Bordeaux: The Bitter Finish

by Janet Hubbard

  “Max.”

  “Don’t ‘Max’ me. Please. Go.”

  Max thought the man she was in love with and his ex-girlfriend the quintessence of a gorgeous, wealthy French couple as she watched them walk away. She took a deep breath and joined Vincent, and they strolled out into the waning evening light. He stopped to look across the vineyard, where tiny buds were forming on the stalks. The light was pristine, the air moist. He said in a wistful voice, “The wine will always be here, but it extracts higher and higher prices from us all.”

  “That’s a gloomy thought,” she said. “What does it mean?”

  He gave a vague smile. “It’s about regret, but it’s a long story.” He looked into her eyes. “An even gloomier thought is that you are more attracted to Olivier Chaumont than to me. Or did I read it wrong?”

  Max blushed at being caught out. “I find him interesting.”

  “You have some stiff competition, that’s all I can say.” What effrontery, she thought.

  François, who had been seeing a guest off, strutted over to them. Placing his hand on Vincent’s shoulder and, ignoring Max, he spoke rapidly in French. “Chantal told me you bumped into Yannick Martin in our private collection?”

  “Yes, Monsieur, he was in the alley, looking for a coat he had left.”

  François frowned, “I don’t like his opportunism. He would sell his mother for money. And his wife is no different.”

  “I know a landowner in Italy who’s hiring,” Vincent said.

  So, Max thought, the precocious foreman had overstepped boundaries, and the solution might be to send him away.

  François said, “Let me know.” He paused, “What’s the story with Madame Jordan’s assistant? Is she really in training to be a sommelier?”

  Vincent laughed. “From my travels I find that Americans are always studying something, and it’s usually temporary.”

  François was in good humor. “She strikes me as a fille facile. American women have that reputation.”

  Vincent joined in. “She plays hard-to-get.”

  “I’m glad to see you have a challenge for a change.” Max stalked off to Vincent’s car, not caring in the least what they thought.

  Vincent quickly caught up and opened the passenger door for her. “I’ll take you by the hotel and pick you up again at eight,” he said. “I have to see my father briefly.” He was eager and chatty once they were on the road. “Many of us are flummoxed that Ellen Jordan was traveling with an assistant. Did she tell you why?”

  “She was good friends with my mother.” Vincent’s eyes widened in surprise. “I’m between jobs, as it were, and Ellen was trying to get me interested in wine.”

  “You mom must be really upset. Is she okay?”

  “No, she isn’t. Would you be okay if someone murdered your close friend, Vincent? I wouldn’t be. People never seem to realize that when someone is murdered, or dies tragically, it has a ripple effect, touching the lives of many.”

  Vincent interrupted. “What about you?”

  “You mean how do I feel? I’m sad, but I’m also angry as hell. I’d like to come face-to-face with the murderer.”

  “Most people would want to run from a murderer.” The conversation had taken a bizarre turn. “If it helps,” he said, “I’m sorry she died.” Max nodded, and quickly exited the car.

  Sailing past the flowers at the reception desk, she continued up the stairs to her room, wondering if she should cancel the evening, and decided by the time she reached her room that a detective didn’t cancel because she was feeling a touch of heartache.

  Olivier had mentioned that his agents had Vincent’s business under watch. She might challenge herself and see if she could extract some information from him that would help the investigation. Soon, a quick glimpse in the full-length mirror told her that the black décolleté V-neck, short silk dress she had changed into was perfect. She pulled up black netted stockings and stepped back into the pumps. She added mascara to her eyelashes, and put on a more subdued lipstick. Vincent called from his mobile and she picked up her little evening bag and ran down the stairs.

  He entered the lobby, dashing in a black Armani suit. “Fantastique!” he whispered, rushing up and bestowing kisses on each of her cheeks. Flattered, she felt her mood lift.

  Chapter Twenty

  April 5

  Feeling verbally pummeled, and deserving of some of it, Olivier retreated into his thoughts on the drive to dinner. Véronique didn’t seem to notice as she prattled on about herself. There was no need to say yes to her when she invited him to the dinner, but some remnant of guilt hung on from their break-up the year before, and he had thought this would make up for previous bad behavior. He had seen the look of surprise on Abdel’s face when he told him, and chosen to ignore it. Max was right. He had orchestrated the entire evening, assuring himself that it was all for professional reasons when, in reality, he had ignored Max’s look of quiet desperation around Vincent, which was out of character for her. He could have said, you and Vincent come to dinner, and we’ll survive together, or some such.

  The driveway to Château Cheval Blanc curved up through pine, cedar, and redwood trees. Bought in 1998 by Bernard Arnault, chief executive of LVMH Moet Hennessy Louis Vuitton, and one of the two wealthiest men in France, the vineyard was in the top six first-growth wines in Bordeaux. The 90,000 bottles produced each year were consistently ranked among the best wines in the region. The two-story, ivy-clad limestone château built in the nineteenth century was graceful, but unassuming. It was the new winery behind the house that was considered an architectural masterpiece, with descriptions attached to it like “made of air,” and “having the appearance of floating over vines.”

  Véronique moved like a ballet dancer around the tasting room filled with guests from the Bordeaux elite, and journalists from all over the world, some of them photographing her instead of the architecture. She had changed at the hotel into a magnificent black strapless dress that only heightened her allure. Olivier knew she would not be content until every eye was on her. He tried to call Max, but didn’t get through.

  His host, collector Thomas Chevalier, had been made aware that Olivier was undercover. He greeted him warmly, proffering a coupe de champagne. Olivier was relieved to see that there were no familiar faces at the dinner, otherwise he would have to give up his Pierre Guyot identity. The real challenge, he knew, was to keep Véronique from blowing his cover.

  He steered the conversation with Chevalier toward collectors and their prizes, bringing up such notables as the 1870 Lafite, 1961 Latour, and 1947 Lafleur that Chevalier had offered at a recent dinner. Their conversation veered to the six-liter bottle of 1947 Cheval Blanc that had sold at auction to a private collector for over $304,000 the year before. “My trophy is an imperial of Cheval Blanc of that same vintage that I paid approximately 100,000 euros for in 1999,” said Chevalier. “It completed the Bordeaux section of my collection.”

  Olivier couldn’t imagine such a strong obsession. “What do you know about the collector, Bill Casey?” he asked.

  “I’ve spent many wonderful evenings drinking wine with him,” Chevalier said. “The rumor is that he purchased a large number of Burgundy wines from an alleged counterfeiter, who has since been arrested. Casey felt doubly stung when Ellen Jordan declared the Mouton-Rothschild fake.”

  Olivier pressed on. “Casey didn’t take action against the seller who sold him the dubious Mouton-Rothschild?”

  “Au contraire. He’s convinced that Ellen Jordan was wrong.”

  “And now he has Paula Goodwin backing him up, so he has switched his allegiance.”

  “How do you know that?” Chevalier asked.

  “Logic. Casey invited me to an authentication tasting in a few days.”

  “I know about it. If the one he opens is declared fake, then the assumption will be that all four are count
erfeit. And of course, vice versa.”

  “Do you know if Madame Jordan found something amiss with the label or cork, or was the taste off?”

  “It was about the taste. She claimed it was a recent vintage, lacking the depth and profundity of a rare wine.”

  “Taste is personal,” Olivier said. “If Casey has a professional declare the wine authentic, I think everyone will be satisfied that Jordan made a mistake.”

  “Especially now that she can’t protest. I can’t imagine what led to her murder. Surely it doesn’t have anything to do with that bottle?”

  “I don’t know. She brought a second magnum here and it’s gone missing. I’m seeking clues, but being discreet about it.” Olivier thought he should mingle with others, though the conversation with Chevalier was exactly what he had in mind when he accepted the dinner invitation. He hoped Max was having equal success gathering information. “I don’t know how Monsieur Kurniawan got away with selling counterfeit wine for so long,” he said.

  “He was selling mostly to Americans who weren’t all that familiar with old French wines. Kurniawan made wine that mimicked the taste, color, and character of certain rare wines,” Chevalier explained. “His method was to purchase a hundred-dollar California wine and doctor it to make it resemble a Pomerol or Graves dating back to the twenty-year span from the 1940s through the 1960s.”

  “You think he was a lone wolf?”

  “Some are convinced that there were others involved. Who knows?”

  Chevalier waved to a striking woman who wore a chic, black cocktail dress and pearls. She smiled back at him. “That’s Paula Goodwin, who flew in today and will return to New York tomorrow,” he said.

  “I want to meet her,” Olivier said. “She might know who sold the Mouton-Rothschild to Casey.”

  “At which time we might be able to discover the wine’s provenance. Come, I’ll introduce you.”

  Paula was as tall as Max, and also had an athletic body, but whereas Max had curves, Paula was built like a man. Olivier guessed her to be in her mid-forties, though Max was convinced from her photo that she had had a facelift. “Paula has turned the auction world on its ear,” Chevalier said admiringly as they made their way over to her. “She’s been driving up prices at her auction house, though, and I’m not happy about that. I guess we can’t have it both ways.”

  Olivier cut his eye over at Véronique who had attached herself to a journalist from Le Figaro. She was tossing her hair back and her laugh had a slight edge of hysteria that made him think she was using again and flying high. She waved lightly, and he smiled at her as he followed behind Chevalier.

  The tent was lit by crystal chandeliers. Waiters stood at attention in black tails and white gloves. A string quartet played Vivaldi’s Concerto in D. Looking around, Olivier thought that evenings such as this had been occurring for centuries, though in the distant past such feasts were prepared for royalty, not for a mob of cosmopolitan people from all over the globe.

  Paula Goodwin had a firm handshake and a raucous voice. He found her energy galvanizing as she turned from one admirer to the next. She put her focus on him when she understood him to be a collector, handing him her card, and responding warmly when he complimented her on her wine blog “Paula’s Post.” Guests were invited to sit. Olivier looked around for Véronique, but she had disappeared. Paula Goodwin sat in her reserved chair and he noted that he and Véronique had been placed across from her.

  The first course, beetroots in a chocolate and honey glaze arrived, accompanied by a 1990 Haut Bages Libéral, which he judged a perfect marriage. He listened to Paula discuss golf scores with Chevalier. Turning to the woman on her left, who happened to be from California, she compared notes on running. “I run six miles a day,” he overheard Paula say. He had read an article that compared her to an attack dog, but he saw no signs of aggression. “And you,” she said, switching her attention to Olivier, “are you like most French who don’t believe in exercise?”

  “We aren’t fitness fans, that’s true,” he said. “Though most would agree that we believe in exercising our brains to full capacity.”

  “Are you saying the French are smarter?”

  Olivier chuckled. “I won’t be caught in that trap.”

  A noise distracted them, and Olivier turned in time to see Véronique trip in her stilettos, and fall in slow motion. He jumped up and rushed to her. She was grasping her leg and cursing under her breath. “This is your fault,” she said, her eyes glassy and hostile. “Get me out of here.” Thomas Chevalier came up and assisted by helping Olivier half-carry her out of the tent. She started to cry. “Olivier, I can’t possibly stay alone tonight.”

  “You have a room in a fine hotel, and I’ll make sure you’re well looked after.”

  Véronique looked at him, dry-eyed, a smug expression on her face. “I heard your detective was making out with Vincent Barthes in the Laussac cellar. Ask Chantal Laussac.”

  Olivier, embarrassed, exchanged glances with Chevalier, who said quickly to Véronique, “You must go to my house nearby,” he said, “where there are people who can care for you. But first, we need to get you to the emergency room.”

  She began to swear again. “I don’t need an emergency room.”

  “The ambulance is on the way,” a stranger said.

  Chevalier turned to Olivier, “I can take it from here,” he said. “My assistant, a woman named Béatrice, is here, along with my wife, and it’s no problem.”

  “If you’re sure.”

  “Of course. Go back to your table.”

  “Go back to being Pierre Guyot,” Véronique said, “the wine collector extraordinaire. I told Paula Goodwin what you were up to.”

  Chevalier called his assistant over. Olivier thanked her, and told Chevalier that he would check in tomorrow. He returned to his seat, feeling unnerved by Véronique’s confession. Paula focused her attention on him. “Is everything all right, Mr. Guyot? You know the woman who fell?”

  He had to think of a way to test Paula to see if she knew his identity. “I used to be her boyfriend. She saw you and me talking and mentioned that she found her conversation with you earlier this evening interesting.”

  “Really? I didn’t meet her. It wasn’t even possible to get near her with so many men gathered around.”

  Relieved, he turned to the subject he was most interested in. “Your auction house has a reputation of attracting young investors,” Olivier said. “How did you manage to do that?”

  “It’s a new crowd of young people who’re sick of the stodgy old-fashioned auctions. You’ve probably heard of a group of young investors who call themselves the DDD. Dozen Dirty Dudes.” She laughed, and he tried to look amused, though he wasn’t in the least. “They taste with abandon, and set trophy bottles against each other.”

  “How do they know the difference?”

  “You have to taste two great wines side by side in order to know the difference, and I make that happen.”

  “You open the wine there?” He noticed that the diners at their table were listening, fascinated.

  Paula laughed. “Of course. It’s quite rowdy! What about you? You haven’t told me what wine you’re on the prowl for.”

  “I have a humble collection. Price is a consideration, but not if that perfect bottle is there before me.”

  “I’m glad you added the ‘perfect bottle’ part,” she said. “If someone mentioned price to me in the states, I’d suggest they find another hobby.”

  The main course arrived. Olivier was pleased to see that accompanying the roasted veal was a Château Cheval Blanc 1975. Paula sniffed and swirled the wine around in the glass, then sniffed again. “It’s perfect,” she whispered. She sipped, and rolled the wine around in her mouth. “There it is,” she said to Olivier. “I detect the aroma of leather, and the famous tobacco and spices that you don’t find in more recent v
intages. The finish is long, as expected.”

  Thomas Chevalier returned and sat beside Olivier. “All is well,” he whispered. Without missing a beat, he said to Paula, “I’ve only recently been made aware of how many of the wines from this region are going to auction houses. It’s a fairly new phenomenon, isn’t it?”

  “Auction houses have been allowed to sell rare wines since the nineties,” Goodwin explained. “The demand for our services is huge. Though Bordeaux wine is a luxury item, and always will be, the restaurants don’t stock half as much of it as they once did.”

  “Why?”

  “There are so many more outrageous wines from other countries competing,” she said matter-of-factly. “And the young investors have different preferences.”

  “I’m planning to be there for Monsieur Casey’s authentication tasting,” Olivier said. “If those wines are deemed authentic, and he wants to get rid of a magnum or two, I could be interested.”

  “I’m to be one of his tasters,” she said.

  “It would help to know who sold them to him. And I’m interested in their provenance. Any collector would want to know.”

  “It was five years ago, and Blakely’s sold it to him. Ellen Jordan’s proclamation that the wine was fake tarnished my company’s reputation, but I’ll have it restored in no time.”

  “It sounds like you took it personally.”

  Her voice became a throaty whisper. “I take everything personally, which is how I’ve managed to succeed in a world where people judge your every move. Ellen could have come to me instead of starting a rumor.”

  “I heard it was Bill Casey who started the rumor, which makes sense as he was protecting his purchase.”

  “You’re taking Ellen’s side?” Paula demanded to know.