A Vintage To Die For (Violet Vineyard Murder Mysteries Book 2) (20 page)

“It’s business, Claire, not personal.”

I rolled my eyes at that, but let it go in order to ask another question. “Is that why he sold part of the business to Dimitri?” I said. “To get the cash together to stay afloat?”

“No. Dimitri didn’t pay anything for his shares in Star Crossed. His contribution to the business was his client list and his prestige. That bought him forty percent of the business on a prorated ten year option plan. I’d guess he didn’t own more than five percent of the company when he was killed.”

I went silent after that. I was wondering if that financial crisis last year had been the impetus for Blake to start faking bottles of rare wine? Is that how he brought his mortgage up to date?

Roger interrupted my thoughts. “This is between us, my dear. Bankers are supposed to be tight-lipped as well as tight-fisted.”

“Don’t worry. I won’t say anything to compromise you.”

“I’m not all
that
worried,” Roger replied with another laugh. “One more martini and I won’t even remember I told you. Bye!” Roger cut the connection. For a moment I was tempted to call Hunter and immediately break my word to Roger, but I hesitated. Hunt would just think I was meddling, and I didn’t feel like wrangling with him again tonight. Instead I made the rounds of the house, locking everything up tight, and trudged upstairs to my bedroom.

Chapter 21

For some reason, probably
utter exhaustion, I slept like a rock through a dreamless night, but I still felt like a hotwired corpse when I climbed out of bed at 6:00AM.

I went down to the cellar after a quiet breakfast on my own. I needed to taste the barrels of 2012 cabernet again, though I was loathe to do it without Samson present - It was our wine after all - but I couldn’t put it off. I went down the row of large oak barrels with the wine thief and a glass, pulling the plastic corks from the bungholes and taking small amounts from each. I convinced myself it was the dimness of the lights and not my failing eyesight that had me squinting and holding the glass close to my nose as I swirled and tilted. The wine looked clear and free of sediment and held the glass well, with long, fat legs. I sipped a small amount, sucking air across my palate, then spat it into a steel bucket I was dragging along for that purpose. Wine tasting is not a very ladylike endeavor, I’m afraid. I often forgo the spitting - I hate to waste great wine – but being drunk at 8:00AM was not good for your health or your work ethic.

In the end, I was very well satisfied with the wine. In fact, I had to agree with Samson: this might be our best vintage ever. But we couldn’t take all the credit. 2012 had been a beautiful year in Napa, with a warm, dry spring, an early bud break, and just the right amount of rain to produce steady flowering and an even growth of fruit. The summer that followed was the most perfect I could recall in my fifty-something years in the Valley. Warm days and cool, foggy nights are a winemaker’s dream. Too often we get just the opposite.

And now it was time for bottling. All I was waiting for was a cool snap. And for my winemaker to stop playing America’s Most Wanted…

Samson never made an
appearance that day, nor did he call. Maybe he really had quit?

No, he couldn’t do that, I’d kill him first. I refused to call him, either - pride is my biggest sin - but I thought about him all morning. Not of killing him - well maybe a little - but of what he was facing in court.

Victor rousted me out of the cellar at noon and demanded lunch. He got a salad with goat cheese. He asked about meat and I offered him tofu. He made a gagging sound at that, then proceeded to wolf down four helpings of salad and half a loaf of bread.

I ate with him, but I was silent through lunch, thinking about Hunter’s visit last night and getting mad all over again. But I wasn’t just thinking about Hunter and me; I was thinking again about Blake Becker and the wine labels found in Dimitri’s pockets.

Lots of people collect corks and labels; there’s actually a strong enough market there are forgeries made to profit from that hobby. But I was thinking of the crooks who create fake labels to create counterfeit bottles of great vintages, a much more profitable scam. And Blake Becker, a man in financial trouble, had the keys to a cellar containing millions of dollars in rare and vintage wines… Conceivably, as I had thought last night, he could be selling fakes at his quarterly auction, but that afternoon I had a new thought – what if Blake was stealing wine from his clients, selling
that
and replacing those bottles with counterfeits filled with grocery store wine? That would lower the risk since he would be selling the real thing while maintaining nominal control of the fakes. And - since most collectors buy rare wines for investment, not to drink - it was a crime that could go undetected for years. Right up until someone pulled a cork and got Two-Buck Chuck instead of Grand Cru…

And Armand and his eighteen bottles of Domaine de la Romanée-Conti could have been the pinnacle of that scam, at sixty thousand dollars a bottle.

But that was not an accusation I was willing to make to Hunter.

Not yet, anyway…

After
lunch, I made
Victor do the dishes while I went to the computer in the tasting room.

I googled ‘Domaine de la Romanée-Conti, vintage 1947 for sale’ and got five million hits, most of which were trying to sell me everything
but
Domaine de la Romanée-Conti - like time shares in Napa, wine country vacations, wine cruises and dinners, and every other vintage of wine on the planet. But the search also produced dozens of online auction houses.

I was amazed at how many there were, ranging from consignment sites like eBay for wine, to the more prestigious auction houses like Sotheby’s, Hart Davis Hart, and Zachys. I have to admit I was drooling as I perused the catalogues, staring at bottles of vintage French Burgundies and Bordeaux as well as many more from closer to home, like HawkWood and Montour, none of which I could afford.

It was on one of the smaller sites that I finally hit pay dirt.

The name of the site was Gavin’s Fine Wine and Spirits, based out of Sacramento. They claimed to be the largest auction house and retailer in Northern California, though I had never heard of them.

Gavin’s had pages of impressive vintages from every corner of the globe, including a pair of imperial-sized bottles of Romanée-Conti ’47. I thought of Armand’s eighteen bottles and quickly did the math. Blake would have needed sixteen of Armand’s bottles to fabricate a pair of Imperials. And, due to the rarity of bottles that size, an imperial would sell for far more than the combined value of the eight normal-sized bottles needed to create it. A very lucrative scheme, judging by the current bid price of three hundred and ten thousand dollars each. Gavin’s estimated value was set at three hundred and fifty thousand a bottle. I buzzed through the rest of Gavin’s pages, more than a dozen of which were devoted to impressive Burgundy Grand Crus wines, like Clos de Vougeot, La Tâche, Romanée-Saint-Vivant, and a half dozen other prestigious Châteaux. The last three pages were all California reds, mostly from small wineries like my own, including three wines I had tasted just a few weeks before at Blake’s tasting dinner - 2005 HawkWood, 2003 Sine Colette, and 1997 Chateau Montour.

Those three wines - ones I knew Blake Becker had access to, including the exceedingly rare ’47 Romanée-Conti - all appearing on the same list was suspicious enough, but what I saw on the last page made my heart skip a beat. It was a listing for five bottles of Violet’s 1992 cabernet. It was day three of that auction and the current bid price was two hundred dollars a bottle, more than triple what I had sold it for two decades before.

I sat there staring at the description, a very flattering one touting the ’92 as the first vintage of a winery that had reached cult status, with nothing but up-potential for future resale. It was possible one of my original buyers had listed the wine for resale - many collectors treat wine as a business, buying not to drink it but for later resale - but I doubted this was the case. We had made only two thousand cases that year, and I had sold most of that myself by the bottle and half-case to tourists who were making the circuit of the wine trail. I found it impossible to believe anyone but me had that many bottles on hand. I only had ten bottles left myself.

Five of which were stored in Star Crossed’s cellar...

There was a ‘Contact Us’ tab at the bottom of the web page to send Gavin’s an email, but there was a phone number listed as well. I grabbed the phone on my desk and started dialing.

A young woman answered. “Gavin’s Fine Wine Auctions, Marlene speaking,” she said. “How may I help you?”

“I have some questions about a vintage cabernet you’re offering for sale,” I replied. “You have—” I began, but she cut me off and went into a spiel that seemed well rehearsed.

“All auctions are seven days long. The final bid price does not include the buyer’s premium which is fifteen percent. Only major credit cards or PayPal are accepted. Payment must be assured before a bid can be placed. The quality of the wine purchased is not guaranteed. Older vintages are subject to fluctuations in their environment—”

She might have gone on like that forever, but I couldn’t take anymore. She had an annoying habit of ending every sentence on a high-note, making a statement sound like a question.

“Marlene!” I interrupted. “I need to talk to someone about consigning wine to be auctioned.”

Unfortunately she had a spiel prepared for that as well.

“Selling wine at one of our auctions is as easy as filling out the online questionnaire. In the questionnaire you will be asked for the vintage, classification, the provenance of each bottle, and your reserve price. After submitting the questionnaire Mr. Gavin will contact you personally to discuss—”

I held the phone away from my ear and said, “May I speak to Mr. Gavin, now?”

“Mr. Gavin is very busy. Our auctions run twenty-four hours a day—”

“I’m interested in the bottle of ‘47 Domaine de la Romanée-Conti,” I lied.

Mentioning the most expensive wine in their catalogue got her attention. “One moment please,” she said and I was treated to Muzak from the ‘70’s.

“This is Gerald Gilmore,” a man said, cutting off the Muzak. “Mr. Gavin is unavailable, but I’m sure I can help you. I understand you’re interested in the Romanée-Conti?”

“Not really, it’s out of my price range,” I said, dropping the subterfuge. “I’m interested in the five bottles of the 1992 Violet Vineyard cabernet.”

“Excuse me?”

I backtracked. “My name is Claire de Montagne,” I began. “I own Violet Vineyard. The 1992 is my earliest vintage and, until I saw your catalogue, I would have guessed I had the last ten bottles on the planet.”

That elicited a long pause before he said, “And you’re interested in selling those with us?” he asked, then continued without waiting for my reply, launching into the same spiel Marlene had given me. “Selling wine at one of our auctions is as easy as filling out the online questionnaire. In the questionnaire you will be asked for the vintage, classification, the provenance—” he began.

“No,” I cut him off. “I’d like to know
who
consigned it.”

Another long pause. “I‘m sorry, but our clients, both buyers and sellers, are confidential.”

“Does the name Becker ring a bell?” I asked and got another long pause.

“Could you hold please?” he asked. I got the Muzak again. I listened to it for four minutes before a new voice came on the line.

“Gavin,” a man said in a gravelly, smoker’s voice. “How can I help you?” He sounded brusque and vaguely annoyed at the interruption.

“I’d like to know who consigned a case of my ’92, Mr. Gavin,” I replied, though I’m sure he already knew that.

“You mentioned a name to Mr. Gilmore,” he said, sounding suspicious. “Becker? Is there some problem here I should be aware of?”

I hesitated for a long moment. I wasn’t about to accuse Blake of anything, but I was tempted. “No, not at all. We’re friends, in fact. I was just curious.”

He grunted at that. “And you can’t ask this
friend
yourself?”

I didn’t like his tone, but I could hardly rebuke him for it. “I’d rather not,” I said lamely.

That got another grunt. “I can’t give you any names, but Blake’s not the consignee. And that’s as much as I’ll say. Good enough?” He asked that like it was a question, but his tone told me he was done talking to me.

But that was okay, he had already said enough. I had never mentioned Blake by his first name - I had merely called him Becker. While it was certainly conceivable Gavin knew Blake - after all they were in the same business - my suspicious meter had already been in the red zone before I had made the call, and that slip, if slip it was, had pushed it over to ‘Tilt!’ But I said nothing of this to Gavin.

“Did the same person who consigned the ’92 consign the Romanée-Conti?”

Gavin didn’t bother with a reply; the next sound I heard was the phone banging into its cradle.

I cradled my own phone and sat there fuming, sure I was being ripped off. But what could I do about it? I could go to Star Crossed and demand to see the bottles, but I'd be tipping my hand to Blake and blowing a hole in Hunter’s investigation. But I had to do something!

It didn’t take me long to come to a decision. I wasn't the only person Gavin’s Fine Wine and Spirits might be ripping off. I needed to talk to Armand Rivincita about his Romanée-Conti.

Hunter had told me to butt out, but I never take orders. And it wasn't like I was ‘running off half-cocked making crazy accusations.’ I was just going to ask a simple question…

I turned the computer back on, Googled Armand’s name and got his home phone number. Technology has its uses. I picked up my phone and dialed.

He answered on the third ring.

“Hello Armand, this is Claire de Montagne.”

“Hello, Claire. How are you?” he asked. His voice was a smooth baritone that was kind of sexy over the phone. More than kind of sexy. Is there such a thing as a dirty old woman? I thought of Marjory and almost chuckled.

“I’m fine. And you?”

“Fine, thanks. I’m glad you called. I want to apologize for my manners yesterday at Becker’s. As you could probably tell, we were not having a pleasant conversation.”

“You seemed a bit upset…” I said, leadingly.

“I was angry as hell. Blake was trying to convince me to move the last of my 2008 Chardonnay at auction next month for half price. Two hundred cases. Of course, his commission would stay the same. He claims sales are down across the board.”