The Bennett Sisters Mysteries Box Set, page 60
part #1 of Bennett Sisters Mystery Series
“I don’t like that.” He took her hand again, rubbing his rough thumb over the back of it. “You do know me, blackbird. Don’t you?”
In moments like this the suspicions faded. That was what worried her, that emotion-laden, irrational side that spaced out the memory of bad stuff when Sex-on-a-Stick was close at hand. She hated that her body could turn her mind to mush, that he could do that. Could she actually say she knew him? Knew his heart, his soul? Knew his goodness?
The last two years had rocked her. She was unbalanced, unsure of what she wanted, what she needed to move forward. Did she need a man? Besides Tristan, probably not, but would that always be the case? Did she need this man, delicious as he was? Was having a transatlantic love affair more trouble than it was worth if it shone unwelcome light onto shady relatives? How would Tristan feel about his hero Pascal finding even more evidence that his grandfather was a first class piece of shit? Bad enough the boy’s father had been unfaithful and left them to clean up his messes. Did she want Pascal to dig deeper? Did she have any choice in the matter?
Pascal was massaging her hand harder as if to bring her back to the present. Two lines of worry deepened between his eyebrows. He did care about her, for her. She could see it on his face. Merle looked down at his big, calloused hand then closed her eyes and tried to peer into her heart.
Whatever was there was shrouded, dusky in twilight, still worrying about the past while preparing for the future.
So she did the only thing she could think of: She twisted her hand around to hold his and raised his knuckles to her lips.
Chapter 14
The French envoy at the Manhattan consulate shot his cuffs, thinking wistfully of the cocktail party tonight at the Met. Antoine Girard loved the magnificent art museum, too much some of his colleagues thought. It wasn’t the Louvre, they sneered. But the grandeur of the Egyptian and Greek temples moved him. The prospect of beautiful women, couture gowns, delicious wine, and the adroitly-edited donors to a major American philanthropy was almost too much.
He sighed and sat down at his desk, disturbed by the pile of correspondence his secretary had placed in the center. He checked his watch as he pushed it to the right, out of his line of sight. Two hours to kill before he could dash off to the party.
Beatrice knocked lightly and stuck her blond head into the room. “A call for you, monsieur. Florentin Leblond. Line two.”
He nodded and she disappeared. He licked his lips and took a moment to collect himself. He knew Leblond of course. Girard had attended the Sorbonne with Florentin’s younger brother. Everyone knew Florentin, an outsize personality wherever he went, and one of the most dangerous men in the business of wine.
He lifted the receiver and smiled broadly. “Florentin, allo! Quel surprise.”
The message was gruff, more a growl than a conversation. It was late in Paris, past dinner, and it was possible many glasses of wine and armagnac had been consumed. Girard was ready with an answer to an inquiry about the investigation. But that wasn’t why Leblond was calling.
“Mateo arrives on Air France in the morning. Nine o’clock. You will send a car to JFK.”
Was an answer required? Apparently not.
The vintner continued: “He will need some supervision. You know how he is. The cousins made a decision and who I am to go against their wishes? We need a man on the ground there to make sure progress is being achieved. Do you understand, Antoine?”
“Perfectly, Florentin. I will take care of all the details personally.”
“Mon Dieu, don’t do that. He needs someone to keep an eye on him, make him behave. I don’t need to explain to you, Antoine, do I? You have someone like that? Someone French but with the balls to keep the boy in line?”
Momentarily stymied, Girard’s mind flitted through the consulate staff: the security guards, the younger foreign service men, the interns who were mostly college girls. Who could handle a personality like Mateo? Then it came to him.
“There is a policier nationale here on assignment. Working the wine investigation for you.” And for France, he added silently.
“He is large? You know Mateo, no slip of a girl.” He wheezed, almost a chuckle.
“He is tall, yes. He comes from the provinces, a rough sort. He knows how to do things.” Girard winced. How did he know what d’Onscon was capable of? He looked the part at least.
“All right. Keep a watch on the boy, Antoine. He is to send reports when there is something to report. You will give him information as you get it, yes?”
“Oui, bien sûr, Florentin.”
The vintner grunted and hung up.
Antoine sat still, flushed, heart racing. Florentin Leblond had that effect on people. But would Pascal d’Onscon feel the same way? He seemed more than a bit surly. Did he respect the wealthy and powerful as he should? Would he watch out for Mateo in a way that his father would approve? And more importantly, in a way that would reflect well on Antoine Girard?
Girard’s hand was still on the telephone. There was only one way to find out.
Chapter 15
Merle poured herself a cup of coffee and dosed it with milk, idly stirring as she watched the early morning light creep across the backyard, chasing shadows. Pascal had left early in a Town Car. He’d been gone by eight, something about meeting a passenger at the airport. He wasn’t happy about it. He called the envoy something nasty as he hung up.
They stayed up late last night, sifting through all the evidence relating to Weston Strachie and his import business. Troy Lester had finally faxed the documents but Pascal already had the same sheets. Weston hadn’t done a huge volume of importing, mostly orders for three-star restaurants and a few specialty shops. Wine wasn’t the business then that it is now. In the early ‘50s Americans drank beer; it was the age of the martini.
The first letters Pascal showed her were recent. The Frères Celice winery had written to two small New York City auction houses about bottles they were selling, both from a rare 1947 vintage. The language, Pascal said, translating, was harsh, threatening legal action. Yet there had been no replies. This was in May of this year.
Merle sat down at the kitchen table and spread out the papers. She slipped the two letters from the winery back in the file folder. The documents that interested her were the old ones, from 1949. Two invoices and one lading bill from the period, each listing cases of wine. Merle laid the two invoices next to the lading bill. Did they match up? Was the bill of lading for one of the invoices? It didn’t appear so, or the documents were forged. Anything was possible. One invoice was dated September 17, 1951, for six cases of wine. From her time in France she recognized the appellations, the wine-growing regions. Pomerol, Graves, Saint-Émilion. Famous all. But the names on the bill of lading were different, lesser regions. Not top tier. Not premier grand cru or anywhere near. Even though it was dated less than two weeks later.
Had something been switched? Was this even the correct bill for this invoice? She frowned and took a gulp of lukewarm coffee. It seemed impossible. So little documentation, so long ago. The man had been dead since 1954. His wife died with him. The company died as well, didn’t it? She leafed through the paperwork, looking in vain for anything about the business post-’54. He’d never made a will, he wasn’t even 40 when he died. His sister Amanda had stepped in, taken in little Harry, and raised him. The import business faded away.
Merle got more coffee. It was odd that she’d never known about the house. She assumed it was Amanda’s all these years. No wonder the lawyers wanted to warn Amanda. The French thought she might have something hidden there, old documents, a safe. Something that showed that Weston had been a wine scammer.
It would be a miracle if anything incriminating survived. Amanda must have cleaned the closets once or twice in 50 years. And the attic was remodeled completely in the sixties.
Weston Strachie had been in the process of being sued when he died. That was news. A distributor outside the City had accused him of delivering inferior goods, or so the meager language on the single page document said. It was the top sheet to the suit, between Strachie Wine & Spirits and Bayside Wholesale Liquor, dated February 4, 1954. What happened between that date and March 2, when the car had careened into an oak tree, was unknown. Jotted in a shaky hand below was the outcome: “Dismissed March 25, 1954.”
The telephone rang. Merle stood up to pluck the receiver from the wall.
“Merle?” Amanda sounded out of breath. “Has Clifton called you?”
“No. What’s wrong?”
“He’s— gone.”
Clifton Gillespie had come back from the errand that she’d sent him on the day Merle and the lawyers visited. But he’d seen them on the street and knew Amanda was keeping secrets from him. He confronted her, angry, yelling. She began to cry again, never good at being yelled at by someone who said they loved her. They made up later that night, she said, and he apologized.
But in the morning his mood was still dark. He was up early, demanding coffee and complaining about the bacon. He grabbed his gym bag and said he was going to the ‘Y.’ He drove off in his green Chevy and hadn’t returned.
“When was this?” Merle asked.
“Seven o’clock. Hours ago.” It was now nine-thirty.
“Maybe he’s taking a steam bath. Did you call the ‘Y’?
“I don’t even know which one he belongs to.” Amanda gasped. “There’s all those girls at the gym in tight clothes. In Florida they parade around outside in next to nothing. He’s still young, Merle. Why would he want an old woman like me?”
“Now, Amanda, don’t fret. Just because he’s late coming back from the gym doesn’t mean he’s run off with someone.” She paused, thinking suddenly of Pascal. “How young is he?”
“Twelve years younger than me. That’s a lifetime.”
Not exactly. “But you get along so well,” Merle said.
“Do we?” Amanda sniffed. “As long as his meals are on time,” she added with a touch of bitterness.
“Has he ever done something like this before?”
She didn’t answer immediately. “I can’t recall.” Her voice was meek now, very small. “I don’t know, Merle. I love him but I don’t want him to come back sometimes. I’m a horrible person.”
Merle talked to the older woman for another twenty minutes, reassuring her. Clifton would return in time for lunch. He rarely missed a meal. The prospect of turkey sandwiches and dill pickles was a powerful lure. And so on, until Amanda was calm again, eager to get busy spreading mayo.
When she hung up Merle poured herself more coffee and tried to remember what she knew about Clifton Gillespie. He and Amanda had met in Florida, at the retirement village where she’d bought a condo. She’d moved him in pretty fast but why drag your feet when your days no longer seem endless? They’d married last month, Clifton said when Merle called about the party. Amanda hadn’t told her said about the wedding, or a ring, had she? Merle tuned her out. She had to break that habit. It wasn’t polite or respectful or nice.
In Harry’s office Merle turned on the new computer. Harry’s old one had caused enough headaches when they tried to find all his secrets after his death. A new hard drive, fancy monitor: a fresh lease on life. In seconds she was on the internet, searching for information on Clifton Gillespie. She spent ten minutes fooling around then asked herself if she cared enough to spring for a background check? Amanda was a grownup. Clifton was no doubt having a beer and a sandwich at home by now.
Switching gears Merle searched for wine scams like those Pascal described. Lots of newspaper articles popped up about a successful wine consultant who had printed up his own labels, filled bottles with plonk, and swindled some of the most famous men in America. What a racket. He sold them bottles of wine that weren’t even made at the wineries in those years, like Pascal said. Vintages that could have easily been researched in minutes. But the rich guys trusted this super-salesman and forked over millions. The consultant, an Indonesian living illegally in the U.S. and high profile as well, had been caught, his little craft room full of labels and printers and bottles, a treasure trove of ‘Catch Me if You Can‘ memorabilia.
The biggest up-and-coming scams were in China where the rising middle class had discovered the cachet of a fine French wine. Auction prices had skyrocketed, and so had the demand for fine reds like Pomerols and Lafite-Rothschilds. If a good bottle of red from a fine year went for $8000, a fake one in the original bottle could run $150 and up. The market in used bottles smuggled out the back of restaurants was brisk.
But how this related to Weston Strachie was murky. Was someone using his company name as provenance, a so-called source of wine to make their counterfeit product look legitimate? Did Weston forge labels and sell cheap wine as the good stuff?
Merle picked up the phone and called Troy Lester at the law firm. He confirmed that no one had made a claim against the estate after Weston’s death. Strachie appeared to operate a clean company, except for that little ‘inferior goods’ suit that was dismissed.
“That company is still in business,” Troy added.
“Bayside Wholesale?”
“Not far from the Levittown address.”
Merle searched the net again. They’d changed their name slightly to Bayside Liquor Distributors. Their building was hard upon the railroad tracks in an industrial district in Brooklyn. Merle scribbled the phone number on a slip of paper. If she had time she would give them a call, or ask Pascal about them. She went back to her search of fraudsters and con artists in the wine game.
Tristan roused himself at last and took a long shower. Merle kept an ear on the hallway, listening to him sing in the bathroom and hum as he dressed. She shut down the computer and met him at the stairs in time to propose lunch. She was laughing at something he was trying to say with his mouth full of bread when her cell phone buzzed.
It was a text from Francie: “Bosom Drearie’s contact details— please send. Need her for this function!”
Chapter 16
Le Coquin stumbled down the escalator and skidded to a stop near baggage claim at JFK International Airport. His eyes were slits and a gob of cheese hung on his lip. He turned this way and that, peering at men in suits holding signs for arriving passengers.
Pascal put a hand on his arm.
“Monsieur Leblond?” It was impossible to mistake the bear of a man, disheveled, stringy brown hair in his eyes, the huge belly. “Bienvenue aux États-Unis.”
The welcome was met with a grunt. Leblond rubbed his beard and pushed a lock of hair from his eyes. “Who are you?” he asked in French.
Pascal introduced himself, offering a hand that was ignored. The stale smell of body odor, piss, and wine emanated from the man.
Leblond nodded slowly as if quick movements might be death. “Where is the car? Bring my bags. I need air.” He lurched toward the exit.
Nearly an hour passed before Pascal, seething, located all the man’s luggage, having to wait until everyone else on the jumbo jet had claimed theirs. Leblond couldn’t remember how many bags he’d brought. Eventually he settled on three, not four, and they got underway. Pascal rode in the front with the driver, a lanky Russian named Serge.
Stretched across the back seat Leblond snored softly. Pascal jabbed a chubby knee to ask what hotel he wanted to go to. He snuffled, confused, then pulled a sheet of paper from his black leather jacket. Pascal unfolded it and told Serge: “Waldorf Astoria.”
A full complement of the valet staff, plus Pascal and Serge, were required to get the big man and his luggage extracted from the vehicle, registered, up the ornate elevators, and into his suite on the ninth floor. Predictably he was unhappy with the view and everything else. Serge and the valets disappeared. Leblond began pawing through open suitcases, looking for clothes. As Pascal checked his messages Mateo dropped his trousers and everything else and headed for the shower.
Merle had texted. Her sister wanted Bosom Drearie’s contact info, the one thing that he did not have. He sent a quick ‘sorry, no info’ back to her.
He intended to drop off Le Coquin and go about his business in the City. He had two more wine auction houses to explore. Leblond was a disgusting boor and he had no intention of babysitting him. As he read texts and emails sounds from the bath coalesced into a tune. Pascal’s head popped up. The sound of Mateo’s baritone, his sudden resurgence of energy and particularly the song he was singing, made Pascal hang back. Maybe the man could actually have a conversation.
The warm, scented steam from the bathroom seeped around the door. At least he would smell better. The sumptuous suite was as large as a Paris apartment, with a well-furnished sitting area with fireplace, done in blue and gold in traditional French style. Gauzy curtains let in pale morning sun. Pascal looked into the bedroom. Mateo had already destroyed the luxury feel of the massive bed with mounds of clothing exploding from his luggage. A glass decanter lay nestled in an open suitcase. Pascal took a step closer and saw it was cognac, Rémy Martin’s Louis XIII, but looked different, a sleek black crystal bottle with an ornate stopper. Ah, Black Pearl, he’d only heard tales about it. Sold by invitation only and way out of his league.
