The Bordeaux Betrayal

The fresh-faced paramedic who showed up was the one who had treated me the day Valerie died.

“You get around,” he said.

“I think my grandfather should go to the hospital,” I said.

“Not on your life,” Pépé said. “Most of this is wine, not blood. I have a small cut on my head but it will heal. I’m not going to any hospital.”

“I see orneriness runs in the family,” the paramedic said.

I watched a deputy handcuff Shane and take him over to a cruiser. His eyes met mine as the deputy pushed his head down and he slid into the car.

By the time Bobby Noland showed up, he said a couple of deputies had already picked Jack up at Jeroboam’s. Bobby walked into Jack’s wine cellar and saw the mess of broken bottles and wine on the floor.

“All this over some old bottles of wine,” he said. “Give me a beer any time. If it’s old, you know it’s bad.”

Pépé’s friend had left a message on the answering machine when we got back to the house. Château Dorgon, he reported, had been taken over by a Nazi officer named Johannes von Gruenfeld. None of the family had survived the camps, but a year or so ago an American woman had shown up, claiming to be a distant relative.

“In English, ‘Gruenfeld’ translates into ‘Greenfield,’” Pépé said.

“A distant relative. Valerie? My God, if Valerie was related to the family Jack’s father sent to the camps, she must have really wanted revenge,” I said. “Why didn’t she confront him right away?”

“Maybe she wanted to see the wine first,” Pépé said.

“I wonder if Nicole knew Valerie was related to the family who owned Château Dorgon,” I said. “Though I think all Nicole cared about was having the leverage to blackmail Jack so he’d sell her the Washington wine—or maybe give it to her outright.”

“From what you’ve told me, I doubt Valerie would have confided something like that in Nicole,” my grandfather said.

“So Nicole was telling the truth—she didn’t know what Valerie knew. Except I thought it had to do with the Margaux,” I said.

“In a way, it did,” Pépé said. “Both women wanted it and both of them tried to blackmail Jack and Shane—but for different reasons.”

“What do you bet Shane would have resold all the ‘stolen’ wine through his Internet auctions once they collected the insurance money?” I said. “Though Shane betrayed Jack as well, hanging on to the Dorgon and pilfering from his wine cellar.”

My grandfather shook his head. “Such a tragedy. At least now it is finished.”

“Maybe you ought to think about postponing your trip home,” I said. “You really have quite a nasty cut on your head.”

“I’ll be fine,” he said. “I need to get back to Paris. A few of les vieux potes are planning another trip.”

The old chums. His buddies. The friends he’d gone to China with. “Another trip? Where are you going this time?”

“Egypt. To see the pyramids.” He smiled. “I remember watching when they were built. It would be nice to see what they’ve done with them since then.”

I burst out laughing. “Are you really going to Egypt?”

His smile broadened. “But, of course.”

The day before he left for Paris, Pépé planned his own farewell party, inviting Dominique, Eli, Quinn, Thelma, and me to join him at the villa. He’d brought a bottle of 1945 Château d’Yquem from France, intending to drink it with his colleagues to commemorate the year the war ended in Europe. Instead, he decided to share it with us.

“One last memory bottle,” he said. “To lay old ghosts to rest.”

We drank it at sunset before going to dinner at the Goose Creek Inn. When Thelma arrived in another flaming red dress, Pépé kissed her hand. She blushed and glowed like a young girl. Quinn, to my surprise, showed up in a well-tailored blazer, a pair of wool trousers, and a black crewneck sweater. No jewelry. A first for him.

He caught my stare and held it.

Pépé proposed the first toast, to the future.

“What are you going to do about the auction, after everything that’s happened?” Dominique asked. “I heard Sunny Greenfield left town and she’s not coming back. Jeroboam’s is locked up with a sign that says CLOSED INDEFINITELY.”

“We’ll still hold it, of course,” I said. “I think we’ll manage to raise a lot of money—nothing like what we expected—but it will be something.”

“I can’t get over that Shane,” Thelma said. “He was always so nice to me but, you know, there was something kind of fishy about him. Usually I’m pretty good about figurin’ folks out, but I guess my extrasensory precipitation wasn’t working so hot this time. I just can’t believe he killed those poor women.” She looked over at my grandfather. “You’re a brave man, Luc Delaunay. You and Lucie could have been killed.”

Quinn moved so he was standing next to me and laid a hand on my shoulder. He leaned down. “Thelma’s got quite a crush on your grandfather.”

“Mmm.”

Pépé smiled at Thelma and raised his glass to her. “‘He did not wear his scarlet coat, for blood and wine are red. And blood and wine were on his hands when they found him with the dead. The poor dead woman whom he loved, and murdered in her bed.’”

“Why, Luc!” Thelma’s face turned the color of her dress. “That’s real poetry. Aren’t you the clever one? Did you make that up?”

“Ah, no.” He smiled at her. “I am not so gifted. Oscar Wilde wrote it. ‘The Ballad of Reading Gaol.’”

“How funny—it describes Shane perfectly,” Dominique said. “The scarlet coat. Killing the woman he loved. Even the blood and wine on his hands.”

“Speaking of blood and wine, Ryan Worth is going to fly to Switzerland to get the Washington wine tested,” I said. “He called this afternoon. There was enough left in the bottle.”

“I still can’t believe you hit Shane with that bottle,” Eli said. “Thirty thousand to choose from in that wine cellar and you picked that one?”

“I had to get his attention,” I said. “And he was holding a gun.”

“You know, if Valerie hadn’t shown up and scared Jack by threatening to expose his father, Shane would probably still be getting away with that scam,” Dominique said.

“I suppose we’ll never know,” Quinn said. “Or if Nicole hadn’t come to town for that Margaux.” His hand was still on my shoulder. He said in my ear, “Jaime came to get her yesterday. We went out for a few drinks last night.”

“You okay?”

“I think so.” He gazed at me and his fingers brushed the back of my neck. “I’m glad nothing happened to you and your grandfather. I’d hate to think about losing you.”

My face warmed. “You would?”

“We’ve got the Cab to blend. I need you for that, don’t I?”

“Yes,” I said, “I guess you do.”

Thomas Jefferson, George Washington, And Wine