Burgundy Page 6

  Anne took over. “Lucy told me about her search for her father. Her mother attended a semester at the University in Dijon in 1995, and while there had a brief affair with a married man who was, according to her, a successful merchant and vigneron. Lucy says she is the result of that liaison, but her mother had promised not to reveal the name of her lover until his death. Evidently he was quite a bit older. Hank and I think that finding her father must have been Lucy’s only hope once her mother died, as she made her way all the way to France.”

  “Let’s not over-romanticize the situation,” Olivier said. “Lucy is seventeen, and could be delusional. We don’t know what she did to get placed in a mental hospital. Did she tell you, Anne?”

  “No.”

  “I can find out the cause of her mother’s death,” Hank said. “At least what was written on the death certificate. And I can check out this George guy.” Before Olivier could reply, Hank said, “To satisfy my own curiosity.”

  Anne said, “My concern was that Lucy was too much of a free spirit. She comes and goes as she pleases, but this time when she left she didn’t tell me anything, which is not like her.” Anne grew quiet for a moment. “She was somewhat besieged by men wanting her attention. The boy from the south, the one I don’t like, Roland, I think his name is. He’s perfectly harmless, of course, follows her around like a puppy, and our local Brit who runs the B&B nearby calls to take her into Beaune to meet up with his friends…nice guy that one. Then there is Yves, who has been coming here for years to pick grapes. He was gaga over Lucy, but he is the age of my son-in-law, Jean-Claude. I thought his behavior grew unseemly, and I told him to leave. Everyone was having a falling-out with him, even Jean-Claude.”

  Olivier and Max exchanged glances, then looked to Hank, whose face said he had not mentioned the death of Anne’s former worker. Olivier said, “Pardon for the interruption, but Anne, I have unfortunate news. Yves Laroche fell to his death a couple of nights ago.”

  Anne looked stricken. After a moment, she spoke in a low voice. “How does one fall to one’s death, Olivier? They either jump or they are forced, isn’t that so?”

  “The theory is that he was pushed.”

  Anne’s face was grim. “Then who did it?”

  “The police are investigating,” Olivier said. “He hosted his own birthday party the night he died, and Lucy was seen leaving there.”

  “I knew something like this would happen!” Anne said. She stood up in an act of impatience. “There was a group of…singles…who hung out together. All ages. Tim is the Brit, and his inn is where they all congregate. I’ve seen them when I drive by, or go for a walk. That god-awful wife of Alain Milne’s…what’s her name…Yvette…took to going there, and you can imagine the scandalous news that suddenly started making the rounds. Jean-Claude denied being in a relationship with her when I confronted him, but I think he was lying. She’s been married just long enough to know she’s bored. He has a child to raise, and he was setting a horrible example for Lucy.”

  Olivier was shocked by the degree of hostility in Anne’s voice, and saw that Hank and Max were as well.

  She continued. “Jean-Claude has changed since my daughter’s death. He’s drinking too much, and hanging out with people Caroline didn’t care for. Oh, some of them are old diehards around here. Men who haven’t entered the twenty-first century, who put women down with their insipid jokes, whose politics are right of Le Pen, who would love to see me ruined.” Her face became distorted by ragged emotions. “Look at me,” she said. “An old fool if ever there was one.” The doorbell rang and she gave them an imploring look, hastily wiping tears. “Oh, that will be Jean-Claude dropping off my grandson. Please do not discuss any of this with him.”

  They shook their heads in unison, as if to say “never.”

  She went to the door. They heard her speaking to a child, who followed her into the room and shook hands with each guest. Jean-Claude followed behind. Olivier figured him to be in his mid-forties, judging by the grey streaks in his hair. A man who spent a lot of time outside. Unquestionably attractive, though he hadn’t smiled once since entering the room.

  “Sit, sit,” Anne said, but he begged off, saying he had work to do.

  The little boy, Luc, ran over to a shelf, fetched a Babar book, and sat down next to Max, who whispered something that made him smile. Max watched him and thought, he’s too young to lose his mother.

  “How old are you?” Max asked him in French.

  “Huit ans.”

  “Eight,” Max translated for Hank, who was studying the child.

  Jean-Claude said to his mother-in-law, “Did you see on the news that a guy fell off a balcony in Lyon? Turns out it was Yves Laroche.”

  Anne sniffed the air. “Yes, I know about his terrible accident.”

  Jean-Claude continued standing, forcing Anne to look up at him. “I wonder if Lucy knows.” He turned to the others. “Monsieur Laroche worked here during the vendanges and was crazy about this American girl who showed up. I warned her about hanging out with him.”

  Now irritated, Anne said, “Surely, she hasn’t seen him since I sent him away?”

  Her question hung in the air as Jean-Claude took a seat, finally, realizing he had an audience. He turned to Olivier. “He was a snoop. A P.I. They have to hold a degree now in France, but they’re still snoops. He kept Lucy in a state of hope about finding her father. I told her that if her father wanted to be found, he’d have looked for her. She needed a dose of reality.”

  “Yves was inappropriate with her, which is why I fired him. But that didn’t keep him from showing up at Tim’s inn. I saw his car there.”

  Max thought Anne was sounding like a first-class spy.

  Luc piped up. “Papa, Lucy sent me a postcard from Lyon, right?”

  Jean-Claude smiled, and Max noticed his dimples. “Luc heard from her, this is true.”

  Olivier thought Lucy’s act of writing to a lonely little boy was a solid act of compassion. He said, “I wonder if Monsieur Laroche stuck his nose where it didn’t belong.”

  Jean-Claude said, “He was proud of the fact that he had dossiers on a lot of people who didn’t know he had them. He was a double-agent in the domestic world, the way I saw him. It was greed, pure and simple. He would promise Lucy information on her father, but at the same time he was in touch with Lucy’s uncle, who was looking for her. I got suckered in by him on some information I was seeking, then he turned on me.” Jean-Claude looked accusingly at his mother-in-law. “No one was immune.”

  “He’s gone,” Anne said. “I hope all the gossip dies with him.”

  “You’re working the Yves Laroche case, Monsieur Chaumont?” Jean-Claude asked.

  “No. I’m requesting that my assistant, Abdel Zeroual, be a part of the investigation.” He felt no need to explain that he wanted him to direct it.

  “You don’t trust the officials here to do a thorough job?”

  “The tradition is for judges and prosecutors to cooperate with each other.”

  Jean-Claude clearly had no intention of backing down. “I’ve already spoken with the prosecutor in Lyon, Emmanuel Caron, who buys my wine, and told him that I stopped by Yves’ birthday party earlier that evening. I had a date and so didn’t stay long.”

  “Did you notice anything unusual?”

  “Yves was strung out on heroin. He had also started dealing, I heard.” The clock chimed nine times. “I am running late.” He leaned down, kissed his son, and told him to be good.

  Anne took her grandson’s hand and led him into the kitchen, asking Max and Olivier to join them. Anne’s employée de maison, or housekeeper, had set the table for six. Anne reached into the fridge and brought out a bottle of chilled white wine. “This isn’t from my top tier of wines, but I like it.”

  They sat, and Anne said, “The Laroche guy sounds like a monster. And we fed the monster
. I’ll admit, I went to him to talk about the land Jean-Claude and I are in dissent over. Yves Laroche was coming here when Gervais was alive, and one harvest season—1995, I think it was—Gervais and I were having a terrible go-round because of his philandering. Yves had an indelicate habit of pointedly reminding me of my husband’s transgressions. This year he put the daffy idea in my head that Lucy could be the result of my husband’s affair with Diane, Lucy’s mother. He recalled a pretty American woman coming to pick grapes, he said.”

  Olivier blurted, “And…?”

  She shrugged. “He was going to run a DNA test. I don’t know if he did, or not, because I fired him.”

  “I’m surprised the land boundaries aren’t clearer with the parcel you were speaking of,” Olivier said.

  “It wasn’t my husband’s to bequeath. It was part of an inheritance from my father. I let it go because my darling Caroline was so pleased that her father had left something specifically to her. But after her death, Jean-Claude came up with a paper she had signed bequeathing that same parcel to him.”

  “But it will go to Luc eventually, anyhow,” Olivier said.

  “I assume. But what if Jean-Claude marries again, which he most likely will? If he has more children, it could become very complicated, though it is supposed to be passed down through bloodlines.” She sighed. “It’s in the right location on the hillside to become a grand cru vineyard, a gold mine for Jean-Claude and a chance for him to prove his skill at crafting a truly fine wine. Caroline always felt sorry for him, as his father had lost their family vineyard. A giant investment company bought it, and Jean-Claude tried working for them but it didn’t last. He’s been at loose ends ever since, working a tiny piece of land that he managed to buy, that has no appellation, and helping others.”

  “It doesn’t sound like it was his fault,” Max said.

  Anne shrugged. “It’s quite common, unfortunately. Both our land laws and our inheritance laws are too strict, if you ask me. I’ve been conferring with a wine dealer named Hugo Bourgeot, who is interested in buying it.”

  Olivier couldn’t hide his shock. “Everyone knows him, in one guise or another. Big landowner here and in the American northwest. His is the only private négociant firm left standing. He must be approaching eighty.”

  “He wants this piece for a personal reason and that’s all I can say.”

  “Does Jean-Claude have any idea that you’re doing this?”

  “There is no reason for him to know. If he wins our legal battle, which is doubtful, I will offer to buy the land back from him at a price he can’t refuse. If he loses, I can do what I want with it.”

  Luc, who had left the table with his grandmother’s permission to play Legos, returned. She put her arm around him. “Let’s read a Babar book.” He nodded and ran off to retrieve it.

  Olivier took this as their cue to leave, and stood up. He and Max, Juliette and Hank, bid Anne good night.

  Hank had arrived at the door when he turned back to Anne. “What would you do if the DNA matched up and Lucy turned out to be your husband’s child?”

  She smiled, as though he had uncovered a secret. “I like your boldness, Hank. I would have no choice. Lucy would be entitled to a portion of everything I have.” She smiled, “I am coming around to the belief that it could be my destiny. And Lucy’s.”

  Olivier said, “I wonder if Jean-Claude knows any of this is going on. Yves Laroche was the last thing from discreet, and they drank together.”

  “I’m concerned about that. I wonder what Jean-Claude was doing at that party. He’s not a kid. He must have been nosing around for something. Olivier, I think you would be wise to destroy every file Yves had. Start fresh.”

  “There are laws about that, Anne. They will be used as evidence, if need be.”

  Olivier, Max, and Hank bid Anne good-bye, and headed back to Isabelle’s. “Whichever prosecutor is chosen to handle this case must be diligent about sticking to the facts,” Olivier said, “and not get led into these tales everyone is weaving.”

  “I keep going back to that piece of land she’s negotiating over with Hugo Bourgeot,” Max said. “What is she getting in return?”

  “I wouldn’t dare name a sum. A million, at least.”

  Hank said, “She doesn’t need money. When we know what she does need, we’ll understand why she wants to sell that parcel.”

  Olivier said, “Who knows what anyone needs, much less Madame Anne Bré?”

  Chapter Nine

  Max bustled around in Isabelle’s kitchen, helping with the dinner where she and Olivier were to officially announce their engagement. Isabelle had decided on the traditional dish of boeuf bourguignon, which demanded three separate cuts of meat that needed to simmer for hours. The aromas of red wine, onion, and bacon wafted up into the atmosphere. Max joined Olivier in the cellar where he stood studying the wines, carefully selecting the ones that would work with the meal.

  “This is perhaps the most pleasant task I’ve ever been assigned,” he said, selecting a bottle and putting it back, then picking up another. “Your grandmother has a rather remarkable collection. She’s told me that over the course of many years, she simply bought a few bottles from every vintage.” He smiled, “Of course she had neighbors making fine wines.”

  The doorbell chimed, and Juliette called down that Olivier’s parents had arrived. Max hurried upstairs and looked into the warm, intelligent eyes of Olivier’s father, who delivered kisses on each cheek to his future daughter-in-law. Olivier was his father’s clone. His mother was of medium height, trim, and exuded a quiet elegance. Hank introduced himself and Max observed Olivier’s mother appraise the tall man before her. “Olivier didn’t get your looks, which is too bad,” Hank said to her, and Max thought she saw a trace of amusement cross the woman’s face.

  For the first time, Max’s impending marriage felt real. Images from the evening began to merge one into the other as her gaze went from her grandmother, both haughty and warm; to her mother, who was elegant in black; to her father, who sipped a glass of cremant, the Burgundian equivalent of champagne, content to observe the group; to Anne, who spoke animatedly to Olivier’s parents; and finally her eyes landing on her fiancé, who was completely at ease. At Isabelle’s command they entered the dining room and sat, with barely a lull in conversation as the transition was made.

  Olivier said, “Jean-Claude called. The wild boar hunt is scheduled for tomorrow morning. Max will be allowed to come and observe.”

  Max gave a mock, exasperated look. “If a boar attacks me, I have no weapon?”

  “I’d be more worried about the men shooting you,” Isabelle said. “Make sure you wear orange. Let’s see, my husband’s hunting jacket is upstairs, which may be perfect a perfect fit for Hank. I’m sure I can come up with something for you, Maxine. Have you ever been hunting?”

  “Only for criminals in New York City. Wild boars should be easy after that.”

  “She’ll be okay with me,” Hank said.

  “You don’t hunt, either,” Max said.

  “The Army wanted to keep me on as a sniper back in the day, but I said no. I’ve gotten so I hate killing anything. These boars might change my mind.”

  Everyone laughed. Max reminded herself to ask Hank about that period in his life she knew so little about. She felt Olivier’s mother’s eyes on her and glanced in her direction, relieved to see that she, too, was amused. Olivier reached over and took her hand and she felt herself blush. Isabelle noticed, too, and smiled. She raised her glass. “We are here to celebrate the engagement of Max and Olivier,” she said. “May I be the first to welcome you into our family, Olivier.”

  The diners clinked glasses. Olivier’s father spoke next. “We could not be happier to make the acquaintance of our future daughter-in-law. Welcome to France, Max.”

  “There is something we haven’t told you,” Olivier said,
smiling. “Max?”

  “The wedding date is April twenty-eighth.”

  The room went silent, then all the women were talking at once. “This is not possible,” Isabelle said. “We have only two weeks. Not even.” She and Juliette exchanged wild glances. “Olivier,” Juliette said, focusing her attention onto her future son-in-law, “I know Max talked you into this absurd notion. Please, you are a reasonable man.”

  “We are together on this,” Olivier said. “What is the point in waiting? We know what we want. I’m moving to Paris and want her to help me select our new apartment. We will begin immediately after the wedding, if not before. She will be putting an application into Interpol before we depart for our honeymoon.”

  Juliette’s eyes filled with tears. “I’m not prepared for her to move across the ocean.”

  Max jumped up and threw her arms around her mother. “You’ll have time to get used to the idea, Maman. And you can come to Paris any time you want.”

  Isabelle said, “My apartment is big enough for a family of six. Really, Juliette, you and Hank must consider it home.”

  “Oh, Maman,” Juliette said. “Merci.”

  “I want to offer my house for the wedding,” Anne said. “But what about flowers? Wine?”

  “And what will you wear?” Juliette exclaimed.

  “We’ll find something,” Max said.

  “Your grandmother and I will take you into Paris.”

  Anne said, “My wedding dress is in storage. We can alter it to fit you. My daughter also wore it.”

  “Okay,” Max said, breathlessly. “Dress problem solved.”

  Olivier’s mother said she would host a dinner the night before, Isabelle circled the date on her calendar, and Hank, who had not said a word, held up his glass to propose a toast. “I told Olivier that patience is not always a virtue, as I thought he was lollygagging with his proposal, but now I will tell them both that patience is the key to keeping a marriage together. For now, that’s all I have to say.” And everyone responded, “Hear, hear.”