A Vintage To Die For (Violet Vineyard Murder Mysteries Book 2) (21 page)

“Great,” I said, letting my disgust show. “I just gave him fifty cases of my 2009 Reserve.”

“Only fifty cases?” He said like that was nothing to be worried about.

“I have one-tenth the acreage under vine you have, Armand,” I reminded him. “Fifty cases is a lot to me.”

He backpedaled and turned apologetic. “Of course.” And then he turned flattering. “You might be small, but you make some of the best cabernet in the valley. Just don't let Blake pressure you on the price.”

“I can handle Blake,” I told him, but I wasn’t so sure that was true.

“How is Samson holding up?” he asked.

“As well as can be expected,” I replied. I wasn’t going to tell him that Samson wasn’t talking to me, or that he, too, was wrangling with Blake Becker over Dimitri’s private collection of Premiere Cru Bordeaux. I wanted to get information out of Armand, not give it.

“You don’t think he…” Armand left that hanging there.

“No,” I replied shortly. “I do not.”

“Of course,” he quickly said. “I shouldn’t have suggested it.”

“Don’t worry about it,” I said. “Half the valley probably thinks he did it.” I changed the subject back to Blake. “How long have you been with Blake?” I asked him.

“I’ve been selling at Star Crossed’s auctions for two years, but I didn't start cellaring my personal collection there until last year when Dimitri came into the business,” he replied, answering one of the questions I’d had which was: did Blake have access to Armand’s vintage bottles of Domaine de la Romanée-Conti?

“Why cellar there?” I asked. “I mean, you own six wineries; certainly you have enough cellar space.”

“A couple of reasons,” Armand replied. “As you know, the older the wine, the more temperamental it is. Dimitri recorked a few dozen bottles for me and he ensured the rest were stored properly and inspected regularly for problems with settling or separation. Dimitri was someone I could trust with a couple of million dollars in wine. And, it reduced my own insurance costs by a great deal.”

“And now?”

“I’m going back to cellaring it myself,” he said. “I had it all delivered to the house this morning. I’ll be shifting it around to some of my wineries this week. I wouldn’t trust Blake Becker with a can of Budweiser.”

I went silent as I struggled with a dilemma: Hunter had told me about the wine labels in confidence and, as angry as I was with him, I would not break that trust. But I was tempted after what I had found on Gavin’s Fine Wine and Spirits’ website.

“What are you doing for dinner tonight?” Armand suddenly asked.

“Probably cooking for my disgruntled staff,” I replied, shifting the receiver away from my mouth and raising my voice to be sure that Victor, who was still banging dishes around in the kitchen, heard the remark.

“Why not have dinner with me?” he said. “I’d love to pick your brain on wine growing in the valley. I still have a lot to learn.”

I laughed at that. “You’ve gotten rich in the wine business, Armand, and I’m flirting with insolvency every year. Unless you’re looking for pointers on how
not
to make money?”

Armand laughed in reply. “You make some of the best cabernet in the valley, Claire. You and Samson are practically legends.”

Calling me a ‘legend’ came very close to calling me old, but I let it slide. “What time?” I asked. With a couple of hours at a dinner table
I
could pick
Armand’s
brain about Blake Becker without revealing anything Hunter had told me.

“8:00?”

“I’ll see you then.” I replied and we said our goodbyes.

Victor yelled from the kitchen, “I heard that crack about ‘disgruntled staff.’ First you feed me cheese salad for lunch and now I get insults and dirty dishes for dessert. Is it any wonder I’m disgruntled?”

Chapter 22

Though Armand was a
multimillionaire, his home, while not modest, was not a megamansion. It was of modern design, built of tan stone and constructed in three broad, flat levels cut into a steep hillside and landscaped with shrubs and trees in a purposeful attempt to mimic the natural terrain, an attempt so successful it was barely visible until you were halfway up the long, arcing driveway.

I followed the crushed stone drive, half-circling a large pond that fronted the main road. The pond was as beautifully landscaped as a Japanese painting, complete with lily pads and overhanging plum trees, their flaming fall color reflected in the flat surface of the pond. To complete this postcard scene, two white geese waddled into the water from the far shore, then floated gracefully out into the deeper water.

Armand’s BMW and a red convertible with the Lotus logo emblazoned on the hood were parked near the home’s front doors. As I parked behind them and walked up the flagstone path, my eyes lingered on the convertible. It reminded me of my own red convertible Mustang, consumed by an arsonist’s fire only last year. Of course, the Lotus cost about five hundred times as much, but the concept was the same. I’d love to take it for a spin…

Hmm, Roger, my soon to be ex-husband, had offered to pay off Violet Vineyards as a divorce settlement - an idea I had rejected - but maybe a new convertible Ferrari or Lamborghini  wasn’t out of the question? I laughed at the thought. Roger would probably be happy to oblige, but my lead foot would either land me in the morgue or in jail. I was better off with a six cylinder four by four. But there was no harm in dreaming.

I knocked on the front door, painted a deep purple. The purple made me like Armand even more. I had never thought of a purple door…

A maid in a simple black uniform answered. She was older, probably close to sixty, with a head full of loose blonde curls so brightly colored it made her complexion look sallow.

She smiled politely. “Good evening. You must be Mrs. de Montagne?” she said. “Armand is on the phone, but if you’ll follow me.” She stepped aside, I entered, and she closed the door behind me.

“I’m Agnes Walters,” she said as she led me into a living room furnished in low leather furniture and glass tables. Bachelor chic. “I used to work for your mother-in-law,” she added and I made a sour face. That got a laugh out of here. “Exactly,” she said as she waved me toward the sofa. “Can I get you something to drink?”

“A short scotch would be lovely,” I replied. She crossed to a chrome and glass bar.

“Macallan 25?” she asked as she reached for a bottle.

“One of my favorites,” I replied truthfully, though I never bought it myself. It was far too expensive. But, judging by the art work on the walls - huge canvases filled with abstracts by Ann Deavers and Phillip Farlow - and the Lotus out front, Armand could afford to indulge his guests.

As Agnes handed me the glass, Armand entered the room. He gave me a broad smile, crossed the room and stopped in front of me, just a little too close for comfort, a habit I’ve noticed in European men, who seem to have no grasp of an American’s attitude about personal space.

“Claire, thank you so much for coming,” he said, beaming down at me and clasping my hand between both of his. His hands were surprisingly rough for a millionaire.

“Thank you for inviting me,” I replied. “You have a lovely home.” Armand was still holding my hand and that was starting to make me a little uncomfortable. As was the way he was looking at me, his blue eyes unblinking and intense.

“Made lovelier by your presence,” he assured me. If I had been a less gracious guest I would have rolled my eyes at that. Instead, I gave my hand a tug and he released his grip somewhat reluctantly.

“What are you drinking?” he asked as he turned to the bar.

“Macallan,” I replied.

“Great choice,” he said as he reached for the bottle and poured. “I’ll join you. But not too much.” He turned to me and raised his glass in salute. “Hard liquor deadens the palate, and I have a couple of treats planned for you.”

“I hope you didn’t go out of your way. I’m only a wine snob when it comes to what I make. I grew up on the gallon jug varietals made on the local farms.”

Armand laughed. “Well, I
am
a wine snob. And I rarely get the chance to show off.” He gave me a wry smile. “I’m not exactly the most popular guy in the Valley.”

“The new kid on the block,” I said with a shrug. “And a successful one at that.”

“Moderately successful,” he said self deprecatingly. He sat on the sofa beside me, just a few inches too close, and cocked his leg up on the cushion to half face me.

“I should have such moderate success,” I said. “What’s the old joke? How do you make a small fortune in the wine business?”

“Start with a large fortune,” he supplied the punch line. “I’ve been lucky. And Argentina was good to me. I got there just before the boom. Turned a profit and headed for California.”

“Why?” I asked. “I mean, why Napa?” Wine making was a global enterprise, after all.

Armand shrugged and chuckled. “Narcissism,” he replied. “California is where the action is.” He gave me a meaningful look from under lowered brows. “And it also has some of the most beautiful women.”

I don’t think he meant that as a joke, but I treated it like one and laughed politely. I know that in popular culture the older woman-younger man thing was being played for maximum hype, but I wasn’t interested. And if a woman in her early forties was a cougar, I guess that would make me a snow leopard.

Agnes came back in the room at that moment. “The soup is ready, sir,” she said, and Armand stood.

“Agnes is a fantastic cook,” he said as he led me back through the entryway and into a wood-paneled dining room filled with huge antique furniture. It looked like a room from an English manor and was a startling contrast to the leather and glass of the living room. The table could have sat twelve comfortably, but only two places had been set, at the near end of the table, with china as antique as the furniture.

Armand drew out my chair for me then circled the table and took his seat. Between us was a bottle of 1982 Château d'Yquem beaded with condensation and a bottle of 1989 Clos de Vougeot Burgundy, made with pinot noir grapes, from Domaine Leroy. Very impressive indeed, but I wasn’t thinking about what a treat those wines were. I was staring at the bottle of D’Yquem and thinking of the tasting I had attended last month where Blake had unveiled a magnum of the 1911 Dimitri had insisted was actually an ’82…

In the 1990s there had been an explosion of rare vintages in oversized bottles - magnums, double-magnums and imperial-sized bottles - sold at auction. It was later determined many of these bottles had been faked by filling large, old bottles from smaller bottles of wine produced at the same winery - often from much later vintages - and recorking them. That would certainly explain why Dimitri had insisted the 1911 was actually a 1982, just like the bottle Armand was twisting a corkscrew into…

I was tempted to relate all of this to Armand, but some internal instinct warned me not to and I let the moment pass. After all, I still wasn’t sure what Blake and Armand’s relationship was. Were they partners in crime as Angela had suggested? Or was Armand just another victim? Either way, even though I was still angry with Hunter, I would be calling him as soon as dinner was finished. He probably wouldn’t believe me if I accused Blake of fraud, but staring at that d’Yquem almost had me convinced.

Agnes brought in the soup as Armand opened the D’Yquem with a flourish. He began to pour into my glass. I was surprised he was serving it with the soup. Sauternes are so concentrated and sweet they are normally served as a dessert wine.

“Just a half-glass for me,” I said, though I could have drunk the whole bottle. “I have to drive home.”

“Indulge yourself,” Armand said, pouring it to the brim. “I’ll drive you home,” he cocked an eyebrow and gave me a sly smile. “Or you could stay the night in one of the guest rooms.”

I smiled politely once again, but I was becoming increasingly uncomfortable. I tasted the soup as he poured his own glass.

“Delicious,” I said.

“Champagne brie,” he replied. “My favorite.” He raised his wineglass toward me and I put down my spoon and raised my own.

“To beauty,” he said and winked.

“To propriety,” I replied dryly.

The D’Yquem was delicious, but not what I would call a perfect pairing for the savory soup.

“When did you start making wine, Claire?” he asked.

“That’s very close to asking my age,” I pointed out with a laugh, “I bought Violet in 1992 and bottled the same year. The vines were planted in ’85 by the original owner. He was bankrupt and the bank wasn’t interested in growing wine, so I got a good price.”

“You grew up in the valley?” he asked as he ladled soup into his mouth.

“Born and raised. My father and mother had a small farm just outside of St. Helena. Tomatoes, beans, okra, that sort of thing,” I replied. “I sold the farm a couple of years after they passed away. There’s a housing development there now,” I added, trying to hide the bitterness I felt over that.

I had sold the farm at below market to Mike Miller, a Valley native who had been farming beside my parents for thirty years.  I had assumed Mike would keep farming, but he had sold out to a developer three months later - for almost double the price I had sold it for – and moved to Florida. That still rankled. One of the hardest days of my life had been when they bulldozed the home my father had been born in. But I said nothing of that to Armand.

“You must have made quite a profit off that,” he said. “Not that you de Montagnes need money.” That was a leading comment, and one that made me bristle. Everyone seemed to assume I had married a fortune when Roger and I said ‘I do’ but the truth was far different. Every penny I had made – all two of them - had come from hard work and long hours.

“The de Montagnes have a lot of money,” I replied neutrally, “but none of it is mine. And I wouldn’t have sold out to a developer. That was done by the man I sold to.” Though I tried to keep my tone civil, I guess I didn’t manage it, because Armand immediately apologized.

“I’m sorry
. m
. I’m being nosy. I’m always that way with beautiful women,” he added with that sly smile again. It was beginning to look like a leer.

“No apology necessary,” I told him, ignoring the compliment. “Especially since I plan to be just as nosy.” My soup bowl was empty, and I was wishing it wasn’t. I could have made a meal out of that heavenly concoction. “Where were you born?”

“A small town in Italy no one has ever heard of,” he replied as he pushed his own empty soup bowl aside and reached for a small silver bell at his elbow. He rang it once and Agnes appeared through the kitchen door with a silver tray and began to clear the dishes.

“That soup was wonderful, Agnes,” I told her. “I’d kill for the recipe.”

She smiled. “I’ll print it out for you. Not much to it really. Cheese, flat champagne, salt, butter, and white pepper.” She carried the bowls back through the kitchen door.

Armand opened the bottle of Domaine Leroy and poured it into an oblong decanter to breathe before setting the bottle aside. He then polished off his third glass of d’Yquem.

“Is that where you were raised?” I asked.

Armand nodded, suddenly frowning. “Yes,” he said, his tone turning short and clipped. He smiled to cover for it. “We were very poor.” Despite the smile his eyes looked stormy. “Things were difficult.” He finished his second glass of d’Yquem and poured another. He moved the top of the bottle toward my half empty glass but I waved him off. He seemed disappointed but said nothing.

I could tell he didn’t want to discuss his past, but I wasn't going to let it go. “When did you move to Argentina?

“1995,” he said. “I was very young, just eighteen at the time, but I had already been working in wineries and vineyards for three years in Italy.” He grinned, “And I, like most poor boys, was hungry for success. I bought ten acres of old vines in Mendoza. At the time no one exported wine - the only market was local - but there were some of us who thought we could compete with California, Australia, and Italy. The soil in Mendoza is thin and sandy, the weather is uneventful, though arid, perfect for cabernet and Merlot. I made Malbec from cabernet and Merlot grapes. It was tough going for a few years, and then the economy hit the skids. That was hard on the locals, but it was good for me. Labor and construction costs plummeted and land was selling cheap.” He shrugged. “Timing and hard work,” he added with false modesty. “I sold it all three years ago and came to the States.”

Agnes came in with the platter and placed a plate in front of each of us: duck leg and thigh atop a bed of salad greens. It smelled wonderful and looked like it would add ten pounds to my posterior.

“Confit de canard with escarole and a balsamic reduction,” she said.

“It smells wonderful,” I told her, and she smiled and placed a folded piece of paper on the table beside me.

“The soup recipe. Your mother-in-law hated it. She didn’t like white food,” she said, and winked at me before she exited.

Armand poured me a too-large amount of the Burgundy in a fresh glass and we both went through the tasting ritual. First we swirled and tilted the glass to the light, revealing the wine’s long, broad legs - the tracery of wine left in the bell of the glass after the rest of the wine had returned to the bottom. Legs like that indicated a promising sugar content. Next we sipped and swished, then sucked air across our palates before swallowing. None of this is very ladylike, but it is the correct way to sample wine.