Max answered in French. “I’m waiting to accompany Madame Jordan’s body to New York. I decided while here to continue my education in wine, as Madame Jordan would have wished me to do.”
“I assume you had an immersion class in French since I saw you,” he said sarcastically. Laussac turned to Olivier, “Let’s get on with your busines.”
Olivier got to the point. “Someone attacked Mademoiselle Maguire in Madame Jordan’s room and I suspect your foreman. I wanted you to know I’m going straight there when I leave here.” A rapid blinking of the eyes was the only giveaway that Laussac was nervous.
“What would he have been doing in her hotel room?” Laussac asked.
“Planting a poisonous cheese? Taking Madame Jordan’s wine tasting book? Stealing a magnum of 1945 Mouton-Rothschild?”
“I have my own, thank you. An authentic one. And I can’t think that he has the intelligence to do all you’re suggesting.”
“About the magnum. A counterfeit ring is operating out of Bordeaux. I’m not naming names yet.”
“Have you bothered to check in with your friend Pascal? I hear he’s been reckless with cash.” When Olivier refused to comment, he said, “Bordeaux is a billion-euro business, and our competition is much greater than previous years. We don’t need a counterfeit scandal on top of a suspicious death.”
“I’m afraid the two are interlinked.”
The magnitude of the crimes seemed to register finally. “You have suspects?”
Olivier nodded. “Of course. I thought you’d be interested to know that Madame Jordan’s tasting book went missing from her room.”
François’ eyebrows shot up. “And?”
“I’ve come up with two people who might want that book badly enough to steal it, or have someone steal if for them. You, and Pascal Boulin.”
François spluttered, and he stared into Olivier’s eyes, as much an indicator of lying as darting eyes. “Pascal stands to benefit the most. Did you know that he and Madame Jordan were having an affair?”
“What I find more interesting is your obsession with Pascal.”
Chantal entered, looking regal, even in slacks and a crisp blouse. “Chéri,” she said to her husband, “There is a crisis. I went to our private cellar to take out some wines for my mother’s birthday and I noticed some cases in the corner that weren’t there the last time I checked. Cases of Pascal Boulin’s vintage wine, his Terre Brulée, are there.”
“Pas possible!” François said, jumping up. “Mon Dieu! What next?”
“Let’s have a look, shall we?” said Olivier.
The four of them tromped to the private cellar, which was like a tomb, Max thought. “Who was here last?” Olivier asked. “And who has a key?”
“Chantal and I do, of course,” François said.
“And Yannick Martin?” Olivier asked.
François’ glanced over at his wife who said, “I was told that he no longer has access.”
“What do you mean?” François asked his wife.
“I don’t know why, but you give in to him,” Chantal said. “What did you do with his key?”
“It’s upstairs in the kitchen.”
“No, it isn’t.”
“Pascal Boulin could have brought his wine here, knowing it would be safe. He came a few months ago with a group of winemakers and Yannick gave them a tour of the cellar.”
“Arrête!” Chantal cried. “François, you prattle on as though you know what you’re talking about.” She turned to Olivier and said, “I told him to fire Yannick six months ago. He could have stolen Monsieur Boulin’s wine and been hiding it among my private collection when I caught him a few days ago. He may also have stolen my wine.”
François had grown strangely meek. “I had nothing to do with this,” he declared.
“If you know anything that will help us, François,” Olivier said, “now is the time.” They waited for a moment while François stood with a stubborn look on his face.
Chantal broke the silence. “I’ll call Pascal and tell him it’s here. In the meantime, you will all stay for lunch.”
“Don’t call Pascal,” Olivier said to Chantal while following her into a small dining room that overlooked exquisite gardens. “I’ll call my assistant to come for it. In the meantime, I will need records of every case of wine that has left this property over the past six months, whether legally or stolen.”
“That could take months!” François sputtered.
The fragrance of the fresh lilacs bursting out of a vase in the corner was intoxicating. The round table was set with ancient earthenware and horn-handled cutlery. A maid arrived with a chilled bottle of Grand Cru Classé Domaine de Chevalier, and Max watched as Olivier took a moment to sniff the cork. “A wonderful combination of sauvignon blanc and semillon grapes,” he said appreciatively.
A different server entered with pan-fried chipirons, or calamari. Talk had drifted away from the tense issue of stolen wines. Olivier and Chantal discussed the blooming season. The maid arrived again with plates of duck breast served with spring potatoes, accompanied by a 1989 Laussac red wine. A salad followed, and the foursome returned to the topic of collectors. Chantal lamented that collectors were driving the thefts.
“Do you have a keen interest in wine?” she asked Max.
“I’m no amateur de vin,” she said, remembering that amateur in French meant professional. “But yes, I’m interested.”
“When I saw you the other night, you seemed familiar,” Chantal said, gazing at her guest.
Before Max had a chance to respond, Olivier interjected, “She’s the granddaughter of Madame Isabelle de Laval. Max resembles her.”
“Isabelle de Laval? Vraiement?”
François said, “Your grandmother is the mother-in-law of Ministre Philippe Douvier?”
Max nodded. François stared at her in disbelief. “And your mother?” Chantal asked. “Where is she?”
“Juliette? She was disowned by her family for marrying my father.”
“Good for her!” Chantal said, tossing a smile her husband’s way. The maid entered with a beautiful plate of cheeses, but Olivier said they had to move on. They shook hands with François and Chantal, and went quickly to Olivier’s car.
“That was close,” Olivier said. “You nearly lost your cover. She may have seen your photograph in the newspaper when you were lauded for your work in Champagne.”
He didn’t say it, but Max knew he would feel relieved when she was out of France. She had mixed feelings about leaving, for it felt as though they were making progress. “What do you think about Laussac pointing the finger at Pascal? Today at their house I had some serious doubts about his alibis.”
“This is when my father would say that when one suspect becomes too obvious, and all fingers are pointing at him, then it’s time to look elsewhere.”
“Hmm. Just when I had arrived at the opposite opinion,” Olivier said.
Chapter Twenty-six
April 6
Loud, argumentative voices came from within Yannick’s small, wooden-framed cottage behind the Laussac château. Olivier and Max walked up to the front door and when the arguing didn’t cease, peered in a window. A woman was angrily pointing at a television set. The sound was off, and the screen displayed a glamorous photograph of Ellen Jordan, taken at least a decade earlier.
“What’d I tell you!” the woman screamed. “You’re going to get blamed for everything!”
“Go to hell!” Yannick said. “You’re the one who wants, wants, wants! There’s never going to be enough money for you!”
“I want out, that’s what I want!” As the woman swore and started toward him, Olivier rapped loudly on the door.
“Answer that!” Yannick ordered his wife.
“What’s my role here?” Max asked Olivier.
“Fol
low my lead. And please refrain from finishing your ongoing wrestling match with this man.”
“My shoulder won’t allow it.”
A woman with dyed auburn hair opened the door and introduced herself as Corinne. Olivier had seen untidy houses, but never one in a shambles like this one. Clothes were piled up on the chairs, and beer cans were strewn everywhere. The salon reeked of cigarette smoke. Yannick remained in the same pugilistic stance in the middle of the room, eyes narrowed, switching his hostile gaze from Max to Olivier.
“This woman claims you kidnapped her last night and were planning to murder her,” Olivier said.
Yannick fixed his gaze on her. “She was drunk. I had orders from Monsieur Barthes to take her to the hotel and that’s what I was doing.”
“All the same, if she decides to press charges, I’ll have to take you in and let the court decide.”
The woman had turned the television down and sat sipping a beer. Yannick lit a Gauloise and acrid smoke filled the room. “This better not be true,” she said to Yannick.
Olivier had thought a lot about Yannick, noting that he worked for two men, both under suspicion. He was surely the intruder in Ellen Jordan’s room, then he turned up the next night at Vincent’s business to load up his truck, and only last night was hauling Max to god knew where.
“I understand you no longer have access to the Laussac’s private cellar,” Olivier said to Yannick.
He shrugged. “Some of their best wine was stolen. All the employees were told to stay out at first, but Monsieur Laussac gave my key back to me.”
“Why?”
“I told him I’d quit if he didn’t.” It crossed Olivier’s mind that what he was holding over Laussac was a certain wine tasting book, which he had been paid to steal from Ellen Jordan’s room. And who knew what else?
“Cases of Monsieur Boulin’s pilfered wine were just discovered in the private cellar,” Olivier said.
“He could have stolen his own wine. I’ve heard of it.”
“Oh, he did,” Olivier lied. “We just don’t know how he got it to the Laussac cellar. Did Pascal ask you to hide it?”
Yannick was thrown off his game. He shook his head, unsure. “Just so you know, Monsieur Laussac has a key to his wife’s cellar. He has it in for Monsieur Boulin.”
He was accusing his own boss? Olivier wondered. “Monsieur Laussac would hardly be stealing the Boulin wine.”
“He would if he wanted to make him look like an idiot. If you ask me, he succeeded.”
Olivier didn’t buy it. By now, Max and Corinne were talking in the kitchen in French. He noticed that Max had accepted a beer. “I want to have a look around,” he said.
“Here?” Corinne called from the kitchen. “What’re you looking for?”
“Ellen Jordan’s wine tasting notebook.” Olivier moved at a painstakingly slow pace, peering into the small bedroom that contained only a double bed with a sagging mattress and a bureau, and then looking around the kitchen. Max sat at the kitchen table looking as though she belonged. He wandered back to the living room and scanned the bookcase. There was a romance series in paperback, an old dictionary, and a few of Georges Simenon’s books.
“I see you are a fan of Commissaire Maigret. A favorite of mine,” Olivier said.
“She’s the reader,” Yannick said, dipping his head in the direction of the kitchen.
Max and Corinne entered the living room, Max’s face was flushed. Corrine whispered something in broken English which Olivier didn’t understand and both women laughed.
Time to drop the bait, Olivier decided. “There’s a big reward out for that notebook,” Olivier said.
Corinne put her beer down. “How much?”
“One thousand.” She shifted her eyes to Yannick.
“Who’s offering that?”
“The police.”
“We’ll ask around,” Corinne said.
“We’re about to arrest Vincent Barthes in connection with a counterfeiting scheme, and maybe even to Madame Jordan’s murder. He’s agreed to tell us everything he knows.”
Yannick stalked off to the kitchen and returned with a beer, and popped it open. Finally he’s rattled, thought Olivier.
“I don’t get it why Monsieur Barthes would do anything to go to jail for,” Corinne said. “He has it all—looks, money…”
“It’s like Simenon’s mysteries that you and I like so much,” Olivier said. “There’s always a psychological component when people choose to commit a crime, and once that’s uncovered, it becomes easier to find the criminal.” He turned to Max, “Have you decided if you want to press charges?”
“Corinne talked me out of it,” she replied in French. Corinne looked pleased.
“You still need to go into headquarters,” he said to Yannick, “and allow my assistant to take fingerprints.”
“Will Monsieur Barthes be there?” Yannick asked.
“We have him under guard at his house.”
“He owes me money.”
“We can make sure you get that. Au revoir.”
Max said good-bye to Corinne, who said she’d like to come to New York one day.
“How’d you get her to warm up?” Olivier asked Max in the car.
“You saw. Drinking beer. Talking about men and about life disappointments. She’s a lonely, frustrated woman. And a little frightened, I think.”
“Yannick feels things closing in.”
“Saying that Vincent is ready to talk was a good move,” Max said. “That got to Yannick.”
“He knows who killed Ellen Jordan, I’m sure of that.”
“Did you see the look I got when you told him I might press charges?”
“Vincent, Yannick, François…you’ve made some enemies here, some of them powerful.”
As they passed the Laussac château, an SUV swerved dramatically onto the lawn and stopped. A large, muscular man emerged from the vehicle and made a dash to the front door. François Laussac suddenly appeared at the threshold and within seconds was poking a finger into the man’s chest.
“It’s Pascal!” Olivier said. He swung his car into the driveway and screeched to a halt. They both jumped out.
Pascal was pushing back at François and shouting, “You sent your foreman to steal my wine and I’m going to get it back! Putain!”
François, Olivier knew, would have to have the last word, and he was right. A few feet from the two men, he could see that the veins stood out in François’ face as he bellowed, “I saw you enter Ellen Jordan’s hotel room. J’accuse! You murdered your mistress!”
Pascal bellowed another obscenity, and drawing back his fist, swung and hit François hard, knocking him down. Olivier grabbed Pascal’s arm. “Arrête! You’re under arrest. Get the handcuffs,” he said to Max, and she loped off to the car.
A drunken Pascal turned to Olivier, “I may as well admit the murder and be done with it. But not until I find who stole my wine!” He pushed past the magistrate, jumped in his SUV, and squealed off. Olivier pulled out his mobile and called Abdel who assured Olivier that he was a few kilometers away and would set up a roadblock.
François Laussac was nearly hysterical. He stared at Olivier out of his swollen eye. “I’m calling Philippe Douvier!”
Olivier decided that Douvier might have to hire another secretary to handle the complaints as he and Max ran to his car. Just as he pulled out onto the road, a truck passed him. Yannick! Olivier watched in horror as Yannick rammed his truck into Pascal’s SUV, which spun out into a field.
“Yannick has pulled Pascal from his car!” Max cried. Olivier stopped, and saw the two men grappling on the ground. Max leapt out of the car and started running toward the fighters. Olivier called to her and when she turned, Yannick was upon her. She transformed into a whirling dervish, fists flying. Yannick had the upper hand because she wa
s trying to protect her shoulder. He tripped her, and she fell to her knees. He picked up a handful of dirt and threw it at her face. Pascal jumped Yannick and knocked him to the ground. Olivier dove in, and attempted to pull Pascal off Yannick, but was pushed away. Abdel rushed up, gun in hand and issued an order for them to stop, firing a warning shot in the air. The brawl was over.
“Handcuff Yannick and take him with you,” Olivier said. “Pascal, you are under arrest for assault-and-battery and drunk driving.” Olivier went over to Max, who held her hands over her eyes. He reached into his pocket and brought out a handkerchief and handed it to her. While she dabbed at her eyes, he walked alongside Pascal to the car, and ordered him to get into the backseat. Abdel had Yannick contained, and was directing him to his car.
Pascal passed out before they had driven a kilometer. Olivier pulled into the parking lot of a café. “I’ll get some water,” he said to Max, and was back in a minute and dabbing her eyes with the cold water. “You simply can’t resist a fight, can you? It wasn’t necessary.”
“Yannick had a knife.”
“How do you know?”
She held up a small utility knife. “I saw it glint in the light when he took it from his pocket. When Pascal jumped him, he dropped it.” She was, as usual, a step ahead.
“More scandal,” Olivier said. “François Laussac will bring in Douvier when he presses charges against Pascal. I think you’re leaving France just in time. I wonder if I should go or stay.”
“To look on the bright side,” Max said, “Pascal’s wine has been found, and two suspects are about to be locked up.”
“But nothing is solved,” Olivier said. “The only reason anyone is arrested is because those two got in a fight. There’s no proof of anything.”
“My father would say the muddier the water the closer we are to the answer.” Olivier wondered if her dad listened to classical music. “I’ll wager another bet that the tasting book will show up now that you’ve offered money,” Max said.
“How much?”
“Five euros.”
Bordeaux: The Bitter Finish Page 19