Bordeaux: The Bitter Finish Page 4

  He had driven to his office to meet with a representative from the minister’s office, only to learn that his superior was giving him three months instead of the six he had requested to prove the existence of a counterfeit wine operation. Olivier hated the bureaucratic nonsense, but knew he had no other option than to listen to the cynics blather on about how counterfeiting had gone on for decades and no one seemed the worse for it.

  Glancing at his watch, he realized that this small detour meant he would be rushed to have everything ready by the time his guests arrived. His cell rang as he started the drive home. “Allo, Sylvie.”

  “Have you spoken with Pascal?”

  “Non. Is everything okay?”

  “He’s nowhere to be found, as usual. He told me he was bringing our Terre Brûlée wine for dinner. Now that it’s been elevated by the INAO, he’ll give our entire profit away.”

  Olivier knew she was referring to the organization responsible for regulating French agricultural products.

  “Ça ne fait rien,” Olivier said. “I prefer to serve from my own collection anyway.” Though he respected Pascal’s and Sylvie’s newer methods of making wine, he preferred the traditional, blended wines that had first made the region famous. In a tiny shed in Saint-Émilion, Pascal had created a bolder, fruitier wine that could be consumed right away. His method, inspired by the established and elite vineyard, Le Pin, involved cutting away excess bunches of grapes, then tending to the grapes largely by hand right up to the bottling. Pascal’s wine received glowing reviews from critics, especially from Ellen Jordan.

  “You and Pascal decide what to open,” Sylvie said. “Who else is coming?”

  “Ellen Jordan and her assistant.”

  Olivier found the silence that followed unsettling. He vaguely recalled Abdel quoting a blogger who hinted of an affair between the famous wine critic and some winemaker she had put on the map.

  “I need to speak to you later, Olivier,” Sylvie said, “as a friend.”

  “We’ll find a moment. Come at 8:30.” He continued driving up the winding road to the house he was renting in Bouliac, one that offered splendid views of the city below. His cat, Mouchette, dashed across the driveway and onto the porch as he pulled in, always there to greet him at the end of the day. As he paused on the porch to check his mail, she brushed up against his pant leg, letting him know that it was past her dinnertime. He reached down and picked her up to carry her into the house. Aromas drifted out from the kitchen, where Zohra was busy with last-minute preparations.

  “Monsieur,”she said, smiling brightly. “The haricots verts are ready to cook and the gooseberries already poached for the compote with Muscat syllabub.”

  “I’ll decant the wine. You are welcome to stay in your room here for the night,” he said.

  She smiled at him, “Are you asking me to serve dinner, Monsieur?”

  “I am saying I can’t do it without you, which is what I’ve been saying for years.”

  “You’re still a sentimental boy,” she said, but she was smiling.

  Olivier went upstairs to shower, and had dressed and was decanting the wine when the house phone rang. It was Abdel. “I’m at the Hôtellerie Renaissance and the concierge, Monsieur Cazaneuve, says that he thinks something suspicious is going on. Ellen Jordan’s assistant frantically demanded a key to her boss’ room, but when he let her in, she shut the door in his face.”

  The word she jumped out at Olivier, as he realized he had lost their bet. “Go on?”

  Abdel was sounding uncharacteristically animated. “The room reeked of vomit and from what he could tell, Madame Jordan was passed out.”

  “Putain! I’m on my way. Call the ambulance just in case and tell them to pull around to the back. I should be there by the time they arrive. It’s probably nothing.”

  “The assistant has called the ambulance. They just drove in.”

  Olivier couldn’t guage the seriousness of what was going on. Madame Jordan’s secretary had probably panicked. “Get her room key from the concierge. No drama.”

  Olivier told Zohra to put the dinner on hold until he called to confirm, and dashed out to his car. Once on the road, his thoughts raced at the speed of his Audi R7. Glancing at the clock on the dashboard, he made note of the time. 7:40. When his mobile rang he slowed down slightly and answered in a peremptory voice, “Quoi!”

  “Monsieur…”

  “I’m entering the village limits. I’m going to lose you.”

  “The news is bad.”

  Abdel’s voice faded out. Olivier came to a screeching halt just in time to avoid hitting a man who had darted out in front of him. He pulled in behind Abdel’s Renault parked at the rear entrance to the hotel. The haunting notes of a saxophone punctuated the air. The Laussac dinner event was in full swing.

  A dim light illuminated four ambulanciers d’urgence loading a gurney into the back of the vehicle. As he approached, he saw the profile of a woman with bobbed, blond hair which struck him as familiar. She spoke English in an agitated voice. “This ambulance is not leaving without me!” He watched her turn to the gendarme who was moving toward her, her body in attack mode. “If you touch me, you’ll be sorry.”

  Olivier thought he must be hallucinating as he studied the woman’s full, luscious mouth, now locked in a pout; defiant azure eyes; and impossibly long legs sheathed in tight jeans.

  Abdel broke the spell. “You may ride with the patient, Max. No problem.”

  She turned then, and seeing Olivier, froze. All five feet nine inches of her, five ten in cowboy boots. “Olivier.”

  “Drive to the hospital in Libourne,” he ordered the driver. “Hurry. Max, get in.”

  “But where are you…?”

  “Never mind about me. I’ll see you there.” He watched as Max folded her tall frame into the back of the ambulance, and the attendant closed the door. Abdel hopped into the passenger seat of Olivier’s car and they took off after the ambulance. “Did you know she was here, Abdel?”

  “Non! She was trying to revive Madame Jordan when I arrived in the room.”

  “Is Madame Jordan going to make it?”

  “She’s dead. Max insisted on taking her to the hospital anyway.”

  Ellen Jordan dead! Olivier’s brain was having a hard time computing. “Do you know why Max is here?”

  “No idea. The local gendarmes told me they attempted to arrest her after she kicked the concierge on the ankle when he tried to remove her from Madame Jordan’s room. She gave me a wild embrace when she saw me, and the gendarmes wanted to arrest her again for further demonstration of insanity.”

  Olivier pulled up behind the ambulance and watched Max hop out, then stand back as the stretcher was unloaded and rushed inside. Max followed, taking long strides and keeping her head down. When Olivier and Abdel entered the waiting room after speaking to the ambulance attendants, she was at the desk, looking stricken. “Max,” he said, “you know the victim?”

  Max nodded. The doctor on duty approached them and announced in a quiet voice that Ellen was DOA.

  Olivier said, “I’m sorry.”

  “I already knew. I couldn’t get her pulse.”

  “We’re going in to see the body. You can wait for us here,” Olivier said kindly.

  Her eyes met his, and he was taken aback for a second by the familiarity. She said, “You know I can handle the sight of a corpse, Olivier. Just so you know, I came here as her bodyguard.”

  Olivier tried not to look shocked. “I don’t understand why I wasn’t informed.”

  “It was last-minute. And you and I weren’t exactly in close touch.”

  He wanted to retort that it was she who hadn’t responded to his last email, but the time and place were inappropriate.

  The doctor suggested they go to a small waiting room and he would join them there. “Did you spend the day wit
h her?” Olivier asked.

  “Ellen was fine when I left at one or so, and looking forward to a dinner at someone’s home. Some straitlaced guy who loves to cook.”

  “I don’t know this term straitlaced.”

  “Stuffy. Old-fashioned. Conservative.”

  Olivier tried to ignore the insult. The local medical examiner joined them. “I’ve seen Madame Jordan,” he said. “I can do further testing, but I’m quite sure the cause of death is asphyxiation due to inebriation.”

  Olivier translated for Max. She said in English, “He’s wrong. We should get the body to our old friend in the Paris suburbs for some good forensic work.”

  “But there’s no crime,” Olivier said, recognizing the fragrance she had left on his pillow in Champagne ten months ago, chagrined that his senses could be charged at a time like this.

  “I think there is,” she whispered.

  “I can do a simple autopsy,” the local doctor said.

  “Give us a minute alone,” Olivier said. When the doctor closed the door behind him, he turned to Max. “Are you saying you suspect foul play?”

  “She was murdered. I would bet my brother’s knife on it.” He knew she’d never make a bet on her sacred talisman if she wasn’t completely sure. Still…

  “There has to be some proof of foul play before I can order a forensic autopsy.”

  “Order it and we’ll find the proof.”

  Olivier looked over at Abdel, who shrugged slightly, then fixed his gaze on Max, trying to guess what was going on beneath her façade of professionalism.

  The words tumbled over each other. “My boss, Captain O’Shaughnessy, assigned me to Ellen when she received a threatening note and went to my father. She is…or was… a good friend of my mother’s, and so of course it seemed natural to send me.” Olivier thought he might as well get used to the shock waves that he knew would continue throughout the evening. “By the way, my Uncle Philippe gave permission for a bodyguard to accompany Ellen to France, but he has no idea it’s me. We’re not on the best of terms, as you know, so can we keep it that way?”

  “D’accord.” He knew that Douvier would want to send Max back to the States immediately so Olivier would keep her secret for now. “Okay, I’ll ask for a forensics team to come later this evening after the Laussac dinner has ended. If we find any proof of foul play, I’ll order a forensics autopsy.”

  “That’s better than nothing.”

  They left the room and Olivier ordered the medical examiner not to leak Ellen’s death to the press. He joined Max and Abdel at his car, and they returned to the hotel, taking the back flight upstairs to Max’s room where two gendarmes stood in the doorway. “What the hell!” Max said. “Do they have a search warrant?”

  Olivier realized someone had tipped off the capitaine de gendarmerie, who had in turn put in a call to the local prosecutor. “I don’t know quite what’s going on,” Olivier said, “but I’ll find out.”

  “Who turned down the bed?” Max asked once they were in her room.

  “The maid must have come in,” Olivier said. Turning to Abdel, he asked, “Didn’t you tell the proprietor not to allow anyone in?”

  “I hope she didn’t go to Ellen’s room,” Max said. “I’m worried about evidence being destroyed.”

  Abdel offered to check and left the room.

  Max recalled the events of the day, including the part about Ellen telling her she was going to have an assignation with someone. “When I stopped by at 5:30 and knocked, she called through the door to come back later. I assumed her lover was still there, so I went to take a nap.”

  “Did she slur her words? The emergency room doctor said he could smell alcohol on her.”

  “No. She sounded sober as a judge when she called out to me. Excuse the pun.”

  “Monsieur Cazaneuve told the police that your behavior was aggressive.”

  “How so?”

  “You kicked him hard enough to require a trip to the doctor. I bring this up because he may decide to press charges.”

  “He’s a nosy bully. If Ellen had passed out from drinking too much booze, I wanted to protect her.”

  “But she sounded sober as a judge?”

  “It’s a manner of speaking.” Max stood up in frustration.

  A light tap on the door and Abdel re-entered. “The concierge said he put out the word to the staff not to enter, but the maid went in anyhow.”

  “In other words, Madame Jordan’s bed was turned down for the night?”

  Abdel nodded.

  “Assign an undercover officer to the hotel,” Olivier said.

  “Why don’t we go in there now?” Max asked. “I worry about a small-town forensics team screwing up.”

  “Abdel and I will be overseeing it. I need to ask you some questions, Max, before I turn the investigation over to you.”

  “I know I’m being a pain in the ass.”

  She’s the same Max, Olivier thought, a bit overwrought, acting on pure instinct, needing to be in charge, and one of the finest detectives I’ve ever observed. He said in a patient voice, “I’m trying to wait until most of the guests have left before bringing in a team of guys in space suits. How about if I have dinner sent up, and we can talk?” Olivier included Abdel with a look in his direction, but Abdel declined. “I’m sorry this happened,” he said to Max. “You’re a bodyguard now?”

  Olivier recalled how Abdel and Max had become fast friends while working on the Champagne murders the year before.

  “I’m on suspension from the NYPD for using excessive force on a rapist that I chased through Central Park. Some tourist caught me on film and put the whole fiasco up on YouTube. My boss thought sending me here was a good, temporary solution.”

  Olivier thought the force she used on her victim must have been extraordinary to create such a public outcry. “Did you bring a gun?” he asked her and she pulled the 19 mm Glock from her bag and handed it to Abdel. “I’m going to ask you to stay in your room tonight,” Olivier said. “The news is already out, I’m sure, that Ellen Jordan was taken to the hospital. If you go downstairs, reporters will descend on you like vultures.”

  Max nodded. Olivier followed Abdel down the stairs, shaking his head. “I forgot to call your grandmother to tell her that my dinner is off.”

  “I let her know and she called the Boulins.”

  “Excellent. What’s your gut feeling about Ellen Jordan’s death?”

  “Max knows something we don’t.”

  “That’s why I want to have this opportunity to get to the truth. But first I’m going to circulate around the dining room to see if I can pick up any information.”

  “The proprietor found a space for us, which wasn’t easy, as the hotel is full. I’m going to view the YouTube video of Max’s fight with the rapist.”

  “She seems more confident than last year,” Olivier said.

  “Less ambivalent.”

  “Madame Jordan was planning to bring her to my home for dinner tonight. What a surprise that would have been.”

  “A better reunion for sure than the way it ended up happening.”

  “Napoleon said, ‘There is no such thing as accident. It is fate misnamed.’”

  “There is a similar Arab saying.”

  “Then it must be true.”

  Chapter Five

  April 2

  The evening had a surreal quality to it. Tragedy in slow motion was the way Max referred to it in her journal—the delicious afternoon of exploring the village, the return to the hotel and falling into a deep sleep, then awaking to Ellen dead. The surprise, and okay, she could admit it in her journal, the unexpected joy of seeing Olivier. She forbade herself that distraction, and instead tried to write rationally her reasons for thinking Ellen was murdered, when she had nothing to base her certainty on but an innocuous note and a bott
le of wine—and a big dose of intuition.

  She needed to remove the wine from the safe, but would wait and have Olivier accompany her. Thinking of dinner made her wonder what had happened to the mystery man who was to be their host. Did he arrive to collect them while she was at the hospital? It was time to run events by her dad and Walt. She didn’t call the main number at the NYPD. Instead she dialed Walt’s cell phone number known to very few, and when he answered, she spilled the whole story. The silence that followed lasted so long she thought they had been disconnected. “Have you called your father yet?” he asked.

  “I thought I’d call you first.”

  “Are you okay? This wasn’t what we had in mind when we sent you there.”

  “I guess so. The wine that I was supposed to be guarding with my life, which may not be authentic, is in the safe downstairs. It may provide the motive.”

  “We weren’t told about any counterfeit wine.” He paused. “Nothing that you’ve said is any proof of murder. What was the weapon?”

  The answer felt clear to Max. “Poison.”

  “Hard as hell to prove.”

  “Olivier and Abdel are here, and I’m having a hard time convincing them that there’s been foul play.”

  “If my memory serves me right, they’re pretty rational guys. They know you speak French yet?”

  “No, but the pretense is getting old.”

  “Keep it that way for now. It worked in your favor the last time. I’ll call Hank.”

  “Okay.” She bit her lip to keep the tears at bay. “I half-suspected until now that you and my folks concocted the bodyguard thing just to get me out of town until things settled down.”

  “We’re not that generous. And don’t get any big notions about trying to solve this thing on your own. The French won’t take kindly to it.”

  “If we learn Ellen was murdered, I want to stay and solve it.”