Spilt Wine

32. News from Paris

Catherine and I watched the sun settle below the line of the Côtes as we left the Autoroute at the Nuits exit and started the dogleg through the town. Along the way, we passed under walls prominently painted with names of the producers, the négociants, the wine houses: Gelin, Moillard, Grotkopf ...

I pointed to the tall wall emblazoned with Grotkopf and subtitled tous les Grand Vins de Bourgogne, and began speaking, "Grotkopf –"

"Grotkopf," Catherine interrupted. "We know he's connected to this whole thing, I wonder if he thinks we know."

"We don't know, Catherine, we don't know," I said gently. "We just have strong suspicions. Unless this wine heist was a well-conceived, long-planned thing with the value of the wine as the only goal, he is the only one we can see with an apparent motive."

"Yes, but how would anyone else know we were going to be away for a week in Paris? Grotkopf would know through his son."

"The wine conference Louis was presenting at – a national event with many international participants. I was tempted to go; there was an impressive list of presenters in the marketing I received."

"I guess you're right, many in the wine industry would know."

A while later, when we drove into the courtyard, we were greeted by the gendarme playing groundsman in blue coveralls. "Have you read the news, heard on the radio?"

"No, what is it?"

"Grattien — Lieutenant Grattien wants you to call as soon as you arrive. This is his home number."

Less than a minute later, Grattien's voice sounded over the phone's speaker when he answered the call. "Good evening Madame Ducroix, Monsieur Michaels. How was the service in Louhans?"

"It was fine, we drove to the Alps after the service to share a last outing with Murielle. But that's not why you wanted us to call. What is it?"

"Two bodies have been found in Bois de Boulogne in Paris."

"Oh, no!" Catherine burst. "You wouldn't be telling us this unless it's –"

"We are not sure yet, Madam. They are still examining the remains, but ..." There was a long pause. "But the body profiles match Francine Grotkopf and Pierre Ducroix. Some of the radio and télé stations are reporting it is them, and now also the newspapers. We need to be sure, and we are waiting for the autopsy reports."

"What about Philippe?"

"Still no trace of him."

"Where were they found?" I asked. "I want to see a wider picture here."

"A man walking his dog off the trails looking for mushrooms. He told Préfecture inspectors his dog began digging in a pile of leaves and branches when it uncovered some cloths –"

"Burlap, like in the canal?" Catherine interrupted.

"No, bed linens. We can look at more details tomorrow. Would it be okay if I came in the late morning?"

"Yes, we'll be here," Catherine said, looking at me.

"Good, I would like to continue, but my wife is standing in front of me waving a dinner plate."

Catherine and I stood beside the desk in silence, looking at each other after she had clicked off the phone. Then she began, "What is happening? Why is this happening to me? What have I done? Were the nuns right? I am guilty. I will suffer and be punished unless I confess. But I have nothing to confess –"

"Come," I interrupted her torrent. "Come lie against me on the couch, I'll rub your head, and we can talk. We're safe, we're strong, we can move through this. Come."