Bordeaux: The Bitter Finish

by Janet Hubbard

  The pressure on her neck was blocking air, and she tried to use both hands to loosen his hold on her by kicking him hard on the shin, but he was prepared, and she missed. She was half-walked and half-dragged to a vehicle behind Vincent’s car. Her arms were loose and she reached into her pocket and threw out her talisman, the little pen knife her brother had given her. The man was panting heavily. The door opened and she was thrust into the cab of a truck. Instead of running around the truck and risking her escaping, he got in behind her, and crawled over her to the driver’s seat. When he turned on the ignition, they made eye contact. It was the foreman Yannick she had seen in the cellar. She spoke in French, her voice calm. “You made a mistake. I am Vincent’s date.”

  “Salaude!” Yannick lit a Gauloise and said, “What did you do to Monsieur Barthes?”

  “Rien! Nothing!”

  He sped off. There was no seatbelt, and Max clung to the door handle as Yannick swerved, almost losing control. He made a series of turns. “Where are you taking me?”

  “La ferme!” he shouted.

  She shot back in French, “You shut up and listen! You better think about what you’re doing. Kidnapping an American could land you in jail for years!” They were already at the bottom of the hill heading away from Bouliac and toward a highway sign. Olivier had told her a shipment of Vincent’s wine was going to Antwerp and she wasn’t going to end up there. “What did you do with Vincent?”

  “I have him.”

  “He’s back there?” she demanded, tilting her head in the direction of the back of the truck.

  “He’s asleep.”

  Yannick slowed down as they approached a roundabout that was bordered by large flowery bushes. She had a split-second in which to make a choice. The bass voice of the caller on the answering machine ricocheted around her brain. Tucking her head, she opened the door and rolled out, hitting her shoulder hard. She crawled a few feet, tucking herself under a bush. She was about to stand and make a run for it when she heard Yannick yell. She stayed put. She could hear him running, stopping, starting again, and swearing. He would find her in a minute, kill her, and claim she hurt herself leaping from the truck. Her shoulder throbbed.

  Yannick wasn’t giving up, but he had moved farther away in his search. She could hear him thrashing through a clump of bushes twenty yards away. She had noticed a taxi stand across the boulevard as they entered the roundabout, but what were the chances that a cab driver was working at this hour? I have to risk it, she thought. She got on all fours, then stood and made a wild dash across the street. She didn’t have to turn around to know that Yannick had spotted her, but she was much faster. The taxi driver was dozing. She banged hard on his window, startling him, then leapt into the backseat, locking the door.

  “Dépêchez-vous!” she yelled in French. “I’ll pay you fifty euros!” The driver put the car into gear just as Yannick’s hand grabbed the door handle.

  “Où?” the man called back to her.

  “To Bouliac. Vite!” She pulled Olivier’s card from her pocket and gave Olivier’s address. Soon they arrived at a two-story stone house. “I’ll be back with your money,” Max said. She knocked on Olivier’s front door. Headlights went by and she waited for the car to pass, then ran to the back door and pounded harder. She heard a car door open and close. Yannick might be insane enough to pull right into the driveway and pursue her. A light was on. “Olivier!” she called. Someone tapped her shoulder hard. She screamed and swung at the same moment, her fist connecting with the taxi driver’s cheekbone. He swore, and tried to grab her arm. They both froze when the door opened.

  Zohra, her eyes wide, stepped out into the night. “She owes me fifty euros!” the taxi driver yelled. “Ah, les prostituées!”

  “Mademoiselle,” Zohra said softly. “Come in.”

  Chapter Twenty-two

  April 5

  Olivier explained to Abdel as he drove to Vincent’s house that Vincent had put a drug in Max’s wine, but she had managed to switch glasses.

  “Connard!”

  Olivier had never heard his assistant call anyone an asshole. “You hadn’t mentioned his reputation for drugging young women to me.”

  Abdel hesitated. “I should have, but all that I have to go on are rumors. My fellow officers tell me that the calls come in, then Monsieur Yves Barthes gives a great sum of money to our department, and that’s the end of it.”

  “What happens to those reports?”

  “They are sent to the minister of the interior.”

  “I’ll look into it when this case is over. There is no question now that Vincent is involved in some illegal activities.”

  Olivier hit the play button on the CD player and the music of the Trout Quintet resumed. The angler was now muddying the water in order to catch his prey. The theme couldn’t be more apropos, Olivier thought. He explained the story in the music to Abdel.

  “I wonder if Monsieur Barthes had some other goal in slipping a drug into Max’s drink other than to have sex with her,” Abdel said.

  “Like what?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  Vincent’s house was dark but his Ferrari was parked in front. Olivier and Abdel exchanged puzzled glances. Olivier drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, wondering what to do while Abdel ran in to get Max. He got out and peered into the window of the car. No Vincent. His thoughts veered from the logical to the fantastic as he wondered what could have happened. Why was his gut telling him that something was terribly wrong?

  Abdel ran to the car and said, “No one is here. The back door is unlocked.”

  They entered and turned on lights. Nothing overturned. Everything looked in order. Both stopped when they entered the foyer, looking up at the painting of a beautiful woman.

  Olivier’s mobile rang, and he almost dropped it pulling it from his pocket. It was from his house. “Oui?” He listened, then stuck the phone back in his pocket. “It was Zohra. Max is at my house, a little banged up, but fine. Let’s go.”

  ***

  Max was in the salon, sipping a cup of tea. Olivier went to her and pulled her up into his arms, all earlier tensions dissolved. She winced and grabbed her shoulder.

  “You’re hurt!”

  “I put ice on it,” Zohra said.

  “I can’t tell you what went through my mind when we arrived at Vincent’s and the house was dark,” Olivier said.

  “Maybe close to what I felt when Yannick had me in a choke hold,” Max said. She explained what had happened.

  Olivier felt restless and angry, and craved a drink. “I want a nightcap. Will you go with me?” he asked Abdel and Max.

  Abdel looked surprised. “To a bar? Now?”

  “I’m not trying to corrupt you, but I need a driver.”

  “D’accord. I can do that. I’ll change into street clothes so we can go to a local place.”

  “You carry clothes in the trunk?”

  “Something Max taught me: Who knows what situation we’ll be in next?”

  Max smiled. “I’m game.”

  “But your shoulder,” Zohra said.

  “A drink will help. We’ll get it X-rayed tomorrow.”

  “First thing.”

  Abdel drove to Restaurant Le Cochon Voloant, a small, classic bistro that had been around a long time, and stayed open until four. They were led to a table, passing a tiny bar on the way.

  “If you’re hungry the steak is good,” Olivier said to Abdel. “I’m having a scotch.”

  “Sounds good.”

  “Max?”

  “Scotch.”

  Abdel sat on the banquette facing the room, and Olivier and Max sat across from him. “A lot of artists come here,” Olivier said.

  “Don’t look now, Monsieur, but behind you at a back table is Vincent Barthes.”

  “I thought he might be here.”
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  “You did?”

  “I’ve seen him here before. Vincent is a popular boy. I’m sure he’s not alone.”

  “No. He’s with Pascal Boulin.”

  “Quoi?” Olivier exclaimed in disbelief. He scowled at seeing the two men laughing like school chums. When he turned to Max she was watching him, and he thought her expression sympathetic, which didn’t help. He said to her, “Vincent was knocked out by a drug? And now he’s having a conversation and a drink in a bistro?”

  Max explained that the effects of the drug had to do with the amount consumed. “I don’t think he imbibed that much,” she said. “Enough to be amnesiac, and a little out of it. But Yannick rescued him. He revived quicker than I thought he would, but don’t forget, it’s an antidepressant here. He may be taking a low dose.”

  “The evening continues to spin on its uneven axis,” Olivier said, and Max laughed. Olivier spotted a table in a back corner that had just been vacated. “Let’s take that table so they don’t see us,” he said. Abdel explained to the server and soon they had moved out of sight.

  Olivier ordered, then turned to Max. “Do you think we’ll hear more from the taxi driver? What I’m asking is, how hard did you hit him?”

  “Repercussions guaranteed.”

  Olivier’s scotch neat arrived, along with Max’s scotch on the rocks. He sipped. “I’m not letting you out of our sight until you are on the plane to New York,” he said to her. “Abdel might be right that Vincent pursued you to find out what happened to the missing magnum.”

  “That occurred to me,” Max said. “Not half as flattering as having a guy fall in love with you on the spot, but I have to admit that Vincent is much smarter than I gave him credit for. He’s a little too curious under all that charm.”

  Abdel offered Olivier some of his dinner. “I’m too worked up to eat,” Olivier said. “I’d go and confront Vincent, but Pascal will jump in and create a scandal.”

  Max said, “Olivier, let it go.”

  Olivier looked across the table at Abdel, who nodded in agreement. “Tomorrow we’ll comb through his business,” Olivier said. “If nothing else, we will drive him crazy.”

  “Wait until he learns he was dealing with an NYPD detective,” Abdel said, grinning.

  “All I did was switch glasses,” Max said. “I shudder to think what could have happened if I hadn’t. Thanks for the tip, Abdel.” She sipped her scotch. “It was Yannick who caught me off-guard. He knew I could beat him in a fight and he didn’t give me a chance.”

  “Thank God Abdel had the strong hunch he was heading straight to Vincent’s house.” Olivier glanced behind him at Vincent’s table. “He’s enjoying himself, which I find infuriating.” Olivier put up his finger to order another drink while Abdel bit into his steak.

  “Monsieur, how did your role-playing go tonight?” Abdel asked. It was obvious that Abdel wanted to get Olivier’s mind off Vincent.

  “It was a challenge to stay in character, and at the same time curiously liberating. I admire the way Max does it with such ease.”

  “It’s the way you problem-solve, I think,” Abdel said to Max. “You take in a lot of information from the way people respond to your false persona.”

  Max said, “I worry that it requires a deceptive nature to be able to change roles the way I do.”

  “Not when there is intention,” Abdel said. “You’re speaking of human chameleons, who are constantly adopting new roles as a means of getting what they want.”

  “I have to admit I was at a loss with Vincent. I had the feeling at one point during the evening that he was interrogating me.”

  “The voice message confirmed that,” said Olivier. “Vincent was trying to assess how much you knew.” The scotch was producing a low buzz, Olivier realized. He stared across the room at the two men talking in animated fashion, and was surprised again at his negative reaction to Pascal fraternizing with the enemy. The booze had erased the knowledge that members of the wine world were like a club. Their late-night drink and conversation could be perfectly innocent, the wine broker and the wine producer meeting up in the wee hours of the morning to share notes.

  Abdel, who had the best vantage point for watching the two men, said, “Pascal is leaving.” He waited a beat. “Vincent has seen us.” Abdel pretended to lean over to pick something up off the floor, then said, “Let’s go.”

  Max agreed. “Come on, let’s get out of here.” She took Olivier’s hand, and he walked out with her, barely able to maintain his balance. Abdel was in the car, and hopped out to open the passenger door for Olivier. Max climbed into the backseat.

  “I’ll be back here with your car in the morning,” Abdel said as he pulled into Olivier’s driveway.

  The porch light was on. Olivier entered his house, tripping over a shoe. Holding onto the stair railing, he pulled himself up to the second floor. Max followed, having stopped in the kitchen to pour some sparkling water in a glass for him. He accepted it gratefully. She helped him undress, hanging up his suit, and then stripped down and climbed into bed. He lay down next to her and inhaled her wonderful fragrance. He kissed the back of her neck, her hair, and put his arm around her.

  “I want to marry you,” he heard himself mumbling in English, as though he were not the Olivier knew, but someone else entirely.

  She laughed softly. “I’ll answer when you ask in French.”

  Chapter Twenty-three

  April 6

  Max awoke to the aroma of coffee brewing. Her shoulder ached, and she cursed Yannick. She held up her dress to inspect it, and, seeing a tear, decided to borrow some clothes from Olivier. A casual shirt and pants would suit her nicely. She could hear him downstairs talking to Zohra.

  Max entered the kitchen, and was greeted with a smile from Olivier. “Comment ça va?”

  “Bien. Et toi?” She walked over and gave him a kiss.

  Zohra rushed over to the table with a bowl of café au lait for her, followed by piping hot croissants. “Merci beaucoup,” Max said, taking a seat beside Olivier who leaned over and kissed her. Zohra presented her with an ice pack, which she placed on her shoulder. “Abdel is just arriving with my car,” Olivier said.

  Abdel entered the back door and his grandmother brought him coffee. “Can we compare notes on last night, leaving out the altercation?” Olivier asked. “We’ll start with the Cheval Blanc dinner and what I learned, and Max, if you can bear repeating your experience of last night that would be helpful. Abdel, step in with any new information you have.”

  The conversation continued for an hour, with Abdel taking notes, and stopping to clarify at times. At the end, he read from his list:

  Paula Goodwin: not a suspect. Was in NY night of murder. See if she can find the person at her company who sold the lot of Mouton-Rothschild to Bill Casey, and its provenance. Might lead us to clues as she knows everybody.

  Bill Casey: person of interest. Sent Ellen with second bottle, then demanded it back. Announced to friends what Jordan was doing with second bottle. In NYC at time of murder. Max will interview.

  Vincent Barthes: strong suspect. At hotel night of murder. Rented a room to host clients. Use of drugs (perhaps cover-up by father). Cameras in house. Voice on answering machine. Suspicious cases of wine found in NYC. Finances a mess. No strong alibi.

  Pascal Boulin: suspect. Why hanging out with Vincent Barthes middle of night? Finances a mess. With Ellen Jordan afternoon of her murder. Ended relationship. Lowered score. Alibi can’t be verified.

  Laussac: suspect. At hotel hour of murder. No firm alibi. Publicly anti-Ellen Jordan. Has money to hire killer. Great loss of revenue from Jordan’s bad rating, and from committee lowering score. Vindictive.

  Yannick Martin: strong suspect. Laussac foreman. Moonlights for Vincent Barthes. Fought Max in Jordan’s hotel room. Kidnapped Max. What’s in it for him? Wife offers alibi. Check.
/>   Cazaneuve: minor suspect. Bribed? Theft of bottle?

  Olivier brought up the man with the heavy accent on Vincent’s answering machine. “Are we assuming now that someone other than Vincent is directing this operation?”

  Abdel and Max nodded. “What do you want the police to do with Monsieur Barthes?” Abdel asked Olivier.

  “Have him followed.”

  Abdel nodded. “And Monsieur Martin?”

  “I plan to pay him a personal visit.”

  “Neither of them is any good to us in jail,” Max said. “Vincent might lead us to the people heading this counterfeit operation.”

  “We suddenly have a lot of suspects,” Olivier said.

  “And at least one presumably in New York,” said Max.

  “I was introduced to a man with a thick accent at the Laussac dinner,” Olivier said. “I assumed he was drunk.”

  Max laughed. “There could have been twenty men from the New York area, or more. Here’s the Brooklyn accent: Jeat?”

  “No idea about this word.”

  “Did you eat?” Max translated. “Did the gentleman you met ask for a quafee?” Abdel and Olivier laughed. She next spoke with the nasal accent of a Queens native, then shifted to the Bronx, and quickly turned herself into a French diva. She was hilarious and Olivier and Abdel applauded.

  “I hate to be the serious one,” Olivier said, “but I have come up with an agenda.”

  “Serious and old-fashioned,” Max teased. Abdel burst into laughter when Olivier looked puzzled.

  “We’ll drive to get your car, Abdel, and from there you can continue on to ransack Vincent’s business. Call me if there’s a problem. I’ll take Max with me and we’ll stop by the hospital to get her shoulder checked out.” He turned to Max, “Plan to stay here tonight and Zohra and I will cook up something.”

  Zohra, who was back at the sink, said, “I have to know what that something is before I shop. And tonight, I do the cooking.”

  “Let’s start with crab,” Olivier said. He took a few minutes to discuss the menu with her before turning back to Max and Abdel. “I’m going to interrogate Pascal and Sylvie Boulin, and Abdel will accompany me there. After, Max, you and I will go and officially call on Yannick Martin in the Médoc region.”