Bordeaux: The Bitter Finish

by Janet Hubbard

  “I feel like I’m on a movie set,” Max said. “And everyone has rehearsed but me.” She glanced around the room. “I wonder how many people in this room are wine connoisseurs.”

  Olivier, resting between courses, said, “Connoisseurs used to be a rare breed; they questioned and investigated, and over time developed a sixth sense called taste. But the act has been democratized.”

  “Meaning anyone today can call themselves a connoisseur of anything?”

  “Well put. People who are vastly wealthy want the best, but they’re often not sure what that is. From what I observed at the auction, they are buying something that makes them feel important. I think most of the true connoisseurs of wine don’t have enough money to purchase $500 bottles of wine.”

  “So people like Ellen Jordan and Paula Goodwin come along to tell them what to buy, right?” He nodded. “Paula is surely a connoisseur.”

  Olivier said, “She has a Master of Wine certificate, but taste is a different matter. There is an old expression my father taught me: to taste wine, one must have soul. I rest my case.”

  The filet arrived next. The center had concentric circles of pink that provided contrast to the crisp, seared deep brown of the edges. It was topped with willowy spears of vivid green asparagus, a wonderful play against the soft, buttery decadence of the meat. Next to arrive were large ravioli as soft as pillows filled with rich, braised short ribs. The pasta was translucent with lacy, crisp edges that floated on top of the mushroom infused broth. The short rib flavor was enhanced by the umami of the mushroom broth. The wine, from the Left Bank, was cabernet driven, fabulous with the mushroom broth, the mushrooms bringing out the earthy qualities with a subtle spicing, black pepper and nutmeg.

  “Now that I’ve consumed this wine with you, I don’t think I’ll ever taste it and not think of you in this moment,” Olivier said. “That’s another charm of wine. The taste is often associated with a particular person in a particular setting.”

  “As I will probably never have the chance to taste this particular wine again, I’ll have to come up with something else to remind me of you.”

  She liked seeing him laugh. She wanted to add that she carried a vivid memory of every second she had spent with him, from walking along a path with him in Champagne, to dancing on the terrace the night before she left, to the moments they had spent in the shower earlier today. She glanced at her watch.

  “My intention is to never drink it without you,” he said, and she felt herself blush. He reached for her hand, and she thought it could never be better than this.

  Dessert and glasses of champagne arrived. The server said, “You have a framboise pate des fruits, a salted caramel tart, and an Earl Grey-infused chocolate truffle.”

  Max bit into the chocolate and Olivier asked her what she thought. She remained quiet, focusing, then said, “I love the interplay of deep bittersweet chocolate flavor with the herbal intensity of bergamot..”

  Olivier gave a boisterous laugh. “How did you come up with the bergamot?” he asked. “It’s perfect!”

  “No one ever asks me,” she said. “And I don’t go around volunteering information. I think my mother introduced me to bergamot.”

  “Max,” Olivier said, gazing into her eyes, “I have something for you.” Max watched as his hand reached into his suit jacket pocket, but was distracted by a noise behind him.

  She turned and saw Walt gingerly weaving his way over to them, not at all gracefully. “We have news that can’t wait,” Walt said. “Vincent Barthes has been found dead in his home. An accident, they say. Slipped in the bathtub. I’ll drive you to the airport.” With both of them speechless, he said, “I’ll be out front while you decide where to go. The flight to Bordeaux is at 10:30.”

  “Paula is in France, then,” Max said, “and predictably, has taken out Vincent. We’ve got a hell of a job ahead.”

  Walt was waiting for them in the bar, observing a world he didn’t know or care anything about. He handed her the necessary official papers that would replace her passport and shield, and took off to bring the car around. Max took her bag into the ladies room and emerged wearing jeans and boots, and her usual t-shirt and jacket.

  Once on the sidewalk, Olivier yelled, “Predictably! What are you, some psychic? Do you ever let a case just rest for a minute without proclaiming your certain knowledge of what is going on?”

  “We’re wasting time if we go in any other direction.”

  “Walt said it was an accident!” he said, glaring at her. “If it was, then Paula Goodwin is here, or on her way to Australia! Which is where we should be headed!”

  Max knew when Walt said “flight to France” that he and Hank also thought France. She remained calm. “I’m still betting on France.”

  Walt had pulled up and now stuck his head out the window, “Make up your minds.”

  Olivier got into the front seat with Walt, and Max climbed into the back. “France,” Olivier said in a resigned voice.

  They rode in silence for a few miles before Walt said to Olivier, “Sounds like she rejected the ring.”

  Ring? Max wondered. That was what he was digging around for! She rode the rest of the way to the airport with a smile in her heart.

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  April 11

  Olivier sat mesmerized by the blinking light at the end of the airplane’s wing, glad to have a brief respite. Max had dropped off to sleep immediately. He hated fighting with her, but logically, it made much more sense for Paula to go to Australia, where she had contacts and probably a nest egg. She was on the lam, but he had no doubt that so far her actions would not lead to extended jail time. Her hands were clean. That was why, in his mind, she wouldn’t blow it by killing anybody.

  He was unaware that he had drifted off to sleep until the captain came on the intercom announcing their pending arrival in Bordeaux. Max sat up, groggy. “Paula is running around France as me, with all it takes to pull off another murder.” Olivier wondered if he was only in love with Max when she was sleeping. He had been just about to apologize for snapping at her earlier, but now remained silent.

  Abdel called before the plane came to a complete halt. “Monsieur, I have really bad news.” Olivier tried to remember when he had called with good news. “We found the body of the policeman who was keeping an eye on Monsieur Barthes’ place. A single shot through the head.”

  Olivier barely spoke above a whisper. “I’m sorry, Abdel.”

  “D’accord.”

  “Is someone waiting to meet me here?”

  “Oui, Monsieur.”

  Olivier put away his phone. “What’s going on?” Max asked.

  “The guard is dead. Clean shot through the head.”

  She brought her hand up to her mouth. “Check to see if it was a Glock 19mm.” Her voice had become whispery like Abdel’s. Olivier thought if she started to cry he’d lose it. Two more deaths!

  “Olivier.” It felt like a command. He looked at her, and saw a female Hank, the fiery eyes, the set jaw, the determined mouth. “We three can beat her in this lethal game. Paula has to have a sidekick. Somebody doing her dirty work.”

  He snapped to attention. “Somebody who speaks French.” They were in the police car on their way to Vincent’s, where Abdel waited. Olivier called him. “Did you check airports?”

  “No one named Max Maguire arrived at any of our international airports,” Abdel said.

  “She must have a different alias,” Max said. “I’m calculating she left JFK at the approximate time we were picking up Larry Wexler at Veritas, and arrived in Bordeaux twelve hours later. Somebody was with her.”

  Abdel ran out to greet them, and escorted them through reporters and paparazzi up to the salle de bain where Vincent still lay in the tub, his head lobbed over to the side. The medical examiner looked up. “He has a depressed skull fracture from a blunt force w
ound. It could have come from the fall, which means he would have slipped backwards. His position doesn’t correlate to the type of injury he has.”

  “Could the body have been moved from somewhere else?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m calling for a forensic autopsy.”

  Max and Abdel followed him downstairs. “What about the policeman?” Olivier asked Abdel.

  Abdel’s face was grim. “Cold-blooded murder.”

  “You knew him?”

  Abdel nodded, then said, “Monsieur, let’s get on with it.” Max touched his arm, and he put his hand over hers for an instant. He straightened his shoulders. “Some videos are missing. The ones from the bedroom and the salle de bain.”

  “Monsieur Douvier has them all under lock and key at Bordeaux headquarters so he can review them later. It turns out that a number of calls had come in over the past months from young women who claimed they were drugged by Monsieur Barthes.”

  “Who were the reports sent to?” Olivier asked.

  “The procureur had sent them to Monsieur Douvier’s office. He was about to launch an investigation.”

  “After months?” Olivier was disgusted. “Is Douvier coming here?”

  Abdel nodded. “He’s about to announce to the public that that Monsieur Barthes drowned accidentally.”

  “What about the policeman?”

  “The ministers have convinced themselves it’s a separate incident. The policeman was an Arab like me, and they’re giving it a racist slant.”Abdel hit the refrigerator with his fist. “I feel like I’ve done everything wrong. I should have been hanging around here instead of checking airports. Two more murders and where is that woman? She could easily be in Spain!”

  “I’m going to look for the missing magnum,” Max said. “Vincent also had a cache of money here, which I’m sure is gone, but we can check.”

  Abdel brightened for a moment. “The missing magnum was in Cazaneuve’s apartment. He was bribed by Monsieur Barthes to steal it, and then held out for more money. We have him locked up. The bottle is tucked away in your office, Monsieur.”

  Olivier said, “Is there anything else, Abdel? Any reports of anyone showing up here?”

  “Nothing of consequence. Yannick stopped by, and the policeman allowed him to go in to see Monsieur Barthes. He was picking up a check.”

  Olivier said, “I want you to drop Max at my house, and then drive out to see what Yannick is up to.”

  “Now?” Olivier nodded, not missing the look of skepticism on Abdel’s face. He thought each of them needed a short time to be alone to think. He knew he did.

  “Bring Yannick in, but don’t let the press get word of it. He might know something.”

  “But there is so much to do here.”

  “We have all night.”

  “Okay.”

  “I have to talk to the minister of the interior and convince her to involve every unit in the country in this investigation,” Olivier said. “Paula Goodwin could be sipping wine in Paris. She could be anywhere.”

  “She could also be watching from across the street,” Max said. Olivier told Max he wanted her to go home, and that he would join her soon. “Zohra is preparing a meal,” he said, giving her a tired smile, and reached over and squeezed her hand.

  After agreeing to meet up later at his house, Abdel and Max left out the back door, and Olivier stepped out the front into glaring lights. He told reporters that Vincent Barthes had fallen in the tub and drowned. Someone shouted a question about the policeman and he said it was a separate incident. He had decided when he opened the door that Paula Goodwin was watching the news, and agreed with Walt’s theory that if she relaxed her guard, she might make a mistake.

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  April 11

  Abdel sounded frustrated. “Did Monsieur Chaumont have some hunch about Yannick? It feels stupid, going out to Médoc.”

  “He wanted to get rid of us so he could think,” Max said.

  “I hope he doesn’t go off the deep end like he did last year.”

  “It was pretty bad, huh?”

  Abdel nodded.

  “You know this case is going to rest on those missing videos,” she said.

  “I’m certain Goodwin has them,” Abdel said. “And if she’s as smart as we presume her to be, she destroyed them.”

  They drove along in silence. Max said, “I think Olivier’s hunch might be right on. We’re thinking she’s in train stations or airports disguised as somebody else. What if a farmer agreed to drive her over a border to another country? The Netherlands, for example.”

  “Yannick?”

  “Why not? You can interrogate his wife, Corinne. She might be ready to turn him in.”

  “That gives me something to work with,” Abdel said.

  “On the other hand, he and Vincent had a friendship of sorts.”

  “The class difference is much too great. Neither would think of the other as a friend. They had deals.”

  Abdel pulled into Olivier’s driveway, and Max hopped out. “I’ll bet Zohra has something delicious in the oven.”

  “No doubt.”

  They high-fived, and Abdel backed up and was gone. Max walked up onto the porch and put her bag down to knock on the door. “Zohra!” she called out.

  A figure stepped out of the shadow and she felt a gun pressed against her side. “Detective. I thought you were on a cruise.”

  Max had never felt such dread as she followed Paula Goodwin into Olivier’s salon. Paula went to stand in front of the fireplace, where she sipped a glass of water. Max sat on the sofa, with Mouchette leaning into her, purring loudly.

  “Where’s the commissaire off to?” Paula asked.

  “Home.”

  Yannick entered from the kitchen, holding a beer, and grinning at her. She had never noticed before how bad his teeth were. Maybe because she had never seen him grin before.

  Paula said, “The Neanderthal only drinks beer, and bad beer at that.”

  “Where’s Zohra?” Max asked.

  “Dead.” This is some psychological ploy to get me to react, Max thought. She had to stay calm in order to think. Her biggest worry was that Olivier would be coming soon, and she saw no solution.

  “Where’s the body?”

  “Garden shed.” Certain that they were engaging in psychological warfare, Max decided to join in. “One more out of the way, huh?” she said.

  “I’m not joking, you know. I think she had a heart attack.”

  “May I go check on her?”

  “No.”

  Corinne came rushing in the door, coming to a halt when she saw Max. “What are you doing here?”

  “I came for dinner.”

  “You know everybody,” Paula said to Max. “How’d you leave Wexler?”

  “Guilty as charged.”

  “I saw the news. Poor Vincent. What’s this about French men and you? He really liked you.”

  “I didn’t get that impression.” Max’s only hope was Corrine, but how could she get to her?

  Paula turned to Corinne. “How’s the maid?” Paula asked Corrine.

  “Not good. I put a blanket on her.”

  “Leave her. We should be ready to go when the judge gets here. Ask your husband if the truck is gassed up.”

  Corinne went into the kitchen and said upon her return, “Everything’s set.”

  “Tell your husband to take Max out to the shed and shoot her.”

  “Shoot? Are you crazy, Madame? He won’t kill.”

  “If you don’t do as I say, I’ll shoot you. Go!”

  Corinne scooted out of the room again and was back in a minute, Yannick trailing behind her with another beer. Corinne took a seat and lit a cigarette. Max caught her eye, and Corinne looked away.

  “I have to us
e the toilet,” Corinne said.

  “Hurry up!” Paula said. Corinne scurried away.

  “Tell him to stop drinking,” Paula said to Max. “And know that I understand more French than you think.”

  Max decided to test her. She said to Yannick in French, “You are being accused of killing Monsieur Barthes and a policeman. I know you didn’t do it. I want you to help me overtake her.”

  He stared at her hard, slurping his beer, and she realized she was shaking.

  Paula yelled for Corinne, who ran in. “Oui, Madame?”

  “Tell him to stop drinking. And ask him what Max said to him?”

  Corinne translated for Yannick, who replied to her in French, “The broad wants me to help her overtake the other broad. No way.”

  Corinne glanced over at Max and then fixed her attention on Paula. “He said that the detective asked him to spare the judge’s life.”

  Max’s emotions veered from panic that Yannick wasn’t going to be persuaded to help, and deep gratitude to Corinne for not giving her away.

  “How touching,” Paula said sarcastically.

  If only they leave before Olivier arrives, Max thought. The antique clock bonged nine. Paula’s cell rang. “Okay, we’re ready. We’ll meet you in two hours.” She ordered Corinne to tell Yannick to take Max to the shed.

  “Okay.” Corinne hesitated, then said in a soft voice to Yannick, “She wants you to shoot the detective. Nod your head.” He did as told. Corinne said, “If you shoot her, I’ll turn you in.”

  Max thought the beer she shared with Corinne in her kitchen was turning out to be one of the most rewarding moves of her career.

  “I’ll drive to Spain like we agreed, and ditch the broad,” Yannick said. “There’s a lot of money. I saw it.”

  “What’s taking so long?” Paula demanded. “Move!”

  Paula’s losing control, Max thought. She’s paranoid, and desperate. Yannick marched over to Max and grabbed her arm and hoisted her up. She winced from the pain in her shoulder.

  Rectangular lights streaking through the room made them all stop. Olivier had turned into the driveway. “Everybody freeze!” Paula said. Corinne explained to Yannick, who dropped his grip on Max. Paula commanded Max to open the door, and warned her that she was holding her gun on her.