Days of Wine and Roquefort (Cheese Shop Mystery) (4 page)

“We’ll see.” Noelle sounded tense.

Ashley held out a business card. Noelle didn’t reach for it. Did she know the guy? I glanced at Matthew for corroboration. His forehead was pinched with tension.

The journalist turned back to Shelton. “So what do you say, Mr. Nelson?”

“I like you, son. You’ve got chutzpah. Sure, I’ll give you an interview right after I show these nice folks around the spread. And call me Shelton.”

“Daddy, no,” Liberty said.

“No secrets here, darlin’. If I’ve told you once . . .”

“. . . we are an open book,” Liberty finished through tight teeth.

“Can I come along?” Ashley said. Cheeky didn’t even begin to describe him.

“No, you may not,” Liberty hissed. I was surprised she didn’t stamp her foot. A pampered girl like her could probably drum up megawatt tears at the drop of a hat.

“In a while, son,” Shelton offered. “In a while.”

• • •

Single file, we followed Shelton out of the visitors’ gallery and into the primary winery structure. In less than ten minutes, I realized the Shelton Nelson Winery rivaled many of the U.S. wineries that Matthew and I had visited on one of our cheese-and-wine-tasting ventures. In a word, SNW, as the locals called it, was spectacular. The facility, with two cellars—one strictly for oak casks and the other fitted with state-of-the-art stainless steel vats—was enormous. The tasting room was set up with an L-shaped bar, the far side for sampling red wines and the nearer portion for sampling whites. Shelves along the walls were filled with beautiful stemware, each glass etched with the SNW logo. Rotating book stands crammed with literature about the vineyard, the history of the grape, and wine-related cookbooks stood in the center of the room.

“This is Harold’s office,” Shelton said, indicating like a tour guide.

Harold’s office was organized to perfection, with every file folder and earnings or growing chart in a tidy pile, and yet artwork that hung on the walls—a couple of Jackson Pollock–style oil paintings—hinted at a chaotic alter ego. Liberty’s office of beige-on-beige was elegant yet forced. Something about the young woman cried out for personal expression. Shelton’s offices were decorated with plush furniture and handsome antiques. His desk was super-neat with all the corners of the blotter, photographs, and boxed pen set squared. Beyond his desk stood a legal-length table that held plans for expanding the winery and printouts of inventory. On the walls hung photo ops of Shelton with Ohio’s famous and infamous. His grin was infectious.

“What’s in there?” Noelle pointed to the room that lay beyond a glass wall.

“A recording room. Daddy likes to do his own commercials.” Liberty intoned, à la Shelton: “Shelton Nelson Winery. The finest flavors this side of the Mississippi.”

Whenever I made the rounds of farms, I often listened to the radio. I had heard the commercials.

Shelton beamed like a proud papa. “Liberty had a hand in designing everything.”

“If he doesn’t watch out,” Liberty teased, “I’ll take over, too.”

“Look at this.” Shelton crossed to a mahogany credenza and picked up a vase painted with a depiction of the vineyard. He held it out for inspection. A date was scrawled at the bottom. “My ex-wife had this commissioned the day we signed the deed.”

“It’s exquisite,” Noelle said.

Shelton set the vase down and said, “Psst. Let’s have a little look-see, shall we?” Like a kid on a secret mission, he beckoned us with a finger and guided us outside the facility. Matthew and Noelle trailed him, then I followed. Liberty and Harold took up the rear. We went around a corner, down a dirt path, and beneath an arbor of leafless grape vines.

“Where are you taking us?” Noelle asked.

“My hideout, darlin’. Careful, the path is a little slippery with the recent rain.”

“I love hideouts,” Noelle said. “When I lived in the orphanage, I had all sorts of hiding places. I tried to keep the nuns on their toes.”

Shelton chortled. “Were your hideouts well stocked with rare wine?”

“Hardly. I’d have been lucky with a dried piece of toast wrapped in a napkin.”

When we reached a pair of ironwork-studded oak doors, Shelton rapped once and waited. He appeared perplexed, but after a moment, he chuckled. “Heh-heh. I’m fooling around. We don’t need a secret knock to enter.” He pulled a ring of keys from his pocket and slotted one into the lock on the door. After giving it a twist, he pressed the door open. It groaned with resistance. “Welcome to my lair. Drink in the scent as you enter.”

Though double in size to the cellar beneath Fromagerie Bessette, Shelton’s cellar was similarly decorated. Paintings of the Providence countryside adorned the walls; alcoves were lit with warm amber sconces.

As we passed beneath brick-and-mortar archways, Shelton said, “And now, the pièce de résistance
.
Voilà and welcome.”

We entered a huge cave. My breath caught in my chest. It was spectacular. Massive hurricane candles decorated a long dining table. Rows and rows of wood-hewn cubbies holding bottles of wine filled me with awe.

Matthew wandered away for a moment then raced back and squeezed my hand. “You’ve got to see this.”

Shelton heard him. “My mini-fortune? Yes, come see.” He led us to an area protected by a heavy wrought iron gate with a latch handle and spear tops. The gate reminded me of something I had seen in an old church.

Noelle said, “I absolutely love this French motif.” She caressed the floral scrolling. “If I recall, you said it was mid-nineteenth century, purchased from an old winery in Bordeaux.”

“Purchased is a nice term. I’m pretty sure I stole it.” Shelton laughed.

“The owner was desperate to sell,” Harold said. “The economy had hit him hard.”

Ticking off his fingertips, Shelton said, “If you look carefully beyond the gate, you’ll see a couple of 1966 Pétrus . . .”

“Pétrus is from the sub-appellation Pomerol,” Matthew whispered to me while rubbing his fingers together to mime
pricey.
Over the past few years, Matthew had taken great pride in educating me about wines while I tutored him about cheese. Pomerol, as an appellation, was as prestigious, if not more so than Pauillac. Basically, if Pauillac was Beverly Hills, then Pomerol would be the Bel Air of Bordeaux.

“. . . a 1978 Château Lafite Rothschild,” Shelton continued. “I have dozens more from Pauillac. In addition, I have Château d’Yquem and Château Haut-Brion Blanc.”

I said, “The latter is from the southwest region of France, isn’t it? That’s home to five first growth wines.” First growth, or
Premier cru classé
, referred to a classification of prestigious wines from the Bordeaux region that dated back to 1855.

“Actually,” Shelton said, “Château Haut-Brion is in Pessac Leognan, which was originally part of Graves. Pessac would be a sub-appellation of Graves like Pauillac is a sub-appellation of the Medoc. Haut-Brion is the only classified
red
not grown in the Medoc.”

Okay, so maybe I hadn’t learned every fact perfectly. Rats. I wished I hadn’t opened my big mouth. I hated sounding stupid. I could hear my grandmother’s admonition:
If one is not certain of a fact, it is better to remain quiet and appear brilliant.
When
would I learn?

“The Blanc, which I have,” Shelton said, “is a dry white wine.”

“Excellent in virtually any year,” Liberty added.

“Noelle.” Shelton snapped his fingers. “Perhaps we’ll throw in a collection of six magnums of the Château d’Yquem for the auction. They’re worth a pretty penny. In addition to the wine, we’ll include a dinner at the winery. What do you think?”

“Magnanimous,” Noelle said.

He chuckled. “Magnanimous . . . magnum. You’re making fun.”

“I’m impressed, Shelton.” Noelle smiled. “There’s a difference.” She moved forward, strumming her fingers along the gate as if it were a harp. “How many bottles are in the cellar? Three thousand?”

“Good eye. Three thousand eighteen at last count, with room for up to five thousand.”

Noelle cleared her throat. “Do you keep a register of all of them?”

“I do. Care to hold the Pétrus?” Shelton removed a single brass key that had to be four inches long from the pocket of his trousers.

“What the heck is that?” Matthew said.

Shelton chuckled. “Don’t be intimidated, Matthew. I merely want people to gawk when I take it out to open the giant lock on these babies.”

I was definitely gawking. It resembled a jailer’s key from medieval days. Shelton slotted it into the gigantic keyhole. The gates groaned open.

“This way.” Shelton entered and we followed. He pulled a bottle of Pétrus from a cubbyhole and handed it to Noelle.

“I don’t see a speck of dust,” she said. “Do you polish the bottles on a daily basis?”

“We have a good ventilation system,” Shelton said.

Noelle cradled the Pétrus in her hands then handed it off to Matthew, who returned the bottle to its cubby.

“Notice the jeroboams of the finest champagne,” Shelton said.

According to my brief education, a jeroboam held the liquid equivalent of four bottles of wine. There had to be at least twenty.

“I also have a number of bottles of Opus One,” Shelton went on.

Matthew said, “Have you got any Schrader?”

“I do.”

“Fabulous, isn’t it? With rich, opulent notes of plum and spice.”

“I also have a single bottle of Screaming Eagle.”

“You don’t.” Matthew turned to me. “At an auction in 2008, a collection of six magnums of Screaming Eagle sold for five hundred thousand dollars. How did you get one, Shelton?”

“I have an influential friend in the Silicon Valley.”

Noelle faked a yawn and whispered in my ear, “It’s like watching boys on a playground saying, ‘Show me yours, I’ll show you mine.’”

I suppressed a smile.

“The Schraders’ divorce is a curious story,” Shelton said. “It resulted in two vineyards.”

“Mr. Schrader limits production so he can boost his price,” Harold said.

“That’s exactly what Daddy’s doing with our white Burgundies from
Home Sweet Home
.” Liberty raised a finger. “Because they’re as good as any from France.”

Shelton shrugged. “Pshaw. They’re not nearly as good as a Château d’Yquem.” At least he had an ounce of humility.

Matthew cupped his hand and whispered, “With proper care, a Chateau d’Yquem can keep for a century or more.”

“Wow,” I said.

Shelton clapped his hands once. “To wow you properly, come to the winery next Friday, and we’ll have a special dinner and tasting for twelve. You’ll arrange everything for that, too, won’t you, Noelle?”

“The dinner is on my agenda.”

“Work with Charlotte on a menu. I hear she’s a fabulous cook.”

I felt my cheeks warm.

“I insist there be a cheese plate for dessert.” Shelton pointed at me. “I’ll trust your judgment on that, young lady. Include that Tuscan Tartufo, would you?” He tapped Noelle. “If you haven’t tasted it, you absolutely must. Hints of mushroom. Almost heady when served with a glass of champagne.”

Noelle scanned the area. “Um, Shelton, I apologize, but I need to find the loo.”

“Let me show you the less clandestine route.” Shelton led Noelle to a wall of gilded books, pressed a handle, and the wall opened up to a secret passage. “Up the corridor, to the right of my office.”

“You dog.” She punched his arm. “There’s an inside entrance back to the main building?”

“It’s very hush-hush.” He nudged her to get a move on and then glimpsed his watch. “I’m sorry, everyone. We’ve got to wrap this up. I’ve got an appointment. I nearly forgot.”

Minutes later, we reentered the corridor by Shelton’s office. He gave us directions back to the visitors’ wing and bid us a hasty good-bye.

As we waited for Noelle to rejoin us, Liberty cornered her father. “Daddy, a word.” She herded him into his office. The door closed with a thud.

An instant later, Noelle appeared. “What’s going on?” she asked.

“No clue,” Matthew replied. “Let’s—”

“No,” Liberty shouted from behind the closed door. A fist pounded wood. Shelton’s or hers, I couldn’t be sure. “Daddy, you’re not getting it.”

He shushed her.

Though both lowered their voices, a few words filtered out.

Liberty said, “. . . lover . . . phony . . . financial mess.”

“Can you make out what they’re saying?” Noelle whispered.

“Sort of.” My grandmother said I had the ears of an elephant. I listened harder.

Shelton responded with a string of words and, “. . . charted for disaster.”

Somebody slammed something.

Shelton growled. “. . . always about money for you.”

Liberty: “. . . label would you put on it?”

Shelton: “. . . nose . . . your mother.”

Liberty: “. . . out of it.”

Shelton: “. . . my business, not yours.”

Liberty, loudly: “Yes, it is.”