Bordeaux: The Bitter Finish

by Janet Hubbard

  “Forget it. I’ll be so keen on winning the bet that I’ll let the murder investigation go.” She laughed. They drove along in silence for a few minutes, with Pascal snoring in the backseat. Olivier said, “I shouldn’t have stopped you mid-motion. I’m sorry. But you must be more careful that the Jiu-Jitsu doesn’t make you too confident.”

  “It was stupid of me to go near them with a bad shoulder. You know, though, I could teach you a few moves.”

  “I don’t need to fight,” he said. “I’m a magistrate, not a cop.”

  Pascal spoke from the backseat, “You should try it, Olivier. Do you know how good it felt to clobber Laussac?”

  Olivier peered in the rearview mirror at Pascal’s swollen face. “But not so good to be clobbered by Yannick, I take it?”

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  April 6

  Photographers and reporters swarmed around the modern courthouse that resembled a Star Wars set as Yannick and Abdel entered. Max scanned the crowd as Olivier drove around to the rear of the building where they could enter unnoticed. She followed him into his office. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. A couple of antique Japanese framed prints. A set of brass justice scales resting on top of an antique desk. Several paysanne oil paintings hung along the wall behind it.

  “These landscapes are wonderful,” she said. “Who’s the artist?”

  He smiled. “Merci.”

  “You?

  “I almost went to art school instead of taking the justice route.”

  “What changed your mind?”

  “Wanting to make a difference. Now I believe that art has a greater influence on the human psyche than bringing people to justice. I’m not including my feeble attempts at painting. I’m speaking of art that transports, the way music does.”

  “You sound like my mother. She dragged my brother and me to every museum in New York. Well, most of them.”

  He smiled. “Do you have a favorite painter?”

  “I have an eclectic list. Basquiat, and an even more contemporary artist in New York, Wayne Ensrud. But I also love the ancient Caravaggios at the Frick Museum on Fifth Avenue. ”

  Abdel entered, notebook in hand. “Sounds like Martin won’t be locked up long.”

  “Why?”

  “His lawyer is Maître Georges Demarchelier!”

  Olivier said, “Who’s paying him?”

  “I’d place a bet it’s François Laussac.”

  Max said, “Is it possible that Laussac paid Yannick to murder Ellen Jordan? Maybe Vincent and the counterfeiting aren’t connected to Ellen Jordan’s murder.”

  “Motive for Laussac?” Olivier asked.

  Max shrugged. “I once handled a case where a man murdered his wife for putting a knife in the wrong drawer. Laussac? Maybe he is connected to the counterfeiting operation. Think about it. His vineyard is going down. It’s easy to take wine from his wife’s cellar. He steals Pascal’s wine, or has Yannick steal it and bring it to him. He could be sending cheap wine to America in vintage bottles.”

  “But no connection to Vincent, right?”

  “No idea.”

  “I have no doubt that Laussac either has, or desperately wants, that wine tasting book,” Olivier said. “Both to broadcast his higher score, and to try to ruin Pascal. He could be vindictive enough to have Yannick steal Pascal’s wine and hide it.”

  Abdel said, “I have the names of everyone who was at the local bar the night Monsieur Boulin’s warehouse was broken into.” He handed a sheaf of paper to his boss. Olivier skimmed down the list of twenty names, and gave it to Max. She stopped reading when her eyes alighted on Yannick’s name, and looked up at Abdel who nodded as if to confirm that Yannick must have overheard Pascal and friends planning their robbery.

  Abdel continued, glancing down at his notebook, “We’ve had a report from the cheese shop. The young assistant there recalled Pascal Boulin coming to purchase cheeses the day he had the rendezvous with Madame Jordan, the same that were in her refrigerator.”

  “Was the blue that contained the poison among them?”

  “No.” He continued, “Madame Boulin was correct about the cheeses she purchased. The one she forgot was Vacherin.”

  “That’s the camembert that’s made in Switzerland and France,” Olivier said. “It’s best to eat it in the spring when the cows have better quality pasturage.”

  “So cheeses have terroir, too,” Max said, a note of sarcasm in her voice.

  “Absolutely. You can cut the rind off this cheese and eat it with a spoon.”

  Abdel exchanged a smile with Max over Olivier’s food description, then read from his notes. “Chantal Laussac purchased cheese four times last week, and the concierge from Hôtellerie Renaissance, Monsieur Cazaneuve, stops daily for cheese at lunchtime. I’ve already mentioned Pascal Boulin. Someone bought un livre de bleu two days before the Laussac event, but the clerk doesn’t recall which brand. A young woman purchased it, a secretary who had it delivered to a trader’s business. She’s looking for the receipt.”

  Olivier’s eyebrows shot up, and Abdel said, “I had the same thought. I’ll go straight to Monsieur Barthes’ wine factory and interview the secretary.”

  Sylvie tapped on the door and stuck her head in. “Olivier, what are we to do?”

  “Pascal was booked on assault-and-battery and drunken driving,” Olivier said.

  “May I take him home with me? The doctor said his nose is broken.”

  “Not yet.”

  “I don’t think I can take much more,” she said, looking limp as a wilted weed.

  “You can see him. I’ll take you there.” Max and Abdel went along to the interrogation room, where Pascal sat, looking miserable. The left side of his face was badly swollen, and he wore a bandage over his nose.

  Pascal jumped up, immediately on the defensive. “François was telling everyone that I killed Ellen. He may have sent his foreman to steal my wine. This man has tried to make my life hell from the time I started with my winemaking twenty years ago. He’s doubly furious that my wine was given a higher rating by our appellation committee and his was knocked out of the competition.”

  “Why did you go to Laussac’s? I told them I would call you.”

  “Laussac called me and told me to come for my wine and on the phone accused me of hiding it in his cellar.”

  Max wondered if all rural communities operated in this manner. She had started to see Pascal as a guileless farm boy who had made a big splash in the wine world, but was completely lacking in sophistication. He could have been a farmer in the Midwest, which made her understand why Ellen had been attracted to him.

  “Everything is stacking up to make me look guilty of theft and murder,” Pascal said.

  Sylvie, who had remained quiet, said, “Pascal, I know you are innocent, but the theft happened because you were talking about it in public. You also decided to have an affair with a public personality and were with her on the day she died. I hope you will stop and take the time to mourn her, and the relationship, otherwise we will never have another happy day.”

  Pascal began to sob, and silence reigned for a few moments. Sylvie put her arm around him, and Pascal looked up at Olivier. “Continue.”

  “Did Madame Jordan ever talk about Vincent Barthes?”

  “She was keen on matching Mademoiselle Maguire with someone, and I thought perhaps it was Vincent, but I’m not sure.” Max didn’t dare look at Olivier, but instead tried to look surprised.

  “You’ll be staying in jail for a couple of days, Pascal,” Olivier said.

  Sylvie protested, but Pascal put up his hand to stop her. “I deserve this,” he said. He looked at Olivier, “I feel you growing unsure of me, Olivier. I feel like I’m losing a friend.”

  Olivier left the room.

  “Any update on the missing magnum?” Max asked Abdel.r />
  “Not really. Vincent Barthes could easily have bribed the concierge. Pascal says no, but he probably did know about the hidden bottle of wine. He would have had a hard time stealing it, though.”

  “What about the 100 euros we found in the maid Martine’s possession?”

  “We don’t have that story yet,” Abdel said.

  “What a morass,” Olivier said. “What about the concierge? He has access to everything at the hotel.”

  Max said, “I thought Madame Cassin was a little intimidated by him. And the maids are terrified of him.” She looked over at Abdel. “Did you check to see if Paula Goodwin called Ellen?”

  “A call was registered from her hotel room in Paris. It has also been confirmed that she was in Paris at a wine dinner on the eve of Madame Jordan’s death.”

  The trio was stumped. Olivier said, “Search Monsieur Cazaneuve’s apartment, Abdel. I’ll issue a warrant.”

  “Oui, Monsieur.”

  Olivier remained pensive, “Pascal said Ellen was expecting someone after he left.”

  Max said, “I don’t think she had a plan to invite anyone by when I left and she simply wouldn’t have opened her door to most callers. That rules out Yannick, the concierge, and Laussac. If Pascal returned, she would have opened the door. She might have been receptive to Vincent if he called ahead.”

  “There is someone else,” Olivier said. “But who?”

  “I wish Ellen would send us a sign,” Max said.

  Olivier rolled his eyes.

  A secretary ran up to Olivier and said, “A Monsieur Seurat called and is waiting for you in the tavern across the street from here. He said he must see you to give you something.” Max couldn’t keep from grinning.

  ***

  They rushed to the bar where the dead maid’s husband was waiting. The television, perched high on a shelf in the dimly lit bar, was on mute. A couple of workers were at the end of the bar sipping Pernod. Alain Seurat, who was holding a glass of the cuvée du patron, motioned to them. Olivier ordered a glass of the same, then turned to Max and she nodded, while Abdel abstained as usual.

  “What about my wife?” Alain asked, slurring his words. Max felt sorry for the farmworker who, until two days ago, eked out a living with no idea of the tragedy about to befall him.

  “I’m terribly sorry to tell you that the blue cheese that she ate contained poison,” Olivier said.

  Alain swigged down the liquid in his glass. “I remembered something, Monsieur Chaumont. Martine said she overheard Monsieur François Laussac telling a hotel guest in the lobby that he planned to get even with Madame Jordan for refusing to appear at his dinner one way or the other.” Olivier wondered if they had all run to the bar to hear what they already knew. “My wife was starting to tell me about the extra money she made when she became suddenly ill.” Great, thought Olivier. Alain held something up. “My wife found this under Ellen Jordan’s bed.”

  Alain handed Olivier a key ring with three keys attached to it, and four charms: a miniature bottle of Bordeaux in 24-carat gold, a martini glass, a wineglass, and a circular disc with the word bientôt on one side and “soon” on the other. Olivier took the set and fingered the charms. “Where did you find it?” Olivier asked.

  “In my wife’s jewelry case. I’m sure she was going to take it to the manager.” It confirmed what Olivier had already concluded, that poor Martine was a kleptomaniac.

  “Do you think this belonged to Ellen Jordan?” Olivier asked Max, handing the key ring to her.

  “I never saw it.”

  The bartender turned up the volume on the television when François Laussac, dressed impeccably in a navy suit and tie, began speaking from a podium. “We at the Syndicat des Grands Vins de Bordeaux deeply regret the death of a woman who was one of this century’s greatest contributors to the international wine community, Ellen Jordan. Her sudden death is being investigated by the French police, as is the death of a hotel maid, Martine Seurat.”

  The questions from the press overlapped, but finally one could be heard over the din. “Did she taste and score any of the 2011 wines?”

  How crass, Olivier thought. He waited with the others for the answer. Lausac paused, as if deciding how to answer. “She did.”

  “Any idea if she raised your score from the 2010?”

  “I understand that is the case,” he replied humbly. Olivier wished he could jump through the television screen and grab him by the neck.

  “And the maid,” someone asked. “Her name?”

  Laussac looked down at his notes. “Martine Seurat.”

  “My wife is now famous,” Alain whispered, obviously in awe that Martine’s name was mentioned on television. Olivier shook hands with Alain, and marched out of the bar. Max and Abdel had to quick-step to catch up.

  “Douvier must have given Laussac permission to make such an announcement,” Olivier said.

  “Speaking of which,” Abdel said, “Monsieur Douvier called me.” Olivier and Max turned to stare at him. “He said he knew you were going to be in New York for a few days, Monsieur, and told me to call him anytime I needed help,”

  “He’s trying to promote his good works around immigration.”

  “I don’t know of anyone he’s helped,” Abdel said. “That must be why he said he’d like me to come into Paris when I have a break so that we can discuss the case.”

  “He’ll use you as a role model,” Olivier said. “Be careful.”

  “I will.” Abdel explained that he needed to check in at headquarters, and was off.

  Olivier reached over and took Max’s hand, and told her about his and Abdel’s meeting with Pascal and Sylvie.”

  “I don’t know if I could be as forgiving as Sylvie.”

  “When my wife strayed, I was willing to forgive, but she didn’t want to work anything out.”

  “Joe is a serial philanderer.” The silence that followed was comfortable. “I’m ready to return to New York. I’ll bet you a dinner at Restaurant Veritas in New York that the murderer is lurking somewhere in New York.”

  “We don’t have enough suspects here?”

  “No one who would literally hand Ellen the cheese that would kill her within an hour. I still have that mysterious voice ringing in my ear. The one on the answering machine.”

  “I see. And how do you know about this restaurant?”

  “It’s where the true winos go, and I’m not referring to street bums.”

  “It’s a deal,” he said. “But for tonight, chérie, Madame Zohra is preparing something very special for you.”

  Had Olivier just called her chérie? “I hope it’s a repeat of last night.”

  “We’re talking about food and wine, n’est-ce pas?” Olivier asked, his eyes twinkling.

  The telephone rang as they entered the house and Olivier rushed to pick up. He spoke for a moment and handed the receiver to Max. “It’s your grandmother.” He went to the sink where Zohra was shelling the crabs and pulling the meat from the legs. It was tedious work that seemed to offer little return, but Olivier knew differently. He washed his hands and snitched a pinch of the fresh spider crabmeat to sample. Zohra gave him an exaggerated scowl, and he smiled at her.

  “Parfait,” he said. “Only you can create a bouillon that allows the fennel to perfume the meat so subtly.” While peeling the avocados and smashing them in a purée for the verrine d’araignée de mer, vocet et gelée de fenouil, he listened to Max explain her role in New York to her grandmother.

  For the next two minutes Max nodded her head and said “oui…d’accord, oui-oui,” then “merci,” and finally, “au revoir.”

  “That sounded like a one-sided conversation,” he said, when she walked over and stood beside him while he decanted the wine.

  “She wants me to join her in Burgundy this summer. My mother and Hank are also considering an invita
tion from her.”

  “And you’ll go?” Olivier pressed garlic into the avocado purée and added pinches of various spices that were perfuming the kitchen—paprika, curry, five spices, Sichuan pepper.

  “Depends.”

  Olivier laughed at her uncharacteristic coyness. He walked over to his music collection and put in a Gerry Mulligan CD, then took Max’s hand. “Come on,” he said, “let’s decide on a bottle of wine.” He opened a door off the kitchen and led the way to the cellar. The air was slightly musty, and cool. He flipped the light switch and moved across the room to the 200 bottles of wine, resting horizontally on their sides.

  “You’re more of a collector than I thought!” she said.

  “All carefully selected. Here’s my Burgundy section,” he said, pointing, “and here is my Bordeaux. From the time I was ten, my parents have given me a special bottle on my birthday.” He glanced over the Bordeaux section of his cellar and shook his head. He turned around to another wine rack that was behind and looked carefully at the aligned bottles. He lifted one, then another, and replaced them. His hand landed on a bottle on the lowest rack. “Aha, here is what I’m looking for,” he exclaimed happily. “It’s a bottle of L’Insolite, by a great winemaker, Thierry Germain, who is in the Loire region. It’s a very nice white Saumur, to be precise.”

  “I’m surprised you’re not selecting a Bordeaux.”

  “I don’t know of one that would work with the crab. Besides, Bordeaux isn’t the only part of France that has terroir. Let’s have it rest in the fridge for half an hour.”

  She followed him back upstairs to the kitchen. Mulligan’s baritone saxophone issued out the elegant and velvety sounds he was known for. Olivier placed the wine in the refrigerator, then took her in his arms and danced her upstairs.

  New York, April 2012

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  April 7

  Two fellow police officers recognized Max when she stepped into the customs area at JFK, and turned her arrival into a hero’s homecoming. She was whisked through customs in minutes and one carried her bag as she headed out to the front of the building.