Spilt Wine

1. Wine Theft

Friday 28 March 1986

I stopped scanning and focused on the newspaper report:

Wine Theft – The Gendarmerie nationale in Gevrey-Chambertin is investigating the disappearance this week of nearly four hundred barrels of wine from a cellar in Morey-Saint-Denis. The proprietor, who values the missing Burgundy at over three million Francs, discovered the theft Thursday evening when he and his wife returned from a conference in Paris. No further information has been released.

Oh, damn! It had to be Louis – the quantity, the value, the Paris trip. Abandoning my breakfast, I rushed up to my room, taking the steps three at a time, rather than waiting for the elevator. My phone call was answered before the second ring.

"Oui. Allo?"

"Catherine, it's David. I've read the news. Is Louis there?"

"No, he rushed out in a rage last night after the Gendarmes left. He was cursing Grotkopf. He hasn't come back. They're searching for him now." She hiccoughed. "David, I'm so worried."

"You okay? Is anyone there with you? Murielle?"

"Murielle's gone home for Easter; not back until Monday. I'm so afraid something has happened to Louis ... I'm worried sick, David. What do I do?"

"Stay put. I'm in Chagny. I'll be there in less than an hour."

I phoned the front desk while packing and asked to have my account ready. Four minutes later, I strode across the lobby, relieved to see the receptionist waiting with my bill.

"Bonjour Monsieur Michaels, you have slept well?"

Glancing at the total, I pulled four notes from my wallet. "Yes, thank you. Keep the balance for my next visit."

Then I ran out to my car, tossed my luggage onto the passenger seat, and headed north without fully planning my route. Memory and instinct would get me there.

Forty-three minutes later, I pulled to a stop in the gravel courtyard and bounded from the car toward the open kitchen door as Catherine ran down the stone steps. "David! Thank God!" She trembled as she reached out. "Hug me. Hold me. Give me strength. I've none left. I'm so worried."

I wrapped her in my arms, and she laid her cheek against my shoulder as I gently stroked the back of her head while she shook with sobs. Don't know what I should do here. Never comforted a distraught woman – rarely been this close to any woman before. Hope this helps.

We held the hug as I quietly spoke, "Everything will be fine. You're safe, and Louis will be too." I continued with other calming comments as they came to mind while I stroked the back of her head. She gradually relaxed, and her sobbing abated. This seemed effective, so I continued.

Then Catherine began sobbing again, this time more deeply. Between shudders, she managed to say, "Murielle – a few minutes ago – just before you arrived. A phone call from Murielle's mother. Asking for her."

"She's not there? Wasn't she going home for Easter?"

"That was her plan. I checked her room, then called the Gendarmes. They'll be here shortly to expand the investigation."

Her sobbing subsided as she talked, and she appeared to be regaining strength. I kept my arms around her and continued gently stroking the back of her head, sensing that it helped.

Catherine slowly relaxed, and after a long quiet interlude, she said, "I must go up and compose myself before the Gendarmes come again."

She led me inside to the second salon, where she pointed to the fireplace. "I'm cold, David. I'd appreciate it if you could light the fire. I'll be down shortly to help."

When she returned, I had finished, and she motioned toward the wing-back chairs flanking the hearth. We sat quietly, watching the flames turn from yellow and red to green and blue as the fire took hold and began warming the room.

She had just begun to recount the events when a knock sounded at the door.