“Ronald Ginsburg chose the Villa Bacchante of California’s own Napa Valley.”
“Are you going to split your winnings with Gerry if you come out on top?” Hilarian asked Ronald as he remembered how Ronald’s sponsorship of Bacchante had really come about.
“Hilarian Jackson of England chose Froggy Bottom.”
Hilarian looked over to Guy and Kelly, who were now sitting side by side. He gave them the thumbs-up.
“And so, five years later, each of the vineyards has released its vintage and today, in Vinifera’s first ever Gloria Cup competition, they were compared side by side in a blind tasting by some of the wine world’s most distinguished palates. The results are in.” Gerry waved three envelopes. One bronze. One silver. One gold. “And I’d like to invite Vinifera columnist Odile Levert onto the stage to make the presentation of this year’s bronze medal.”
Odile got to her feet. “The moment of truth draws ever closer.”
She strode across the stage to a very satisfying round of applause and took the bronze-colored envelope that Gerry held out to her.
“Here goes,” she said. “This year’s bronze medal in the Gloria Cup goes to … ”
She ripped the top of the envelope and pulled out the slip of paper inside.
“The Villa Bacchante for its Carneros Blanc de Noirs!”
Odile led the applause as Christina Morgan rose from her seat and walked up to the stage, weaving through the tables with all the elegance and assurance her years on the catwalk afforded her. The sequins on her platinum-colored dress caught the light and gave the appearance of a curious kind of aura. She looked like a goddess. Half a dozen men jumped up to help Christina climb the stairs.
“Congratulations,” said Odile as she handed Christina the trophy and leaned in to kiss her cheek. “Well deserved.”
“As is this,” said Christina, stepping back from Odile’s embrace and landing a stinging slap right across her face.
The crowd gasped.
“What was that for?” Odile managed.
“Ask your friend Monsieur Randon,” said Christina into the microphone. “Hey, Randon. How many kids have died in your factories since I saw you last?”
CHAPTER 65
Delafiote,” said Randon, talking over his shoulder. “Get my lawyer on the phone.”
“Get him yourself,” said Axel.
“What?”
Randon swiveled in his chair to face Axel head-on.
“I just resigned,” Axel said.
Up onstage, Marisa tried to persuade Christina to give up the microphone. Shaking uncontrollably, Odile returned to her seat.
“You must have given her a terrible rating,” said Hilarian.
“I have no idea what her problem is,” said Odile.
Ronald squeezed Odile’s hand. “Time of the month, I expect.” For once, Odile didn’t upbraid him for suggesting as much.
Onstage, Marisa finally wrested the mic from Christina’s hand and pushed her behind the curtains at the side of the stage.
“I smell a writ,” said Marisa. “We’ll deal with this later.”
In the glare of the spotlights, Gerry Paine swiftly moved proceedings along.
“The silver award will be presented by Hilarian Jackson,” he said.
Madeleine was so busy watching the commotion Christina Morgan’s outburst had caused at the Domaine Randon table that she didn’t hear her name being called.
“Champagne Arsenault’s Clos Des Larmes.”
“It’s your moment, darling,” Mackesy kissed her. “Get up there.”
“Thank you,” said Madeleine, as she accepted the congratulations of a hundred people on her way to the stage. “Thank you.”
“Bloody hell,” said Kelly. They were the first words that came to her when she realized that since Christina and Madeleine had already been ranked, there was only one possible winner left.
“My God,” said Odile to Hilarian. “I owe you a hundred thousand pounds.”
Hilarian didn’t argue as Odile wrote his name on the check, though he wasn’t certain they had actually officially raised their stakes.
“I’ve got to go now,” she said. She planted a kiss on his cheek and one on Ronald’s too. “Make sure you pay up, Ronald. I love you both.”
“Is she all right?” Ronald asked. “Now, Hilarian, I think you’ll find I didn’t actually agree to a hundred thousand.”
“Forget it,” said Hilarian. “You’re needed up there.”
Onstage, Madeleine tipped the champagne glass-shaped trophy toward the crowd as though proposing a toast. Mackesy tipped his glass back at her. Then she looked out into the crowd for Axel. She had a sudden urge to receive his congratulations too. But she couldn’t see him. Everyone at the Domaine Randon table was on their feet, but not to give Champagne Arsenault a standing ovation.
“Mathieu Randon?” asked the first detective, recognizing Randon from an old interview in Vinifera. If he hadn’t been on duty that night, Detective Madden would have loved to have been at the festival as a guest.
Axel felt his heart leap. He couldn’t believe his call to the fraud squad had been acted upon so quickly.
Randon confirmed his identity.
“We need a word,” said Detective Madden.
Finally, Ronald Ginsburg made it up onto the stage. He opened the gold envelope with the best sense of ceremony he could muster, given that he already knew what the note inside said and its implications for his bank account.
Kelly and Guy leaped up together. Kelly threw her arms around Guy’s neck.
“This is for us,” she said. “You and me.”
On her way to collect the trophy she danced in the aisle with Hilarian. She planted a big kiss on Gerry Paine’s cheek. She had another for Ronald. And a final one for the check.
“Thank you.” She waved the trophy and her check in the air. “I can’t begin to tell you how much this means to me. Froggy Bottom saved my life.”
The guests at the Domaine Randon table missed Kelly’s impassioned speech.
“Mr. Randon,” said Detective Madden. “We’re very sorry to have to interrupt your celebrations tonight. I have here a warrant for the arrest of Axel Delaflote. I understand he’s one of your employees.”
Axel got to his feet automatically but there was nowhere to run.
CHAPTER 66
And so to the real highlight of the winemakers’ year. The business was over. The results were in. The climax of Vinifera’s wine weekend, for the professionals, was the private party in Montrachet at the top of the Gloria Hotel. Downstairs in the ballroom, the paying punters danced and played air guitar to Bon Jovi, unaware that some of their fellow dinner guests were headed upstairs for Ronald Ginsburg’s exclusive little shindig. It was the wine world’s equivalent of the Vanity Fair Oscar bash.
When she reached the hotel’s fiftieth-floor restaurant, Madeleine Arsenault was delighted to discover that one of the best tables by the windows had been reserved for the Champagne Arsenault team. Not that she had a team in tow. Odile had disappeared. Madeleine guessed she must have been gathering herself after that awful moment with Christina Morgan. Mackesy too had made his excuses. An important call from Europe, he claimed. Madeleine guessed it must be his wife.
Madeleine searched the room for someone she might sit down with but found no one she felt like talking to then. She was confused about what had happened to Axel. As far as she could tell, the entire Domaine Randon party had left the hotel.
Looking out over the glittering lights of San Francisco, for the first time that day Madeleine’s thoughts turned to home. Champagne was home, she knew now. As much as it had been when she was just a small girl and Georges was alive and everyone was happy. Georges would have loved this—the triumph of being named one of the best wines in the world. She wished they could be sharing this moment. She wished, more to her surprise, that she could be sharing it with Constant. Her father.
It was almost two o’clock in the morning. The
band was playing all the old favorites. Kelly Elson and Hilarian Jackson took to the floor for “Putting On the Ritz.” They wheeled around in a comic approximation of the foxtrot like the father and daughter they had become to each other. Kelly squealed as Hilarian threw her into a spin.
Christina Morgan held court on the other side of the dance floor. No matter how good or bad they thought her wine was, every man and woman in the room wanted to talk to the supermodel.
Madeleine suddenly found she was content to be alone. She watched a sailing boat pass beneath the Golden Gate Bridge. She lifted her glass toward the ghostly lights on the boat’s mast and silently toasted her father.
“We did it, Papa,” she said.
CHAPTER 67
While the rest of the wine world was living it up at Ronald Ginsburg’s party, Mathieu Randon was in his limousine, being driven back to the Domaine Randon château in Napa Valley. He didn’t feel like partying. Delaflote’s arrest had been quite an embarrassment, even if Randon was sure that it would soon prove to be a blessing. Lately, Delaflote had shown himself to be a touch too sensitive for the job of Randon’s right-hand man.
When Randon arrived at around one o’clock, the château was empty. The staff had been sent away for the weekend. There were times, like this one, when Randon didn’t feel the need to have half a dozen people at his beck and call. Times when he wanted to be completely private.
But he wasn’t going to be able to be alone that night. Shortly after the limousine left, another car pulled up to the back of the house. Randon saw the headlights sweep across the garden as he was undressing in his bedroom. This was unusual. The gate at the back of the house was left open during the day for deliveries but with no staff on the premises, it should have been locked shut. Perhaps it was a member of the staff coming back to retrieve something he or she had forgotten. Or to play house. Randon once had a butler pretend that the house was his in order to impress a girl. He’d brought her back, not knowing that Randon was in residence. Randon had sacked the butler and slept with his girlfriend.
But this wasn’t a member of the staff, though it was someone Randon recognized. He pulled his shirt back on and went downstairs to play the magnanimous host.
“Odile,” said Randon. “What a pleasant surprise.”
“I’m very sorry to turn up uninvited,” said Odile.
“No, no. I’m glad you’re here,” said Randon. “Come out to the winery with me. I’ve been meaning to show you some Mouton ‘45 I bought at auction in London back in March.”
“I heard about it,” said Odile, as she followed him across the dark yard. “From the collection of Constant Arsenault.”
“Ludbrooks didn’t exactly make that clear,” said Randon.
“I saw that wine in Arsenault’s caves last year.”
“Then I’d be grateful if you could confirm its authenticity,” said Randon as they entered the winery and he switched on the light.
“I can confirm its inauthenticity,” said Odile. “You must know you were ripped off.”
Randon paused. “Really?”
“Oh yes. Piers Mackesy’s evaluation of its provenance was guided more by love than his usual good judgment. I have no idea how he got Harry Brown at Ludbrooks to sign off on it. I guess passion makes people persuasive. But you must feel a fool, Randon. Having bought fake wine.”
“Well, well, well. I don’t like to feel a fool. Young Mademoiselle Arsenault has some explaining to do. The ensuing lawsuit could cost her dearly.”
“Cost her Champagne Arsenault, you mean.”
Randon grinned. “Of course that’s what I mean. I’ll have to sue Mackesy and Ludbrooks too, I suppose. But I don’t understand why you want to tell me this. Madeleine is your little pet.”
“It’s just that I would hate for you to go to your grave thinking you’d owned a real Mouton ‘45.”
Randon narrowed his eyes.
“Why are you really here, Odile?”
It went right back to the very first time Odile and Randon met. In Bibliotek. After Randon bawled her out for offering Bollinger, Odile sat in the kitchen shaking. Odette was unsympathetic. Earlier that day, the sisters had argued about something insignificant. Odile was far better at arguing and Odette was still punishing her for having won.
“He seemed like a nice enough guy to me,” said Odette.
He certainly seemed to like Odette. Each time she passed the table he patted her on the bottom.
At the end of the evening, Randon left an enormous tip. Odette couldn’t keep from crowing about it all the way back to the tiny flat she and Odile shared in St.-Germain-des-Pres.
“And what’s more,” she said, “he’s invited me to a party tomorrow night. Out in Champagne.”
“He’s a sleazebag. You shouldn’t go,” said Odile.
“Why the hell not? It’ll be full of people worth meeting. I might find someone who can get me a job somewhere interesting. Or become my lover so I don’t have to work anymore! You don’t think I intend to work as a waitress for the rest of my life?”
“You’ll meet other people, Odette. I don’t like that man. I hated the way he kept grabbing you by the ass. There’s something about him. Something violent. I saw it as soon as he walked in. Like Dad.”
“Dad never touched me,” Odette reminded her. The subtext was that she didn’t believe her father had ever touched Odile either. “But this isn’t even about him. You’re just jealous that I might have the chance of going up in the world.”
“Or getting fucked by an old man who won’t remember your name in the morning. Please don’t go.”
“Odile,” said Odette. “Sometimes your jealousy is a real bore. When I have my rich famous lover and my enormous apartment, I shall remind you that you told me not to go for it.”
“I’m begging you not to go for it,” Odile replied. “Not with him.”
Odette threw her coat around her shoulders.
“I’m on my way up.”
In reality, Odette was on her way out. Had they known it at the time, would they have parted differently, Odile wondered. Would she have told Odette she loved her, despite the way they fought? Would Odette have returned the sentiment?
Her body was found four days later. The dress she had taken from Odile’s wardrobe without permission was tattered and torn. Odile identified Odette’s body in the hospital. Her beautiful face was ruined. Cut and bruised. Swollen from having been in the water for so long. From that moment on, whenever Odile thought of her sister, she thought of that Halloween mask. White and puffy as a maggot. She hated Odette’s murderer for that more than anything.
They couldn’t pin anything on Mathieu Randon. Sure, forensic evidence proved that he’d had sex with Odette in a hotel in Reims but he claimed it was consensual and she left straight afterward. The police took his word for it that Odette did leave. The guy on the hotel’s front desk said he had a stomach bug that night and spent quite a bit of time in the staff bathroom when he should have been on duty. The CCTV camera that watched the front door was on the fritz. There was footage of Odette walking into the hotel—skipping across the marble floor of the lobby in borrowed shoes—but nothing more after that.
The police concluded they had no reason to hold Randon, a successful businessman. It wasn’t even as though he was committing adultery. His wife had died six months earlier. Suicide.
Soon they started to suggest that Odette’s death was suicide too. The cuts and bruises were the result of being tumbled in the river after her death. Her stomach contained enough drugs to kill someone susceptible.
“But she had everything to live for!” Odile had protested.
The police psychologist explained that the family of a suicide victim quite often had no real idea of their loved one’s state of mind.
It seemed so obvious to Odile. The hotel where Randon “entertained” her sister that night was owned by his company. Odile had seen the kind of henchmen who passed for staff at Domaine Randon. It wouldn’t have take
n much to persuade men of that ilk to cover up for him.
But Mathieu Randon walked away with his reputation intact. Still Odile was certain she knew the truth and that one day she would confront him with it.
She knew her revenge would not come soon. She knew that she would have to wait. As far as Randon was concerned, the case was closed and Odile had given up. She left her job at the Bibliotek and moved to London. There she got a job in another restaurant and continued her rise as a sommelier. After that she moved to the buying team of a wine merchant. She got a column in a free newspaper, which was followed by a more prominent column in a regional paper and finally by her column in Vinifera.
She changed her surname to her mother’s maiden name. There was nothing about her father that she wanted to be reminded of. After Odette’s death he acted as though he no longer had any daughters at all. Along with the name change, Odile gradually changed her image. She grew into her features a little. While she knew she would never be as beautiful as Odette, she became what might be called “handsome.” She dyed her dark brown hair jet-black. She dressed only in black or cream. She affected an air of mystery. She told no one about her background and didn’t correct them when they assumed she must have grand origins.
Five years after Odette’s death, Odile’s father was knocked down and killed by a car while weaving home from a bar. After that, Odile felt free to visit her mother again. One afternoon, when Odile was walking through the square of her hometown, a good friend from school walked by without even acknowledging her.
“No way! Is it really you?” the friend asked when Odile caught her by the arm. “I wouldn’t have recognized you in a million years. You look … fantastic!”
At last, Odile felt confident that Mathieu Randon would not recognize her either.
“Tell me what you want, Odile.”
Randon’s eyes narrowed.
Odile looked up at the barrels of that year’s pinot noir, stacked ten high on the other side of the cellar, while she considered her opening sentence.
Vintage Page 39