Vintage (49 page)

Randon climbed into the passenger seat. “Still standing firm. Brave little woman. I can see what you liked about her. Let’s go back to the house.”

Axel folded the paper. Randon took it from him.

“Another whore found dead,” he read. “She looks familiar. Wasn’t she one of Tremblant’s girls? Really, I can’t believe the police haven’t made any progress. Makes me think they know exactly who they’re looking for but for some reason they don’t want to take him in. Don’t you agree, Delaflote?”

Axel didn’t answer.

Inside the hotel, Madeleine retired to her room and tried to put Randon’s visit out of her mind as she plowed on through the paperwork rescued from her father’s strong box. The very next day, she met with a man from the company who insured Champagne Arsenault.

“A payout of this size is never straightforward,” he warned her as they stood outside the burned-out house. “There will be investigations. It could be months before you get the money to start rebuilding.”

Odile Levert was equally gloomy about Madeleine’s prospects of quickly getting her hands on any cash. Odile invited Madeleine to join her for Christmas at her Paris apartment.

“Perhaps you should sell to Randon,” she said. “Not everything. Just the vineyards on the hill.”

“He doesn’t want those. He wants the house and the Clos Des Larmes.”

Odile and Madeleine both looked at the bottle on the table between them. Three days after the fire, Odile had visited Champagne Arsenault to lend Madeleine her support. With Odile at her side, Madeleine dared for the first time to inspect the state of the caves. They were untouched. They’d endured thousands of years. Two world wars. Of course they could protect their precious contents from a house fire. Madeleine’s Clos Des Larmes slept on beneath the ground like Snow White in her glass coffin.

“If we win the
Vinifera
wager,” said Odile, “that will be a start to getting you back on track.”

“Do you think we have a chance?”

Odile opened the bottle. The wisp of vapor that escaped was like a genie that could grant just one wish.

“I think so.”

“I will rebuild Arsenault, Odile. I will.”

Odile nodded. “I know.”

Later, while Madeleine dozed on the sofa, Odile returned Mathieu Randon’s call.

“Season’s greetings,” he said. “I hope you are enjoying your Christmas holidays. How is my little investment?”

K
elly celebrated Christmas at Froggy Bottom with Guy and Hilarian. On Christmas Day, they opened a bottle of Kelly’s first vintage: Froggy Bottom’s Blanc de Noirs, Cuvée Kelly.

“I think you should do this,” said Guy, handing her the bottle.

Kelly removed the cork with a pop.

“At least we know it’s fizzy,” said Hilarian, as he mopped some spray from his tie.

Kelly filled three glasses and sat down. Together with Hilarian and Guy, she took a moment for quiet contemplation of the wine in her glass. It looked perfect. Everything she had hoped for. She watched the tiny bubbles busily rising to the surface in neat regular strings. The color was just as it should be: like glossy wet straw. The faint scent of fresh baked bread drifted to Kelly’s nose. A hint of apple too.

“Merry Christmas,” she chinked her glass against Hilarian’s and took her first mouthful. Guy and Hilarian watched as Kelly closed her eyes and let the flavors explode in her mouth.

“Like apple crumble,” she said. “It’s heaven on earth.”

The men agreed. Guy was giddy with relief as he described the complex flavors that came to him. Hilarian was quietly pleased. He felt like a father witnessing his child’s triumph in a school game.

“What do you think?” Kelly asked him. “Are we going to win your bet?”

“I’d put money on it,” said Hilarian.

But first there was the hurdle of Dougal’s legitimate children and the paternity suit. As soon as he’d told Kelly what was going on, Hilarian had swung into action. He’d called an old family friend who knew the perfect lawyer to fight in Kelly’s corner. Though the lawyer wasn’t able to dismiss the Mollisons’ case for removing Kelly from Froggy Bottom out of hand, he was able to stall for time. He discouraged Kelly from taking a DNA test until the last possible moment, explaining that there may not be a need to take it at all. He demanded all sorts of paperwork, which would take the Mollisons and their lawyers months to assemble, giving them precious time.

As Kelly sipped her very own wine over the Christmas table, Hilarian looked at her fondly. But lately he knew he had been looking at her differently, searching for something in her smile. Over the past four years, he had told Kelly many times that she reminded him of Dougal but now he had to admit that he couldn’t really see it. There were no features in Kelly’s face that were obviously Mollison attributes. Her eyes were hazel where Dougal’s had been blue. Her lips were much more generous. Her nose, thank goodness, was nowhere near as big as those of her supposed half siblings. In objective terms, Kelly was lucky not to have any of the Mollison features, but now Hilarian worried what that might mean.

He was no longer sure that Kelly was his friend’s daughter. That was the bottom line. And that was why it
was so important that Kelly got to represent Froggy Bottom at the
Vinifera
awards before the DNA test took place. Hilarian wanted Kelly to have something that could never be taken away from her. He wanted her to have the sense of achievement that would come from knowing that, whatever happened, she had made an award-winning wine.

“Give me some more of that,” said Hilarian, holding out his glass. “This is world-beating stuff, I tell you.”

In California, Christina and Greg’s Christmas was greatly overshadowed by Bill’s attempt to wring more money out of the divorce. Todd had not managed to persuade Bill’s lawyer that his demands were groundless. Bill’s lawyer had suggested a “compromise” settlement to the tune of several million dollars. Todd had declined to settle on Christina’s behalf, hoping that his continued indignation would eventually encourage Bill’s lawyer to give up. Bill’s lawyer was not giving up. They were going to court. It was a disaster for the television series.

“There’s a possibility that you may have to stop filming on location at the villa until this is sorted out,” Todd explained.

Greg did his best to cheer Christina but it was difficult. The media had picked up on the lawsuit of course and every day
The Villa’s
press officer turned up with another envelope full of cuttings that Christina didn’t want to see. At first, many of the journalists who wrote about the case claimed to be horrified that Bill could make such ridiculous demands on his ex-wife, but, as usual, it wasn’t long before other pundits stepped out in Bill’s favor. A large part of the general public’s interest in Christina was due to her former marriage to Bill Tarrant. There was no doubt that being married to him had enabled her to move
in circles she might not otherwise have had access to. Of course he should be able to benefit from her success.

“I can’t stand it,” said Christina, as she read yet another nasty article written by a bitter ex-husband who’d had to give too much away in his own divorce. “It’s like getting divorced all over again.”

Greg held her close. “But it’s different now. You’re not on your own. Whatever happens,” he said, “I’m by your side. You’ve got us.”

On Christmas Day he pulled out his trump card.

“I know that you’re kind of preoccupied with the lawsuit and all but there’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you. I had meant to ask you in Paris but I got called to Frankfurt. Damn shame because the terrace of that suite at the Plaza Arc de Triomphe would have been the perfect place.”

“Greg, will you just ask me?”

He got down on one knee and pulled a box out of his jacket pocket.

“Christina, will you marry me?”

She could only say “Yes.”

I
t was the first day back at work for most people after the Christmas and New Year’s holidays. Sitting in the best hotel room the insurance would fork out for her while her case was still under investigation (which was far from being nice), Madeleine’s hand hovered over the telephone.
The clock on the bedside table seemed to be marking the passing minutes even more slowly than usual. At two minutes past eleven she picked up the phone. It would be two minutes past ten in London. Surely he must be in his office by now.

Even as she dialed his number, the screen on her mobile flickered to life. He was calling her.

“I just heard about the fire,” said Piers Mackesy. “Why on earth didn’t you call me?”

“It’s time to sell my father’s collection,” Madeleine told him.

Less than a week later, Mackesy drove over from London to help Madeleine inspect her father’s private collection for damage.

Before he took over the running of his father’s wine import company, Mackesy had traveled all over the world advising the fabulously wealthy on what they should have in their collections and how it should be kept. He still advised Ludbrooks, the auction house, on some of the wine they presented at auction. The way a wine had been kept was of great importance when it came to its value at resale.

On his second trip into the Champagne Arsenault
crayères,
Mackesy was much more subdued than he had been before. Purely professional.

The best of the maison’s wine was kept two levels deep. Like Odile, Mackesy was satisfied that the Clos Des Larmes would have suffered no damage due to the fire. Likewise, Constant Arsenault’s collection.

“This should keep for another ten years,” he said, pulling out a bottle of Petrus.

“I don’t want to keep it,” said Madeleine. “I want to sell it. Now. I’d like you to tell me how much you think Papa’s wine is worth.”

Mackesy exhaled.

He looked up and down the racks, as though counting.
“You could get a couple of hundred for one of these, so multiplying by the number here … There’s a good few thousand. But by the time you’ve paid the auction house … and it’s a lot of hassle. Wouldn’t you rather keep it? Drink it yourself?”

“The insurance may not pay out for months. I can’t wait that long. I need all the money I can get. Besides, some of it is worth more than a few hundred a bottle. I want you to look at these again.”

Madeleine crouched down and carefully pulled out one of the bottles of Mouton ‘45. Piers shook his head.

“You said that you were ninety-nine percent certain this is a fake,” said Madeleine. “Which means that there’s still a one percent chance it isn’t. I need a second opinion.”

She handed Mackesy the bottle. He moved so that he was standing directly underneath one of the dim, bare lightbulbs that lit the tunnel. He got out his glasses once more and held the bottle close to his face.

“I’m sorry,” he said, taking his glasses off and pinching the bridge of his nose. “I can’t vouch for this wine, Madeleine. I can’t authenticate its provenance. Looking at it again right now, I’m afraid I do have to revise my opinion to say that I’m ninety-nine point nine percent certain this bottle is worthless.”