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! That can be none but 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 beginning of 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. Hasn't come back. They're now searching for him." 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, asking to have my account ready. Four minutes later, I strode across the lobby, relieved to see the receptionist holding up the 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, out the door, I ran to my car, tossed the luggage onto the passenger seat and headed north, not having finished plotting my route. Memories and instincts would guide me.

Forty-three minutes later, I crunched 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, she laid her cheek on my shoulder, and I gently stroked the back of her head as she shook with sobs. Don't know what I should do here. Never handled a distraught woman – rarely handled any woman. Hope this helps.

We held the hug as I quietly spoke, "Everything will be fine. You're safe, and Louis is also." 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 seems to be working, so it's probably best to continue.

Then, Catherine began sobbing again, this time more deeply. Between shudders, she blubbered out, "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 held the hug and continued the gentle pulsing of my hand on the back of her head, sensing these 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 and along to the second salon, where she pointed to the fireplace. "I'm cold, David. I'd appreciate it if you started building a 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 silently for a long while, watching the flames turn from yellows and reds into greens and blues as the fire took hold and warmed.

She had just begun recounting the events when there was a knock on the door.