversation with Pascal. You forget that my olfactory sense is highly developed, as attuned to your scent as a dog is to his master’s.”

  Dear God, she thought, as the image of a bloodhound came to mind.

  Olivier was taking the curves too fast. She said, “You know from last year that I’m not beyond eavesdropping, sneaking around, acting, whatever it takes when I’m on a case.”

  “This investigation requires a lot of subtlety. You have to understand the mindset of the Bordelaise and the role that wine plays in their lives.”

  Max hoped she didn’t look askance. “If you try to carry on this way in New York, you will find there is a plethora of mindsets. Wine will be perceived by the guys in my precinct as the thing that makes people steal and kill. It’s all glorified here, but when taken down to the lowest common denominator, we’re looking for a bunch of crooks, and maybe a murderer.”

  “Bon,” Olivier said. “Now that you admit to eavesdropping on my interview with Pascal, what is your impression?”

  “Strong motive. And if he has financial problems, even stronger. It’s easy for him to make counterfeit wines with his set-up and to create a poison. It also occurred to me that he could have gotten access to the hotel safe.”

  Olivier couldn’t find a counterargument to any of her points, except the last. “I don’t know how anyone would have succeeded there.”

  “All it would take is someone who is willing to be bribed. Like Cazaneuve. He mentioned that the maid was thrilled with the tips she made.” She repeated the conversation between the hotel owner and the concierge. “Cazaneuve nosed around and saw the cheeses in Ellen’s room.”

  “You and Abdel seem positive that the cheese is the murder weapon,” Olivier said. “I agree that the cheese is the more logical answer, but the killer was stupid to leave it behind. It doesn’t make sense.”

  “He—or she—could have left the room in a hurry once Ellen started throwing up and he knew it was over. Or become alarmed when I knocked on the door at 5:30. I don’t know why Ellen’s million-dollar taste buds didn’t save her. Wouldn’t you think she could taste a poison?”

  “It may have only taken one bite or sip. And some poisons are tasteless,” Olivier said. “If I had it to do over, I wouldn’t have held off the forensics team for so long. If I had called them immediately, the maid would never have had access to the cheese. And your assailant wouldn’t have entered. If I start blaming myself for these failures, though, I’ll have to change careers!”

  “I’ve carried blame for so long I don’t know what it would be like to feel free of it.”

  “From your brother’s death, you mean?”

  My brother and fourteen other things that now include Ellen, she thought. She nodded, and he reached over and put his hand over hers. She found her
self hoping the maid lived a long way outside of Saint-Émilion.

  Chapter Fourteen

  April 4

  The village they entered was typical of little towns scattered about the French countryside that housed field workers. It had a square in the center, a small grocery store and bar adjacent, and a decrepit hotel across the park. An ancient stone church dominated the square. Olivier turned into a dirt road leading to a small dwelling, where two window boxes filled with geraniums were the only hint of color. The late morning breeze had a bite to it, and he thought it would rain soon. An aura of gloom hung over the little house as they approached.

  A man built like a bulldozer stared hard at them from the front stoop as they got out of the car. Olivier introduced himself, and could see the suspicion in Alain Seurat’s eyes. “I’m sorry about your wife,” Olivier said, shaking his hand. “May we come in? I’m interested in the circumstances of Madame Seurat’s death.”

  “Who is this woman?” Monsieur Seurat asked, his attention now on Max.

  “My assistant, Maxine Maguire.”

  “Entrez.”

  They were led into a small dark parlor that smelled of wood smoke and artificial pine. An old, lopsided photograph of Charles de Gaulle hung on the wall, along with a couple of faded posters of generic vineyards. Olivier said, “I’m concerned about food poisoning because your wife and a guest at the Hôtellerie Renaissance died within hours of each other of similar symptoms. Please try to recall if she mentioned eating anything at the hotel.”

  “The help isn’t allowed to eat at the hotel,” Alain said. They followed him into a small kitchen with a sloping floor and shelves nailed to the wall. The room was plain but immaculate. He reached into a cupboard and brought out a large opaque bottle that had no label, and three glasses. “But there was a big dinner,” he continued, “and the hotel owner used extra staff to make it all work. Martine told me she helped in the kitchen, and after, she went to the guests’ rooms to turn down their beds for the evening.”

  The room they were in was hot and stuffy, the ceiling low. Alain lit a Gauloise, and smoke swirled in front of their faces. He poured the dark liquid into the glasses “To my wife,” Alain said, and downed the contents of his glass. Max sipped and thought she had tasted worse.

  “Pas mal, eh?” Alain asked, already pouring another glass for himself, and holding the bottle of homemade wine out for their refills. Olivier shook his head, but Max held out her glass for him to top it off.

  “Continue, please,” Olivier said. Alain described how he had picked his wife up at the hotel and how weary she had been. He turned on the television when they got home and she put some cheese and bread on a plate and joined him.

  “You didn’t want to join her?” Olivier asked.

  “I know it’s not French, but I don’t like blue. In no time she told me her feet were feeling numb,” he said. “She went upstairs and started throwing up. Soon she was pleading with me to take her to the hospital. A few hours later she was gone.”

  “Do you happen to know where the cheese came from?” Olivier asked. “Is it still around somewhere?” Alain shrugged and walked over to the refrigerator. He opened the door and pulled out a plate which held several slices of bread and a lump of cheese. Olivier reached for it and instantly recognized the aroma of the bleu d’Auvergne.

  “It’s supposed to smell like this?” Max asked.

  “The aroma will be much stronger after it has come to room temperature.” Olivier pulled plastic gloves from his pocket and carefully picked up the lump of cheese. He figured there was half an ounce left. Turning to Alain, he said, “I’ll need to take this with me.”

  “What’s this about?” Alain asked.

  “We’re checking every possibility to see if there’s a connection between Madame Jordan’s death and Martine’s. Your wife was working in the kitchen. I don’t know yet if Madame Jordan ate anything the hotel prepared, but it’s a possible link.”

  “Martine was always bringing tidbits home. Like the cheese. We didn’t think of it as stealing, as it was just going in the trash anyway.”

  “Was your wife by any chance carrying a heavy object, like a small metal suitcase, when you picked her up?”

  “No. She had her grand sac, and that was all.”

  “May I see the grand sac?”

  Alain hesitated, then said, “Follow me. It’s upstairs somewhere.” Olivier and Max followed him up the narrow, steep stairs. Alain ducked his head as they filed into the bedroom. “Now, where is it?” he asked, looking around the room that had peeling wallpaper, and one small window. The bed was unmade, and a sick odor hung in the room. He walked over to a chair and picked up a large, black faux leather tote bag, which he turned upside down on the bed. Out fell an ancient tube of lipstick, a wallet, some balled-up Kleenex, a romance novel, a pamphlet on knitting, and an envelope containing a one-hundred-euro bill.

  “Hey! What’s this about?” Alain demanded, picking up the money.

  “I need to take the contents of this bag, but I’ll make sure it’s all returned to you,” Olivier said. He asked Alain for a plastic bag, and the man lumbered back down the stairs.

  “What do you make of the one-hundred euros in the envelope?” Max asked.

  “A tip? Bribe? Grocery money?” Olivier picked up a framed photograph of a woman he assumed to be Martine from the dilapidated dresser in the corner. She had grey, wavy hair and wore glasses, and was smiling broadly.

  Alain returned with the plastic bag and handed it to Olivier. “Martine was at our son’s thirtieth birthday party last May,” he said, looking over Olivier’s shoulder at the photograph. His eyes suddenly began to fill with tears. Feeling at a loss over what to say, Olivier put his hand on the man’s shoulder. Max stood at the window looking out at the gloomy day while trying to breathe something other than smelly cheese, which didn’t mingle well with the cheap wine.

  Olivier asked Alain if he knew where the money came from. Alain shrugged. “Madame Jordan always left her a big tip, but not this much. That’s all I can think of.” He thought for a moment and said, “So the little piece of cheese makes my wife a thief?” His words were slurred.

  “It’s possible she took it from Madame Jordan’s room,” Olivier said. “At great cost to herself. I need your permission to conduct an autopsy.”

  “Pourquoi une autopsie?”

  “We’re looking for the cause of death,” Olivier said calmly.

  “You said food poisoning.”

  “Someone may have intentionally poisoned the cheese.”

  Alain suddenly bellowed. “You think my wife was murdered? I will make somebody pay!” On the way to the front door he poured himself another glass of wine.

  Back in the car, Olivier said, “We have two men threatening revenge of one kind or another. This investigation could quickly get out of hand if I don’t make some progress. I’ll advise the minister of justice to announce immediately that a murder investigation is underway. It might shake up the murderer who no doubt thinks he’s gotten away with it.”

  Max was leaning back, her eyes closed. “Good idea.”

  “The countryside here is beautiful,” he said. “I wish we had time to drive through the Dordogne region nearby.” She cocked one eye open. “Are you okay?” he asked.

  “I tried to pretend I was taking communion while drinking that rotgut,” said Max.

  “Drinking wine like that so early in the day can take its toll, but you seemed to be enjoying it. You took a second glass.”

  “It was my way of commiserating with the poor man.”

  “In another hour he’ll be completely drunk, and then wake up and have to face his wife’s death all over again.”

  “That’s how some people cope with death,” Max said. “It’s how my father reacted to Frédéric’s death. I, on the other hand, rebelled. Jiu-Jitsu finally straightened me o
ut.”

  Olivier cast aside the memory of his own depression after his friend Léa’s death last year, and asked, “And your mother?”

  “I’m not sure. I think she went to mass a lot.”

  “I wish I had that much faith.”

  ***

  Abdel was waiting for them in the temporary office when they returned to the hotel. Olivier said that they could still make the 3:00 train to Paris. Abdel agreed to drive them to the station, and Max ran for her tote bag. Olivier turned over the cheese and the contents of Martine’s bag to his assistant. “Abdel, you’re in charge until I return.”

  Max strode into the room, and was glad after seeing her colleagues’ admiring glances that she had changed into the vintage Chanel jacket she had thrown in at the last moment, and black pants. On the way to the Gare de Bordeaux Saint-Jean, Olivier gave Abdel the details of their visit with Alain Seurat. Abdel jumped in to share his research on poisoning. “The person who poisons is uncomfortable with confrontation. A man who poisons tends to be shy and perhaps emotionally submissive. The one who targets a particular person is often a woman.”

  “That’s interesting, Abdel,” Olivier said. “But we have no female suspects at the moment.” Olivier was relieved that Sylvie’s name didn’t come up.

  “The report is probably based on women poisoning their husbands,” Max said. “It’s a cowardly act that’s hard to prove.”

  Olivier reminded Abdel that they would be back early afternoon tomorrow as he and Max boarded the train. Max announced she was hungry and they made their way to the food bar and ordered a cheese sandwich and a beer. “Are you going to tell my uncle that I’ve been assisting with this case?” Max asked, taking a seat at a tiny table.

  “Yes, it’s time to give a full report to Monsieur Douvier.”

  Olivier asked about her conversation with her grandmother. Max laughed. “It was short. I asked her if I could come to dinner and she said my request was too spontaneous, but yes, come. She sounded younger than I imagined, and she issues commands like a general.”

  “Did she invite you to stay over?”