The Bordeaux Betrayal

“Sure.”

I hung up and wrote Pépé a note about the coffee, adding a “p.s.” about Thelma and the bread —though I left out the red dress. My grandfather was sweet and chivalrous to every woman he met because that was his nature, but my grandmother had been the one and only love of his life. Deep down, I think Thelma knew that.

I put the morning newspaper on the coffee table in the library where he liked to read and emptied his ashtray. He’d left a neat pile of copies of the Washington Tribune containing Ryan’s columns. I gathered them up to put in the recycling bin on my way to the car.

If Nicole Martin had a meeting with a woman, there was one other woman—besides me—who didn’t want her leaving town with the Washington wine. Amanda Heyward. Had she tried to stop Nicole? Our relationship had cooled because of Kyra’s vandalism and the fact that I’d made her daughter clean my stone pillars. Quizzing Amanda about Nicole after her body had been found at the vineyard wouldn’t be much of a fence-mender.

I opened the side door to the carriage house and stuffed the copies of the Trib into the recycling bin. The newspaper on top had been folded open to Ryan’s column—the one he wrote about the Washington wine. I picked it up and read it again.

Ryan hadn’t only written about the Margaux, though that was the centerpiece of the article. He’d also mentioned the Domaine de Romanée-Conti and the Château Dorgon. Joe Dawson said Valerie had been upset because of something she’d learned in Bordeaux. I’d always assumed it had been the Margaux since both Valerie and Thomas Jefferson had visited that vineyard. The DRC was a Burgundy—but that also left the Dorgon. A vineyard that no longer existed.

The other night I’d finished reading Jefferson’s European travel diary. It had been a meticulously kept account of everything he saw, down to such mundane observations as the size and composition of bricks found in buildings along the Garonne River. Unlike me, he missed no details.

I went back inside and knocked on the door to Pépé’s bedroom. He answered, sounding sleepy.

“I’m sorry to wake you, but it’s important,” I said.

“Entrez.”

His blue-and-white-striped pajama top had a button undone, revealing a small triangle of pale white skin. His gray hair stuck up in tufts. Seeing him like this instead of dapper in a worn but elegant suit made him seem somehow vulnerable. My throat tightened and I leaned down to hug him, kissing his wrinkled cheek.

“What’s wrong? Sit, ma puce.”

“Do you want to come downstairs for coffee?” I asked. “Thelma sent you some fresh bread, too. In case you change your mind about eating breakfast.”

“You woke me at—” He leaned over and picked up his alarm clock, holding it close to his face so he could read it without his glasses. “Mon Dieu. Nearly ten a.m., to ask me if I wanted breakfast?”

“No, no. I’m sorry. It wasn’t that. I wanted to ask you about the wine Jack Greenfield donated to the auction. Not the Margaux. The other Bordeaux—the Château Dorgon.”

“What of it?”

“Do you know why that château went out of business?”

“The family members who survived the war couldn’t keep it going so they sold it.” He sat back against his crumpled pillow. “Why is this so important?”

“I don’t know. Is there any way you could find out more about that family?”

“I can call someone, if you wish. He spent a lot of time in Bordeaux working with the vineyards in that region once we got funds from the Marshall Plan.”

“That would be terrific.”

He regarded me. “I presume you wish me to make this call now?”

“If you could.”

But his friend wasn’t home, so he left a message.

“What’s going on, Lucie?” he asked.

I told him what Thelma had said about Nicole and the meeting with a woman I guessed was Amanda Heyward.

“What do you plan to do about it?” His eyes were grave. “I hope you’re not going to ask Amanda if she met Nicole?”

“I need to talk to her about the auction,” I said. “I can find an indirect way to ask her about Nicole.”

“Call her.”

“I need to do it in person.”

“Of course you do.” He shook his head. “I don’t think that’s wise.”

I stared at him, arms folded.

“If you insist,” he said at last, “then I’m coming with you. But first I need to take a shower and then I must have some coffee.”

“Take your shower and I’ll make your coffee.”

He glared at me. “I do not want dishwater, especially at this ungodly hour. Thank you, but I’ll make it myself.”

“You sure wake up grumpy,” I said.

“At my age, it is a blessing merely to wake up,” he said. “And now if you’ll excuse me—”

I stood up and grinned. “Of course. I’ll see you in the kitchen.”

The phone in the foyer rang as I came downstairs. Frankie, calling from the villa. I heard her sigh through the phone.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“I’m really sorry. I know you don’t need this today and it seems kind of trivial.” She had lowered her voice so I could scarcely hear her.

“What seems trivial? And why are you whispering?”

“Mac Macdonald came by. He wants to leave a donation for the auction. Says it’s a really good bottle of wine, but he wants to give it to you. In person,” she said. “I think he kind of wants to see how you’re doing after finding Nicole yesterday. He’s worried about you.”

Mac owned Macdonald’s Fine Antiques in Middleburg and was one of the Romeos. He’d helped my mother acquire many of the American pieces she’d bought for Highland House over the years and he’d been close to both of my parents.

“I’ll be right over,” I said. Pépé would be a while taking care of his toilette.

“I’m sorry about this,” she said again.

“Don’t worry about it. Can you give Mac a cup of coffee?”

“He’s on his second. I gave him my muffin from Thelma’s, too.”

“You’re a good woman.”

I hollered up the stairs to Pépé that I had an errand at the winery and would be back shortly. Then I got my jacket and car keys.

Frankie had put a couple of pumpkins and a pot of bright yellow mums by the steps to the front door of the villa. One of the pumpkins was darker than the others and the color reminded me of Nicole’s suit. When I got inside, her two carved jack-o’-lanterns—the witch and the werewolf—sat on either end of the bar. Frankie’s smile froze when she saw my face.

“What’s wrong?” She turned and stared at the pumpkins. “I saw these in the barrel room and thought they’d look great over here. Someone did a terrific job with them. They are meant for the winery, aren’t they?”

“Well, hey there, sugar.” Mac Macdonald came out of the kitchen holding a coffee mug. Tall and stooped with a monk’s tonsure of white hair, Mac’s suits usually hung on his thin, bent frame, reminding me of a well-dressed crane. His eyes traveled from my face to Frankie’s. “Something wrong? Am I interrupting—?”

“No, nothing’s wrong.” I caught Frankie’s eye.

Behind Mac’s back she pointed to the pumpkins and raised her eyebrows, mouthing, “These?”

I nodded and went over to kiss Mac on the cheek. “Frankie said you brought a donation for the auction. How thoughtful.”