Dead in the Dregs (36 page)

 

“It is true,” Sackheim began, “I did believe that she was involved in Wilson’s death, but I could not see why. This letter, it explains so much. And it confirms everything you told me this afternoon.” He paused. “What do you know of Mademoiselle Azzine?”

It was a strange question. I wasn’t sure what he was driving at.

“She’s gorgeous, smart, ambitious,” I said. “I think she could have been a star.”

Sackheim sipped his wine and then puffed the cigar till it flared.

“Monique is not telling the whole truth. I am not saying that she is a liar, but she is playing with the truth.” He set the cigar in the ashtray. “Today I had the opportunity to talk with her. And Jean-Luc Carrière. I had nothing else to do, and they are the only ones left.”

“There’s Henri,” I said.

“Yes, well, you can imagine. Anyway, a year ago, before the events of these past few weeks and months, Mademoiselle Azzine made another
stage
in Burgundy.”

“I didn’t know that.” I tried to brace myself for what was coming.

“But she did. She worked at the domaine of Jean-Luc Carrière. At Carrière she met Jean Pitot, and he, like so many others, was taken by her. He was a lonely boy, vulnerable. She got to know him quite well. He even invited her home for dinner several times, and there she met Françoise. It was only a matter of time until the bitterness of this family was communicated to her. But Monique Azzine had her own, how do you say, agenda, which only now we understand. Her father had rejected her. She was humiliated and angry.”

I regarded the length of ash that extended from the tip of my cigar.

“When she left Bordeaux in the summer,” Sackheim went on, “she did not come directly to Burgundy, as you know. Lieutenant Ciofreddi has established that she was, in fact, in San Francisco on the day Wilson was last seen. But by then, it was too late. The plan, it was already made. Perhaps if Wilson had accepted her, she might have stopped it. He could have saved himself.”

I was dumbfounded. “You think she had a hand in
killing
him?”

“You suspect this yourself, but we do not know, do we?”

“Maybe she tried to stop Pitot,” I said. Sackheim regarded me across the table. “It’s possible, isn’t it?” I asked.

“I am not certain,” he said. “But we will learn the truth of this. Of that I am quite sure.”

I wasn’t sure of anything. I was reeling.

“
Enfin
, one thing we are beginning to understand is the strange relationship this young woman had with
la famille Pitot.
You know, the day you visited Domaine Carrière, the day the barrels fell, Monique had been there.”

“You’re kidding!” Jesus, was I a patsy or what? She had played me for a chump.

“I am sorry,” Sackheim apologized. “Carrière has told us.”

“What about Feldman, then?”

He regarded me sympathetically, then gave a slight nod. “You know the phone message Feldman left at Wilson’s apartment in San Francisco. He said that he made this call as a favor for someone. We know from her cell phone records that Monique contacted Feldman. He, too, had been hurt by Wilson—everyone in Burgundy, it turns out, knows this story—and she thought that he would be sympathetic, that he would help her. But he did not. Just a phone call. I think maybe she arranged to meet Feldman at Domaine Carrière. We do not know yet. But this, too, we shall learn.”

“Did she murder Richard?” I asked again after a minute. “Kill her own father?”

“We don’t know.” He was quiet, then said, “We know so little.”

“Fine. What do you think?” I asked.

“Well, she had the opportunity. She rented a car at the airport in San Francisco. Ciofreddi discovered this, and we have confirmed it from the records of her credit card. The odometer, it suggests that she followed Wilson to Napa. There is no other explanation. You do not put three hundred kilometers on the car by driving around San Francisco, eh? But personally—it is just my
pressentiment
, my ‘hunch’—that the killing itself was the work of Jean. The violence, the sloppiness, the hand. She had her own reasons for wanting Wilson dead, but I suspect you are right, that she may have tried to stop Pitot. After all, she desires a living father, not a dead one. Even if he was, in a manner of speaking, dead to her.”

My mind folded in on itself.

“On the other hand,” Sackheim went on, “maybe after Wilson rejected her for the last time, she decided to help Jean. The evidence at Norton, it is still not conclusive.” He paused. “And then you arrive in Burgundy,” he continued, “asking questions—as you say, sticking your nose into everything. I am sure that Jean had already told her about you. The American. I do not wish to imply that Mademoiselle Azzine was not attracted to you, Babe, but, you must admit, she needed to find out what you suspected, what you knew. It
was Jean, of course, who tried to stop you in Napa after you started to inquire about Wilson’s death.” I thought about correcting him, telling him that it was just some crazy kid from Angwin, but held back. For all I knew, it
had
been Pitot. Maybe it was Brenneke, too eager for an easy mark, who had it all wrong. “And then you discovered him at Domaine Carrière,” Sackheim went on. “It had to have been Jean who pushed the barrels. But you were not hurt. And you were not scared away. In fact, you were getting very close.”

We sat for a few minutes in silence, puffing our cigars and sipping wine.

“Who is guilty, you ask,” he finally said. “The family.” He looked, suddenly, terribly sad. “The whole family is guilty.”

We grew quiet again, pondering the mysteries of crime and retribution, of passion and hatred, of blood and wine.

“It is late. I should take you to your hotel,” Sackheim said.

He hoisted himself out of his chair and walked slowly to get his overcoat. He was not a young man. He was tired, and I realized this would be his last case.

As we turned off the highway toward Aloxe-Corton, Sackheim said, “It is dangerous.”

“Yes, at night especially. No streetlights,” I said.

“Not the driving, Babe. The search for truth.”

I didn’t respond at first, then said, “You did what you had to do. It’s your job.”

“You think that is all? That I am just doing my job?” He was irate.

“I don’t know. Anyway, I owe you an apology for costing you yours.”

“It is not your fault. It was only a matter of time. The fact is, I am looking forward to retirement. And I’m happy that you came. I don’t think we would have solved this without your help.” With that one statement, Émile Sackheim had redeemed me. After a moment he added, “I regret that Eugénie’s husband is not with her.”

“Why?” I asked.

“I believe that I would have been able to discern if she is happy.”

“Does that really matter?”

Sackheim blew air through his lips. “Ey! Please. I am not a beast.
It would give me satisfaction to know. Now it will trouble me. Did she merely escape, or did she fall in love?”

We passed through the little squares of the town, abandoned at that late hour.

“Don’t worry about tomorrow,” I said when we pulled up in front of the Chemin de Vigne. “I’ll call a taxi to take me to the station.”

“Yes, it is better. Good-bye, Babe. It seems we say good-bye too often.” He seemed wistful.

“À la prochaine
, then,” I said, patting his arm, and then, “You take care of yourself. And retire, for chrissakes. Neither of us has the strength to go through this again.”

 

I called Janie
from the hotel room.

“It’s over,” I said.

“You figured out who murdered my brother?”

“Yeah, sort of. It’s pretty crazy. I’ll explain it all to you when I see you.”

“And when is that?” she asked, her voice tinged with censure.

“I’m leaving first thing in the morning. I’ll call you from Paris.”

“You’re actually going to make it back for Thanksgiving?”

“I told you I would. And tell Danny. I’ll pick him up on my way from the airport.”

 

I lay in
bed, unable to sleep. I walked onto the balcony off my room and gazed out over the vineyards. In the courtyard, the giant linden stood silhouetted against the dim shape of the Bois de Corton. I heard an owl hoot softly, and then it lifted—I could hear the
whoosh
of its wings—and it struck, some small creature squealing from its talons. I shook my head at the profound, murderous mysteries of nature and went to bed.

I slept like a baby.

I called Janie from
the airport. I would never have been able to pull it off had it not been for the nine-hour time difference.

Given that I’d kept my word, she didn’t seem all that happy when I knocked on her door. The important thing right now was Danny, though—we both understood this—but the look she kept throwing me over his head told me that she expected a full account.

“As I said, it’s complicated. Give me some time. I’ll call you when I’m ready.”

“At least you made it home in one piece,” she said.

On the drive, Danny expressed skepticism about cooking a turkey at the trailer. “Your oven’s too small,” he said.

We stopped at the Safeway in Napa—the only store open on the actual holiday—and stocked up on canned cranberry sauce and wild-rice salad. He picked out a sweet-potato pie with whipped cream. The only things we had to cook were the bird and stuffing. He insisted on cutting up the celery and chopping an onion. I had to take over when he started to cry. He sat at the table watching me, tears streaming down his face. He looked unutterably sad, and the whole event tottered on the verge of disaster until my eyes began running.

“Don’t cry, Dad,” he said.

“You don’t cry,” I said.

“No,
you
don’t cry,” he said, and we erupted in laughter. Then we dressed the bird. Danny sewed up the cavity with the agility of a surgeon.

He was right about the turkey. Though I had bought the smallest bird we could find—there were only a few left in the case—it barely fit in the oven, and I had to turn the temperature down to keep it from burning. We didn’t sit down until sometime after ten.

We ate in silence. I apologized for the lack of merriment. The only stories I could think of seemed too gruesome to tell. The next morning he asked if he could go home, so I drove him back into the city.

“Tell your mother I’ll call her next week,” I said. But I couldn’t wait that long. I wanted to get my conversation with Janie out of the way. I phoned, suggesting we have dinner on Saturday in the city.

It was an awkward date. The story I had to relate was not a pretty one, and the fact that Richard’s death was woven inextricably into a larger and more complex tragedy, involving a family she’d never heard of, was hard to take in. Not to mention that she now possessed a niece whose existence to this moment she knew nothing about.

“A daughter?” She shook her head in disbelief. “What’s she like?”

“Beautiful. Very lovely, really. Smart. Tortured.” I bit my lip. I needed to get this part right. “She tried to get Richard to accept her. It would appear that he refused.”

I then explained the history of Monique’s finding Richard, her repeated attempts to get him to acknowledge her, her trip to California.

“We don’t know,” I finally said, anticipating what she was thinking. “She was there, in Napa, when he was killed. She was probably involved. An accomplice, at least, technically speaking. But I think she may have tried to stop it.”

“Is she all right?” Janie’s expression now was unreadable.

“She’s being held as an accessory,” I said.

“Jesus” was all she could say. I didn’t blame her for being at a loss for words.

I allowed for a reasonable interval, giving her a chance to digest everything I’d told her.