The Vintage Caper

Nine

For Sam, the next two days were pleasant, instructive, and increasingly frustrating. Thanks to Sophie’s contacts, they had access to all the châteaus, including those where visitors were not normally welcome. It was thanks to Sophie, too, that the estate managers and cellar masters went out of their way to be helpful. At château after château-from the magnificent Lafite Rothschild to the diminutive Pétrus-the two investigators had been courteously received. Their story was listened to with patient attention. Their questions were answered. They were even given the occasional glass of nectar. But Sam had to admit that the visits, while they had added to his wine education, had failed to produce any progress. It was a discouraging list: two days, six châteaus, six dead ends.

On the evening of the second day, feeling tired and flat, Sam and Sophie looked for consolation in the hotel bar. Champagne, that unfailing restorative, was ordered and served.

“Well, I guess that’s it,” said Sam, raising his glass. “I’m sorry to have wasted your time. Thanks for all your help. You were terrific.”

Sophie shrugged. “At least you can tell them back in Los Angeles that you saw some of the great châteaus.” She smiled at him. “Our little version of the Napa Valley.”

Her cell phone rang. She looked at it, made a face, sighed, and put down her champagne. “My lawyer. Excuse me.” She got up and walked away to take the call.

Sam had noticed this before in France, and couldn’t make up his mind whether it was due to good manners or fear of eavesdroppers. But whenever possible, the French tried not to inflict their cell phone conversations on other people, preferring to find a private corner somewhere. It was a civilized habit that he wished his compatriots would adopt.

While he was waiting for the call to finish, he went back over the notes he’d taken during the château visits. At each château, they had asked who the regular clients were, the big buyers with serious caves to keep stocked. For the most part, the answers they had been given were unsurprising: Ducasse, Bocuse, Taillevent, the Elysée Palace, the Tour d’Argent, one or two private banks, half a dozen billionaires (whose names, of course, were not revealed). In other words, the usual suspects.

Sam sat and stared at his notes. And as he stared, another question occurred to him, a question that they hadn’t thought of asking. He was still mentally kicking himself when Sophie came back from her call.

He leaned forward, looking as pleased as a dog that had just unearthed a previously forgotten bone. “You know those old French detective movies?”

Sophie looked blank.

“You know, when the detective remembers something he’s overlooked?”

Still no reaction from Sophie.

“There’s this moment of revelation. He smacks his forehead with the palm of his hand.” Sam suited the action to the word. “‘Zut!’ he says. ‘But of course!’” By now, he had a broad smile on his face.

“Zut?” said Sophie. “What is this zut and the head-slapping? Are you all right?”

“Sorry. Yes, I’m fine. But it just struck me that maybe we’ve been asking the wrong questions. Maybe we should be asking if anyone has tried to buy those particular vintages and been disappointed, because they’ve all been sold. Maybe there’s an obsessive enthusiast out there, someone like that guy who wanted to line his cellar with vintages from 150 years of Latour, someone who’s determined to fill the gaps in his collection at any price. That’s a motive, isn’t it?” His face was a hopeful question mark.

Sophie pursed her lips and nodded slowly. “It’s possible,” she said, “but in any case, we have nothing else to try.” And besides, she thought, this was much more amusing than sitting behind a desk dealing with a vigneron’s insurance claim for frost damage. “Well, what do you want to do? We go again to the châteaus? It’s better than the phone, I think.”

“We go again to the châteaus. Bright and early tomorrow morning.”

Sophie looked at her watch, frowned, and picked up her handbag. “I’m going to be late for my meeting, and my lawyer charges by the minute. So tomorrow-shall I come for you at ten?”

“Is that bright and early?”

“Sam. This is France.”

Sam woke early. The night before, there had been second thoughts, worries about dragging Sophie out for another day of dead ends. But sleep had restored his optimism, and the sun was shining. A good omen. He decided to go out for breakfast, found a busy café opposite the Grand Théâtre, and settled down with a café crème and the Herald Tribune.

A glance at the headlines did little to improve the morning. It was business as usual throughout the world. There were more wildfires in southern California, a futile barrage of political name-calling in Washington, the ever-thickening fog of pollution in China, unrest in the Middle East, tub-thumping from Russia, alarm and despondency in Europe, and a dose of gloom from Wall Street. Scattered throughout this litany of woe were advertisements for watches and handbags, each one more ostentatious than the last. A reminder that no matter how bad the news, it would never overcome the primordial human urge to go shopping.

Sam put aside the newspaper and looked around him. The other customers appeared curiously cheerful. Eating their tartines and drinking their coffee, their fresh morning faces as yet unmarked by the rigors of the day ahead, they seemed unaware that, based on this morning’s news, the world might well come to an end before lunchtime.

He ordered another crème and jotted down the wines and vintages that he was searching for: ’53 Lafite, ’61 Latour, ’70 Pétrus, ’75 Yquem, ’82 Figeac, ’83 Margaux. What a list. Sam couldn’t help but feel that these treasures were wasted on Danny Roth. To him, they were merely bottled status, and slightly unsatisfactory status at that, since he couldn’t put them on the wall for all to see. What would he do with the insurance money, Sam wondered, if the wine was never found?

His musings were interrupted by the ringing of his cell phone. It was Sophie, calling to say it was not even ten o’clock yet, and here she was already at the hotel. Bright and early, as agreed. But where was he? Did they usually sleep this late in California?

He hurried back to the hotel to find her in the lobby. She was clearly in good spirits-smiling, holding up her arm, and tapping the watch on her wrist, pleased to have arrived before him. This morning she was dressed as if she had come on horseback-close-fitting riding pants tucked into soft leather boots, a tweed hacking jacket, a silk scarf with a subtle horseshoe motif (undoubtedly Hermès) knotted around her neck. The height of equestrian chic. Sam wondered if he should whinny as he looked her up and down with an appreciative eye. This was something you didn’t see every day in L.A.

“Great outfit,” he said. “Too bad you forgot the spurs. Sorry to keep you waiting. Are you feeling lucky today?”

“Of course,” she said. “Très optimiste. Today we find something. You will see.” She slipped her arm through his as they walked to the car. “Shall we start with Lafite?”

During the drive up from Bordeaux to the Médoc, Sophie explained the reason for her buoyant mood. The previous evening, after leaving Sam, she had met with her lawyer, who had told her that the three-year squabble with her ex-husband was finally settled, and she would shortly be free to remarry. Terms had been agreed upon. Her ex would keep the boat that he ran as a charter business in Saint-Barth; Sophie would keep the apartment in Bordeaux. Maybe they could even be friends. Or maybe not. He had been trouble from the start, Sophie said, always running off somewhere on a boat, and usually ending up with some unsuitable girl.

“Hmm,” said Sam. “Sounds like a man after my own heart.”

Sophie laughed. “You like boats?”

“I prefer girls. I don’t get seasick with girls.”

Sophie had chosen a road that bisected flat, immaculate countryside, with ruler-straight lines of vines running off to the horizon. There were châteaus to the left of them, châteaus to the right: Léoville Barton, Latour, Pichon-Lalande, Lynch-Bages, Pontet-Canet. Sam felt as though they were driving through a top-class wine list.

“Have you ever been to the wine country in California?” he asked.

“ Napa and Sonoma? No, never. Perhaps one day. Is it anything like this?”

Sam thought of the dry, brown hills, the vast modern wineries with their gift boutiques, and the busloads of visitors. “Not exactly. But some of the wine is pretty good.”

“You know why that is?” Sophie didn’t give him the chance to answer. “Because you have so many French making wine over there now.” She grinned at him. “I am very chauvine. For me, French wine is best.”

“Try telling that to an Italian.”

“Italians make clothes and shoes. And one good cheese. Their wine…” Her mouth turned down, and there was a dismissive waggle from her hand. There was clearly no room for debate. Another victory, Sam thought, for the French superiority complex.

Leaving the center of Pauillac behind them, they could now see Château Lafite, standing on a low hill well back from the road. Sophie stopped the Range Rover and turned to Sam. “It’s just the one question, yes? Has anyone during the past year tried to buy the ’53 and been disappointed?”

“That’s it,” said Sam. “Here’s hoping.”

As the day wore on, and the first two châteaus were crossed off the list, it seemed to Sam that they were going to repeat the frustrations of the last two days. Memories were consulted, brows were furrowed, shoulders were shrugged, but-désolé, mais non-there was no recollection of a hopeful but disappointed purchaser.

Their luck changed on their third stop. The estate manager, a native of Pauillac and a friend of Sophie’s family, thought that he remembered a visitor from the previous fall who was very specific about the vintage he was searching for; a rather stubborn gentleman, in fact, who had been reluctant to take no for an answer. He had left his business card so that he could be contacted if any bottles of that particular vintage turned up. The estate manager scratched his head and went through his desk drawers, finally fishing out an old cigar box where he kept the cards that one day he might need. He fumbled them out onto the desk-cards of customers from England and America, wine journalists from all over the world, the odd master chef, barrel makers, sommeliers-and spread them out across the desk, an impressive display of copperplate script and fine white board.

His fingers fluttered over the cards before coming to rest. “Voilà,” he said as he slid one card away from the others, “un monsieur très insistant.”

Sophie and Sam leaned forward to read the card:

Florian Vial

Caviste

Groupe Reboul Palais du Pharo 13007 Marseille

Driving to the next château-the fourth of the day-Sam asked Sophie if she knew anything about the Groupe Reboul. Had she ever heard of it? Was it a wine wholesaler?

Sophie laughed. “Everyone in France knows the Groupe Reboul. It’s everywhere, involved in everything.” She frowned. “Except wine. I’ve never heard of Reboul dealing in wine. I’ll tell you about him later, but don’t get too excited. It’s probably just a chance visit.”

But perhaps it wasn’t, because at Figeac and then at Margaux they found that Monsieur Vial had been there before them, looking for the ’82 of one and the ’83 of the other, leaving his card at both châteaus.

As Sam said to Sophie, “Twice could be coincidence. But not three times. I’ll buy you dinner if you tell me all about Reboul.”