Bordeaux: The Bitter Finish Read online

  “It will come in increments,” Olivier said.

  “We say in the department that there is a murder that will haunt you, and I think this is mine.”

  Olivier needed to go across the hall. He stood up. “Why was Vincent at your door, Max?”

  “I don’t know. I thought he was our host and prattled on about it. He was flirtatious to the point that I thought Ellen was fixing me up with him.”

  “Abdel thinks he saw you out during the afternoon and decided to introduce himself. He took a room on this floor to entertain clients and was probably a little drunk.”

  “He was sweet to me in the bar.”

  Olivier laughed in spite of himself. “His credentials are fine. Who can blame him, really, for taking an interest in you?”

  He was amused to see her look self-conscious.

  Abdel returned, “Monsieur, we found a condom in the bathroom wastebasket.”

  “Un préservatif?”

  Abdel nodded, and coughed to hide his embarrassment. Olivier said, “Have them bag it.”

  Abdel made a quick exit.

  Max said, “I made note of a smelly cheese that was on a small plate when I was giving Ellen CPR, but when I went in an hour ago it was gone. Do you think the gendarmes collected it?”

  They put their dinner plates on the tray. “Let’s go see what forensics has uncovered,” Olivier said. “What else do you have?”

  “I have Ellen’s laptop.”

  “Abdel will take it and figure out the codes.” Max handed it to him.

  “I found the threatening note that got me here. It’s pretty innocuous. It says stop in English and French.” She pulled a small plastic bag from her pocket, and gave it to him.

  “Did you leave anything for the forensics team?”

  “The condom.”

  Olivier laughed. His mobile rang, and he saw that it was Philippe Douvier returning his call. Douvier’s loud baritone voice echoed throughout the room. “What the hell’s going on?”

  “Ellen Jordan is dead,” Chaumont said.

  “Morte? But she brought a bodyguard.”

  “I wasn’t told about her, by the way.”

  “Her?” Douvier bellowed. Olivier glanced over at Max, then remembered she couldn’t understand French.

  “Eh oui.”

  “Cause of death?”

  “To be determined.”

  A long silence followed. “You’re not thinking murder, are you?”

  “I’m not ruling it out.”

  “What did the medical examiner say?”

  “Asphyxiation due to alcohol inhalation.”

  “Then why are you pursuing this as a murder? It will create a huge scandal.”

  “The bodyguard gave me sufficient reason, which I will explain later. I’ve called for a forensic autopsy.”

  “Without my permission, I might add. Where are you?”

  “At the Hôtellerie Rennaissance.”

  It was clear that Philippe Douvier had no idea that his niece was back in the country. Olivier would keep her secret.

  “I want to be kept informed,” Philippe said.

  “Of course.”

  “Send the bodyguard home.”

  “I need her for a couple of days to answer questions. I want this case, Philippe.”

  “You better be damn sure you know what you’re doing. I’ll speak to the procureur.”

  After they hung up, Olivier spoke in French to Abdel, “The bastard did know Madame Jordan was bringing a bodyguard.” He glanced over at Max again, who was casually flipping through a magazine, and continued his conversation.

  Abdel said, “Will you let her”—he tipped his head in Max’s direction—“in on Opération Merlot?”

  Olivier answered quickly. “The language barrier is a problem.”

  “It wasn’t last year,” Abdel said.

  “The wine business, and the potential fraud that is going on, is beyond her realm of expertise.”

  “I don’t know about this wine either.” Max had a strong ally, Olivier realized. “Except perhaps there’s a correlation between the two,” Abdel added.

  Olivier stopped and looked at him. “What do you mean?”

  “What if the counterfeiters knew somehow that Madame Jordan was in possession of a magnum of fine wine that she announced was fake? It makes sense that they would want it back. On the other hand, what if someone came to Madame Jordan and demanded the wine, thinking it authentic, and she refused to remove it from the safe?”

  Olivier thought Abdel was becoming an abstract thinker like Max. “You have a point, Abdel. As for the detective in question, let’s first see if there is a murder.”

  Ellen Jordan’s suite was filled with uniformed people working under the harsh glare of work lights. Olivier instructed Abdel to locate the sheets that were taken off Ellen Jordan’s bed, and he took off.

  Max came up, “Unless it’s been bagged, Ellen’s wine tasting book is gone. I’m glad I took what I did.”

  Olivier turned to a policeman walking by. “What about a small plate that had a blue cheese on it?” The policeman retrieved a plate from a small pile. Olivier sniffed. “It was a bleu d’Auvergne. You’re sure you saw a remnant on the plate, Max?”

  “Absolutely. A little more than a remnant, actually. A small slice.”

  “Maybe the intruder ate it.”

  “I hope so. Then we’d know if it was poisoned or not.”

  “We have nothing but the condom and the note so far?” Olivier said.

  “And the computer.”

  Olivier was known for being thorough, a perfectionist in fact, which had garnered him quite a lot of praise over the years. But at this moment, with the cheese, tasting book, and magnum of wine that might be counterfeit gone missing, along with the tale of a masked intruder, he felt inept.

  Abdel returned. “I’ll stay here until they’re done,” he said. “The sheets were in the laundry room, already washed.”

  “Merde,” Olivier said.

  “I’ll get busy with her computer,” Abdel said.

  “Let’s meet tomorrow morning at 7:00,” Olivier said. Abdel took off. He turned to Max. “We might as well give it up for the night. You must be exhausted.”

  “I’m okay,” she said. “I slept when I returned from the bistro.”

  He walked with her back to her room. “Max, now isn’t the time to discuss what happened after you left Champagne. I went through…some things…after my friends were murdered.”

  “Depression.”

  “Yes. It took months…”

  “I understand. My peers and I see so many gruesome things we’d like to blot out. It helps that we have each other. You don’t have that.”

  “I felt quite alone, it’s true. You wouldn’t have known the person I turned into.”

  “You don’t stop being you because you’re depressed, Olivier. I’m sorry it’s been such a rough time. I thought that could be the case, but then I assumed when you stopped writing that you had moved on with your life.”

  “I thought the same of you when you didn’t respond to my last email.”

  “I printed it out and keep it in my journal. How ridiculous is that?”

  He wanted nothing more than to take her in his arms. She was suddenly before him, soft, receptive. All it would take would be one small step forward.

  A tap on the door, and the moment was gone. Abdel stood holding a small French dictionary. “Pardon,” he said, looking from one to the other, “This had fallen to the floor, and I thumbed through. The word poison is circled.”

  “Let me see,” Max said, and Abdel held the page up.

  Olivier looked over her shoulder. “I wish Madame Jordan had left the name of the murderer,” he said.

  “She probably only had a couple of se
conds of awareness.”

  “On that somber note, we’ll say good-night.”

  “’Night,” Max said, as she gently closed the door behind them.

  Chapter Nine

  April 3

  At midnight Max dialed her most reliable source, her mom. The answering machine came on, “Bonjour. Hello. You have reached…“Oui, hello?”

  “Maman.”

  Chérie. It’s heartbreaking news. Hank told me everything. I’m in pieces.”

  “I’m so sorry, Maman.”

  “Ellen could be very headstrong, her only défaut. This time I think she went too far.” Max knew from the silence that her mother was wiping away tears. “It isn’t real to me yet, Maxine.” Maxine. A sure sign her mother was distraught.

  “Can you let her close family members know?”

  “Of course. Hank said Olivier is there.”

  “Did you know we were to have dinner with Olivier our first night here?” Max blurted.

  “She wanted to take the dubious wine to Olivier, and we thought it would be fun to take you to Olivier’s as a surprise.”

  “The dinner was to be a matchmaking effort?”

  “It’s water over the bridge, or however you say it….” Juliette started to weep softly, and Max decided not to unload her indignation onto her grieving mother. “How did she die?”

  Max explained, then waited for her mother’s response.

  “She was happy to go to France, happy to be taking you, and happy to see Pascal. She wasn’t drinking as much as when she first divorced.”

  Max wondered if Ellen had drunk more than usual the day she died, perhaps in the doldrums after Pascal made his announcement.“She gave her amour a terrible score after he dumped her.”

  After a five-beat silence, Juliette said. “She could be a little vindictive. Who isn’t when being dumped?”

  Max silently agreed. “Speaking of which, Olivier and I had dinner, then he left.”

  “He wants to be sure.”

  “Sure about what? You got your Tarot cards out on the table?” Juliette laughed. She had kept a deck in her secret drawer for years. “What I want more than anything right now is to work this case.”

  “Oh, Max. Be careful. Ellen should have exercised more caution.”

  “I have to go,” Max said, knowing that a lecture was coming. “Love you.” She picked up the remote and turned on the television. Olivier was making an announcement that Madame Jordan had been taken to the hospital with an illness, assuring reporters that he would issue another bulletin the following morning.

  Max couldn’t deny how attractive he was with his longish and slightly unruly brown hair, almost black eyes, and sculpted eyebrows. When he spoke, his elegant hands conveyed the gravity of his words. He listened intently to a question from a reporter, and just once, he smiled slightly. For the first time, Max noticed something about his manner, the combination of diffidence and politeness, that reminded her of Juliette when she was in a social setting. It had to be a French thing. He had behaved similarly all evening with her, until the moment at the door when he looked as if he could devour her. The investigation, if he allowed her in, was going to be tricky, with the old push/pull between them as she raced ahead and he moved cautiously, not to mention the flare-up of emotions around their reunion.

  She picked up her phone and texted a message to him. Her phone rang. Joe. She picked up. “What’s up?”

  “I gotta move to a Bronx precinct because of you.”

  “I had nothing to do with it, Joe. I’m thousands of miles away.”

  “Like hell you didn’t.”

  “Okay, Hank watched the video ten times. He saw that you didn’t have my back. You stood by and watched.”

  “You lost control for a full minute there. I wonder if your Pop made note of that.”

  She hated it that Joe had picked up on it. When she didn’t respond, he said, “Around here you’re coming across as a hero for stopping that guy. It’s my ass that’s getting burned.”

  “I’ve been put on leave and right now I’m under house arrest.” Max thought it best not to mention that she was drinking a lovely wine and sleeping on 600-thread count sheets.

  “The issue is blowing over. Maybe we can work something out and still be partners.”

  “We’ll talk about it when I get back.”

  She wondered why he was trying to worm his way back into her good graces. He had complained often that there wasn’t enough action in the 20th Precinct, which covered an area that was inhabited by the rich who presumably didn’t go around killing each other. Now he was about to be moved to a more violent area of the city. Wasn’t that what he wanted? More tough-guy action-movie stuff?

  After they hung up, Max went to her iPad and Googled “wine thefts in Bordeaux.” Olivier’s mention of Opération Merlot had made her curious. A short article in the Bordeaux City newspaper, Sud Ouest, quoted the head of the Direction Générale de la Concurrence, de la Consommation et de la Répression des Fraudes regarding his concerns around wine counterfeiting. A very rare Cheval Blanc, a 1921, bought in Bordeaux, was deemed a fake in London. Next she clicked on a case in Colorado of a man who had made eleven million dollars selling older bottled wines and futures that he didn’t own. He was never charged.

  Max climbed under the covers, and mused about her mother’s friendship with Ellen. Solving this crime, she realized, was something she owed her mother. Juliette had never blamed her for her brother Frédéric’s death, for not being there to save him from that fatal accident, but this time, she had every reason to blame Max for not preventing her friend’s death.

  Chapter Ten

  April 3

  Dinner with Max had revived Olivier’s warm memories of last June, when they had been inseparable, albeit for a short period of time. Enough to create a vivid portrait of a woman he kept returning to in his dreams. Now here they were, reuniting over another murder. He knew Max would feel compelled to solve this crime, just as he had done when his friends were murdered in Champagne.

  Television crews swarmed around him as he exited the hotel, and he agreed to give a quick update on Ellen Jordan. Under the boom lights, he spoke for a few minutes about a sudden illness that had sent her to the hospital. He walked to his car, stoppping to glance up at Max’s window. The light was still on, as though she were expecting him. He went back into the hotel, walked past the desk and up the stairs, and when stopped by the undercover policeman, explained after showing his identity card that he had an appointment with Mademoiselle Maguire, choosing to ignore the smirk on the young man’s face.

  He tapped lightly at Max’s door and when she opened it, he pulled her to him, and kissed her. She responded with a passion that he found almost startling.

  “Olivier…”

  Pressing his lips against hers as he walked her gently backwards to her bed, never taking his eyes off her face that seemed radiant to him, he lowered her slowly to the bed and gently peeled off her clothes, remembering the curves of her body. He felt the heat of her skin against his, his heart racing as she wrapped her long legs around his, whispering his name. All boundaries vanished in an instant and nothing else mattered at this moment as they became reacquainted with each other’s bodies.

  ***

  Olivier slipped Hélène Grimaud playing a Brahms concerto for piano into the CD slot in his car, and slowly drove out of Saint-Émilion. At a stop sign, he observed the few lights that were still on in windows of the village from his rearview mirror. It was a restored medieval village, the perfect setting for a fairy-tale marriage, except in most fairy tales he knew, there was hell to pay for falling in love. Last year he had tried to draw an imaginary line in the sand to keep the personal and the professional separate, which had been a moderate success, but tonight he felt that with the surprise death of Ellen Jordan, Max showing up, and his overhwhelming desire to be
with her, that the only solution was to give up control and see where it took him. He was surprised by how liberating it was to act in the moment, and not fret about results. Max, he thought, already knew how to live this way.

  Vineyards spread out on both sides of the road. It seemed a pity that the commercial aspects of the region had started to outweigh the agricultural. He had heard others blame the Americans for their insatiable thirst, but the impulse to go global had to have been pulsating in the minds of the Bordelaise. Commerce was the backbone of the city, and had been for centuries. It was the American influence on taste that bothered Olivier. Some estate owners refused to price their wines until they knew how they would be rated in the press. As a result, the vignerons were now trying to appeal to the American palate with ripe, rich, over-the-top wines that emphasized fruit rather than terroir. These were so fruit-forward on release that they peaked early, unlike those made in the traditional style that took ten to twenty years to release their character and fragrance. And so, slowly, an entire way of life—of tasting and experiencing the bounty of the land—was about to be lost.

  Olivier slowed down due to the fog that had descended. Passing through the tiny village of Bouliac that was perched high above the city of Bordeaux, he looked down at the lights of the city reflected in the Garonne River, and admired the great bridges that were on a par with those in Paris. If Paris was equated with New York, then Bordeaux was most often compared to Boston, a city that he wanted to visit for its history.

  The cherry tree in the center of his yard was in bloom, and he inhaled its fragrance. Mouchette met him at the door as usual. The kitchen was still fragrant from the lamb that had cooked for hours. The 1982 Cos d’Estournel that Zohra had decanted was on the counter, and he poured a glass. It’s scent of cedar wood and mocha titillated his senses. He turned on the jazz radio station that he always listened to, and Charlie Parker’s saxophone filled the room.

  Olivier sat with his eyes closed, and swirled the ruby-colored wine in his glass, noting the scent of smoked cherries. He would devote a few moments to recalling the nuances of his reunion with Max. Her lingering fragrance on his shirt, her quick shedding of the protective stance, replacing it with a softness that he thought few had seen, her arms gathering him in as she whispered his name. A man should not be without this, he thought, and yet for years he had inhabited an emotional desert.