Burgundy Read online

  “Don’t the women in this village have anything to do but nurture sick people?”

  “They like to solve crimes, too.”

  The two American men left the room, neither of them turning to say good-bye.

  “Did you know your dad was checking up on George in New York?”

  “He mentioned it. Notice how he buddied up to George? That’s what he does when he’s about to pull the rug out from under someone. It’s an old tactic, and George fell for it.”

  “I’m not sure he fell for anything.”

  The door opened and Anne entered. “Esther called me the minute she was sent home,” she said. “Do you really think they will take her away tomorrow?”

  “I’m going to try to prevent it,” Olivier said. “But no guarantees. It’s not like she’s going to the moon. Paris is an hour away by TGV.”

  “I can spend the evening here.” Anne sat and pulled out her knitting.

  Olivier decided to drive to his parents’. Max spotted her father and said she’d see him later and climbed into the car with Hank. “I didn’t carry that girl across a field, get her resuscitated and into an ambulance and through surgery just to have her knocked off when she doesn’t have a fighting chance,” he said.

  “Welcome to France, where our hands are tied. I really hope Interpol hires me so I’m not constantly perceived as stepping on toes.”

  “The guy’s clever. I think he’s networking here, and he could be handing out money under the guise of donations. Of course we’re talking about Lucy’s money. Try to get a copy of the guardianship paper from the hospital and I’ll work it on my end.”

  “Olivier needs you and me to butt out of this.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding. Olivier wouldn’t have a clue what to do with this type of narcissistic American. It would be like dealing with a Donald Trump.”

  “He’s a buffoon.”

  “A very smart buffoon.”

  “It’s not the end of the world if Lucy goes to Paris,” said Max. “The medical facilities there will be great.”

  “Max. Shed the fear. You’ve never been a man-pleaser and this isn’t the time to start.”

  “Olivier is going to be my husband!”

  “Didn’t I give you enough approval to make you secure? Don’t lose your autonomy. Once you do, it’s hell to get it back.”

  Soon Hank pulled into Isabelle’s driveway and they entered the house together. Isabelle and Juliette came to the door and greeted them warmly. “Anne dropped off the wedding dress,” Juliette said. “It’s a bit trop petit, but I’m sure we can make it work.”

  “How? By adding two yards of material?”

  “Not quite that much,” Juliette said.

  “I was joking, Ma.”

  “Oh.”

  “On that note, I’ll go for a run before you have to add a third yard.”

  Max stood on the path and gazed into the distance where she saw the porch light on at Anne’s. Anne rarely left Burgundy, and her best friend, Isabelle, had moved to Paris where she spent most of the year, yet the two women knew each other’s deepest secrets. Now that they were widows, they dined together at least twice a week when Isabelle was in the village, and Anne traveled to Paris once a month to stay with her friend. Max thought she would like to have a friend like Anne. She thought of Chloe, now living in Paris, and decided she would devote more time to the friendship once she was living there.

  Jean-Claude’s house was a short run away. The evening was bright enough to see where she was going, and she had the flashlight from her grandmother’s kitchen, if needed. The evening air smelled delicious in the unseasonably warm weather. She decided to jog to Anne’s cabin. She had a strong hunch that the cabin had something yet to reveal.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Olivier had known men like George. Wealthy. Often self-made, which gave them a brashness that heirs generally didn’t have. And a ruthlessness that rode just beneath the surface. Heirs carried more of an insouciance, though often a smugness set in, which meant they had convinced themselves that they were more deserving than most. He guarded against these attitudes in himself, for he knew they were contagious after having spent most of his education among the elite.

  He knew that Max knew he was miffed, yet he felt he could not say anything, since Hank conducting his own research on George Wyeth—and then confronting him with what he had found—was overstepping boundaries, yet not exactly wrong. He could see clearly where Max’s wiliness came from. She and Hank both were interested in cracking a person’s psyche before they knew what was happening. Olivier’s was a more languid approach but, he thought, equally effective. This was important with George, because the man had already ensconced himself in the middle of everything, and somehow managed to have the local police on his side by convincing them that Lucy was dangerous. No one was happy that she was lying in a coma from a gun wound, including the police, for it brought too much public attention on a popular sport. The simplest solution was to allow George to take his niece to Paris, and be done with it. It shouldn’t take too much to prove her innocence in the case of Yves Laroche.

  Just as he arrived at his parents’ house, Olivier’s mother rushed to the door to tell him that a gentleman, the well-known négociant and winemaker, Hugo Bourgeot, was on the phone. Olivier answered and a mellifluous baritone voice told him that he hated to disturb him, but that something rather urgent had come up. He said that he had met with Monsieur and Madame Chaumont a week ago, as they had known each other for many years, and they told him that their son was arriving for a long visit. Thus the call.

  “And the urgent matter?” Olivier asked.

  “It’s nothing I can discuss on the telephone, unfortunately,” he said. “A visitor came to my office some weeks ago, and I believe his actions were illegal.”

  Olivier felt a headache coming on. “I’m an hour away, as you know, at my parents’ house.”

  “I could leave Beaune now.”

  “D’accord.” Olivier related this information to his mother, who assured him the visit must be necessary for Hugo to drive an hour. “He says he knows you and Papa. What’s he like?”

  His mother poured an apéritif for each of them. “Hugo’s ancestors were some of the earliest négociants in Burgundy,” she said. “And his is the sole private firm left.”

  Olivier’s headache disappeared as he sat listening to his mother. It was she who had instilled in him his love of Burgundy lore. “Alors,” she continued, “Hugo’s family bought the négociant firm in the 1880s, and expanded its operation to include vineyards situated in the best areas of the Côte d’Or. Hugo was a visionary, for he was the first to purchase vineyards in Chablis, which brought him fame, and then he bought land in the U.S., much later.”

  “And what is his role now?”

  “He’s a widower. His children have taken over the running of the business. I’ve heard he is frail.”

  It was rare for Olivier to confide in his mother, but this evening was different. He told her about the visit of Lucy’s uncle, and to his surprise, he told her how everything that was going on made him have reservations about marrying. “I see what Alain and Yvette are going through, and how challenged they are by Roland. The death of Anne’s daughter has left her bitter and sad. Imagine, one of the greatest winemakers in the world and she wants to fight over a tiny parcel of land. And I watch Max with her father and how he unconsciously controls her. Can she manage without him?” He got up and tuned the radio to the classical station. “Brahms’ Lullaby?” he said, laughing, and his mother said, “What irony. Continue.”

  “I think Lucy’s presence, absence, and then being shot, has magnified peoples’ hopes and misgivings. Is it fair to say she has instigated a lot of pain?”

  His mother said, “From the little I have heard, she is at the axis of the wheel, where each person affected is forced
to deal with some aspect of themselves. It’s interesting that she is unable to speak or move, yet there is tremendous activity around her, as well as all the energy radiating from her.”

  He nodded. “The surprise is Hank. Rational, reasonable Hank. Legendary NYPD detective. The girl’s effect on him is far greater than I would think.”

  “And Max?”

  “She appears to be the least affected, at least outwardly. Lucy is the same age Max was when her brother was killed in a car accident. As I think about it, the girl must conjure up all kinds of memories from that era.”

  In time, their conversation was interrupted by the doorbell. Olivier’s mother opened the door to Hugo Bourgeot, and they exchanged the usual pleasantries. He was tall and lean with good posture, and a crop of white hair that gave an impression of arrogance. Olivier led him into the salon, where Hugo surveyed the wall of books for a moment before speaking. “I’m sorry to interrupt your family time,” he said. Olivier’s mother, who had meanwhile left the room, returned with an apéritif for Hugo, and set a tray of olives and a few chips on the table between the two men. She excused herself discreetly and pulled the door closed behind her.

  “I brought you a little something,” Hugo said to Olivier, “as someone told me you maintain a small collection.”

  Olivier accepted the bag, extracting the bottle of Chambolle Musigny Premier Cru, from Domaine de Vogüe, of the Côte de Nuits region, a quintessential Chambolle that he knew from experience had magnificent depth and weight and that, when opened, would emit aromas of blackberry and possibly a hint of wood smoke. “I’m afraid this is too much,” Olivier said. “I have done nothing for you.”

  “But you will.”

  A man who is used to commanding, Olivier thought. For the first time he noticed a slight tremor in Hugo’s hand. Olivier placed the bottle on the shelf.

  Hugo said, smiling, “This can be consumed now, though you can give it more time if you want. The history of this wine goes back to 1450. Same family for twenty generations.”

  “When I think of time that way the present moment almost has no meaning.”

  Hugo sipped his apéritif, “For me, at my age, it’s the opposite. Each hour overwhelms. There is so little time left.” He put his glass down. “I will get on with my reason for coming. Two weeks ago a gentleman came to my office in Beaune, and told my secretary, Maryse, that he would like to meet with me. She explained that I rarely met with people these days, which is true. But I try to attend traditional wine-tasting events. In fact, there is a big event coming up in two weeks and I’ll make sure you’re invited. Anne Bré will attend with me.”

  Olivier smiled. “My fiancée and I are getting married in her home.”

  “Bravo! She is fabulous. My wife, Camille, was always a bit jealous of her, thinking she had overstepped boundaries by lighting out on her own to make wine.”

  He turned ice blue eyes to Olivier. “As much as I would like to remain on the topic of wine and women, the two greatest inventions ever manifested by God, I shall continue with my story.”

  “You mentioned a man calling on you at your office.”

  “I met him in the reception room. You know, I only live a few meters from the business.”

  Olivier knew the fabulous stone house on a narrow lane, one of the most beautiful places in Beaune.

  “The gentleman got right to the point. He was searching for the father of an American girl named Lucy Kendrick, the one now on the news who has been shot in a hunting accident.”

  Olivier nodded.

  “He said that a client, who I assume must be Ms. Kendrick herself, had hired him to find her biological father. He told me the girl’s mother had recently died.”

  “Why come to you?”

  “I asked him that myself, and he replied that he had been to the offices of ten other exporters already who had been working in the area in the mid-nineties. He asked if I would submit to a DNA paternity test, and I said absolutely not, that anyone in such a predicament had the right to remain anonymous. He said he understood. I poured wine for him and myself, and asked how much he was being paid. He said ten thousand euros. I told him that in support of my fervent belief that privacy be allowed any man, I would pay him fifteen thousand euros for the information he had collected, the computer files and the hard copies, and he would have to sign an agreement that he would never mention this to anyone.”

  “A contract of secrecy.”

  “If you will.”

  “But you don’t know if you are the father, Monsieur.”

  “I am ninety-nine percent certain that I am. Eighteen years ago, an American woman came and asked to pick grapes at my vineyard. France didn’t have such strict labor laws back then, as it does these days, that make it difficult for working people to come from abroad.”

  Olivier calculated the year to have been 1997, when Hugo was around sixty or so. “There she was, all eyes and curiosity, with a great mane of blond hair bunched under her cap. She was strong for her size, and her skin was burnished golden by the sun. A bit on the wild side, I think the Americans say. Just so you know, she was almost forty. I’m not one to rob the cradle.”

  Olivier realized this was his way of confessing to an affair with Diane Kendrick.

  “Did you remain in contact?”

  “No. I saw her once in New York when I went there on business two years later. She told me she had had a child. I had four by then, and was traveling constantly. I asked her if the child was mine and she said yes, but she hadn’t put my name on the birth certificate. In a moment of guilt, I told her I would put aside a little parcel of land for the child, that she could inherit once I was gone, but there had to be proof. There never was.”

  “And that was the end of it.”

  “She gave me a letter that day which I put aside. I only recently opened it, after the fellow paid me a call.” He pulled it from his pocket. “It’s a love letter.”

  “You were never tempted to read it before now?”

  “Of course I was. But my life was on a steady course I could not, or would not, change. She wrote that she would hold my secret until the girl was eighteen, and then she would reveal to her who her father was. She thought that was fair.” His smile was sad. “She was most likely certain that I’d be dead or incapacitated by then.”

  “Did you set aside a parcel of land as promised?”

  “No.” He paused. “Do you think the girl will live?”

  Olivier blurted, “This is why you’re here?”

  “Of course not! I realized after the private investigator left that he had stolen the glass I drank from. I was furious.”

  “For the DNA.”

  “Exactly.”

  “And now you want the file he had on you.”

  “He stole my DNA. I should think it’s an illegal act.”

  Olivier sighed. “Your file is one among many. I can tell you that her file is missing. All that was in yours was the receipt of fifteen thousand euros. The police, of course, are curious.”

  He looked relieved. “I can manage the police.”

  “I’m sure.” Olivier was certain that it was George who paid Yves to find Lucy’s biological father, but it was likely that Yves had destroyed the information once he cashed Hugo’s check.

  “I have no idea if Monsieur Laroche told the child or not. If she’s at death’s door, then it doesn’t matter, I suppose.”

  Olivier thought Hugo took dispassionate detachment to a new level. He knew from listening to his parents that Hugo had clung to the old ways of the early vignerons who were secretive about their methods of making wine, and who were uncooperative with neighbors. All business was conducted with a wink and a handshake. He didn’t bother to bring up something Hugo already knew: a child in France did not have to be legitimate in order to inherit; in fact, all children inherited equally, as a result of the
French Revolution.

  “I trust that Monsieur Laroche’s findings have been destroyed, as agreed upon. It would be unbearable to my children, who adored their mother. Everything is in place for them when I die. Each has their own parcel, and they are now running the company. If the girl survives, I will honor my promise to her mother and negotiate a piece of land for her. I wanted you to know that, but it will be done in secret. Anonymously.”

  “Perhaps if you met Lucy…”

  “Non! Monsieur Chaumont, would you like to see an old man abandoned by his children?” Tears welled in his eyes, and Olivier looked away.

  “D’accord,” he whispered, as he got up to let the old man out.

  “You’re okay to drive?” he asked him, and was rewarded with a look most indignant.

  When the door closed behind Hugo, Olivier and his mother returned to the salon where he shared the story with her, knowing that threatened torture could not extract it.

  “My son,” she said, “you have done all you can do for now. Hugo has always acted from his brain, not his heart. He has hurt many people with his wheeling and dealing, and he may likely continue to.”

  “Not least of all Lucy.”

  “Each person has their own fate. What Hugo doesn’t realize is that his deep secret in fact alienates him from his children. All secrets do that.” She enfolded him in her arms, and he put his head on her shoulder. She wore Fleurissimo, the fragrance he deeply associated with her, created by Creed for Grace Kelly, when she married. When his mother soothed a wound, when she worked in the garden, when she called them to dinner, always the subtle fragrance resonated, reassuring her son that all was right with the world. His mother said softly, “The girl will be alright. Wait and see.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  It was dusk, and Max had no trouble finding the cabin again that was so storybook-charming. The first image that came to mind as she entered the neat room was of Hank leaning against the little white table, opening up enough to make her want to weep at the memory. She wished she had told him in that moment how much he meant to her, but she had been too surprised to speak. She glanced around at the two small beds, and at the shelves above, holding two dolls and a few propped up books. A sofa was placed across the room, and a child’s drawing had been taped to the wall. So this is what it’s like for a girl growing up in the country, Max thought. How easy it must have been to float into a world of imagination and remain there. How wonderful that Anne provided such a place of wonder for her daughter.