Death By the Glass #2 (6 page)

“I don’t even know what that means,” said Monty.

“He was also a founding member of the math club.”

“The elusive geek-jock combo,” said Monty.

“What about Denby’s?” said Sunny.

“It was the big scene in Marin for a long time. Eliot Denby, now of Vinifera fame, and Nathan Osborne owned it. Everybody went there. They had every wine you could think of on the menu. This was before wine bars were the hot ticket. They were at least five years ahead of the curve.”

“What happened?”

“There was a fire late one night and the place burned down. I would have loved to sell those guys wine, but Osborne wouldn’t let anybody else in. Then he cut exclusive deals with a bunch of the producers on the other end. It was all sewn up, start to finish.”

“Why don’t you cut exclusive deals?” asked Rivka.

“Don’t think I haven’t tried, my
chiquita
banana. It has not proven to be as easy as it sounds.”

“Tell me again how it couldn’t have been the mushrooms,” said Sunny.

“It wasn’t. I know you’re going to worry until you find out, but I really don’t think it’s necessary,” said Monty. “I haven’t seen him for years, but a heart attack wouldn’t surprise me that much. He had all the characteristics even back then. Red face from about forty years of drinking too much wine, carrying around thirty extra pounds, never more than five feet from a pack of Marlboros or a big cigar. Those guys who like to eat and drink and smoke all the time don’t live forever. Unless you’re a Swedish-farmer type, like Skord. Then you can do whatever the hell you want and live to be a hundred. I’d kill to have that guy’s genes.”

Sunny and Monty both half admired and half worried about their friend Wade Skord, who seemed to be able to live on fried eggs, Wasa Crisp, and Zinfandel, and still do the work of three men half his age.

“Fifty-eight sounds pretty young to me,” said Sunny.

“Not if you live hard,” said Monty. “He was having a good time. That’s worth something. The nice thing about shaving years off your life is that they get shaved off at the end. That’s usually the dull part anyway.”

“They were talking about him at staff dinner last night,” said Rivka. “Apparently someone had to drive him home practically every night because he drank like a fish.”

“It’s what he ate that’s more important if he had a heart attack, right?” said Monty. “Too much bacon and duck fat, not that I blame him.”

“It almost makes me want to reconsider my New Year’s resolution,” said Sunny.

“You mean the one about eating more bacon?” said Monty. “I want to go on record as not in favor of that resolution. Someday
this is all going to catch up with that skinny ass of yours and you’re going to wake up looking like Paul Prudhomme. I’ll find slabs of cured pork belly tucked under your mattress.”

“It’s my homage to the noble pig,” said Sunny, “tastiest of god’s creatures.”

“I really don’t think the noble pig appreciates that kind of tribute,” said Monty.

“I can feel the day coming when I will give serious thought to the plight of the readily comestible sentient beings, and from that day forward, no flesh will pass these lips,” said Sunny. “Until then, I’m in denial. It’s the year of the pig and I’m going to enjoy it.”

“It’s true. If we really sat down and thought about it, we wouldn’t eat meat at all,” said Rivka.

“Let’s really sit down and not think about it, how about that?” said Monty, setting a bowl full of spaghetti on the table. They took their seats and Monty poured another glass of Cab all around. He said, “Denial is bliss,” and they chimed glasses.

“You know what else about Osborne?” said Rivka, loading her plate with spaghetti. “You’re not going to believe this.”

“What?”

“You remember Dahlia, the waitress with the blue hair?”

“And the stained-glass butterfly tattooed across her butt?”

“You didn’t like it?” said Rivka. “I thought it was beautiful.”

“It’s beautiful now, but in a few years it’s going to be out of style and faded and even more huge. It’s reckless.”

“You sound like my mom,” said Rivka.

“It’s not like other tattoos,” said Sunny. “I like plenty of tattoos. It’s just that this one is really big and really colorful. It’s a big commitment.”

“How do you know she has a tattoo on her butt?” said Monty. “Is this story about to get really interesting?”

“It’s not on her butt, it’s on her lower back,” said Rivka. “You could see most of it above her jeans.”

“This is not a terribly modest girl,” said Sunny.

“
Anyway,
” said Rivka, “the point is that she used to date Nathan.”

“Whoa. For how long?” said Sunny.

“I don’t know. It sounded like they were pretty serious. They just broke up recently.”

“She must be about thirty years younger than him,” said Sunny.

“About that. She’s my age. Apparently he’s dated loads of younger women. A few of us went to Bouchon after you left and they were talking about how Osborne is such the ladies’ man.”

“I can’t believe that. I had the impression nobody liked him,” said Sunny.

“Really? I figured it was just the obligatory boss bashing. He must be sort of okay if Dahlia was into him,” said Rivka.

“I’m not sure I like the sound of that,” said Sunny.

“Don’t worry, you’re immune. You’re not a boss in the derogatory sense,” said Rivka.

“I hate to say it about someone who’s died, but he sounded kind of like a jerk to me,” said Sunny. “I don’t think Andre liked him much.”

“I actually thought the one nobody seemed to like was Dahlia. Everyone was ripping on her all night,” said Rivka.

“If she was dating the owner that was bound to alienate her from everyone else. It’s like being the teacher’s pet,” said Monty.

“I thought she was interesting,” said Rivka. “She’s an artist and she lives in a tent cabin way out in the middle of nowhere. I’m going over to her place tomorrow after work to see some of her paintings.”

“A tent cabin,” said Sunny. “That’s fantastic. I love it.”

“What does any of this have to do with McCoskey getting her ashes hauled last night?”

“You are so crude, Lenstrom,” said Rivka, smiling.

“I’m sorry. What does any of this have to do with McCoskey falling in love in a deeply meaningful, though remarkably swift fashion late at night. I need a name.”

“Andre Morales,” said Sunny. A sense memory of the night before flashed back for an instant, sending a pleasant jolt through her body.

“The chef?”

“Yes,” Sunny said.

“Perfect!” Monty said, rubbing his hands together. “That’s going to fit beautifully into my plans. We’ll have holidays at your place. Rivka can watch the kids. The food will be impeccable.”

“Don’t get all excited, it was just one date,” said Sunny. “I don’t think we need to call the florist yet.”

“I’m not sure you can actually call last night a date,” said Rivka. “I’d call that a hook up.”

“Chavez takes the hard line,” said Monty in his baseball announcer voice. “Calls it like she sees it. Now it’s up to McCoskey to defend her position.”

“He picked me up after work and we went for a drink. That’s a date,” said Sunny.

“He picked up on you at work and took you home with him. That’s a hook up,” said Rivka.

“It’s Chavez with a deep line drive, she’s easily rounding first, second, she’s headed for third and looking confident! McCoskey is going to have to come up with something more substantial than that if she’s going to stay in this game,” said Monty.

“Aren’t you the one who was urging me on?” Sunny said. “I think you may have actually said
seize the moment
.”

“I’m not saying it was a bad idea,” said Rivka, giggling. “I’m just saying it wasn’t a date.”

“Point taken,” said Sunny.

“Can we skip the semantics?” said Monty. “I want to know how he enticed you to stay out after midnight. You’re the biggest stay-at-home I’ve ever known.”

“Hot body,” Rivka fake-coughed.

“Wrong,” said Sunny. “It was much more than that. He said he had a very special bottle of wine that he had been saving and he wanted to open it.”

“That makes sense to me,” said Monty. “You have to open that stuff while it’s still fresh or you might as well throw it out. It was probably due to expire the next day.”

Rivka snickered.

“That is absolutely the oldest line in the book,” said Monty, “but this is the first time I’ve ever heard of it working.”

“You guys are being mean. It may have been a line, but at least it was true. He had an old bottle of Burgundy I’ve never even seen before, let alone tasted.”

“What was it?”

“1967 Château de Marceline St.-Quinisque Premier Grand Cru Reservée by Michel Verlan.”

“Tah-tah-tah,” said Monty. “I guess somebody has some cash to burn. Give that guy my card, will you?”

“The sad thing is, it was sort of a waste. By the time we got there and opened it I was so tired I couldn’t taste anything. It didn’t seem like anything special. I’d already had about four different wines and a glass of port. He could have opened anything and I wouldn’t have known the difference. And we only drank about half of it.”

“Not a big deal,” said Monty. “That’s around, what, two hundred dollars a glass, give or take a few ounces? Next time, get a
doggy bag for me. I tasted a seventy-one a few years ago. That old stuff doesn’t come around very often.”

“I wanted to soak the label off the bottle for my journal, but I couldn’t think of a way to smuggle it out without looking like a complete dork,” Sunny said.

“You could have told him you’re really into recycling,” said Monty.

“At least I got the cork.” She groped in her jacket pocket and produced it, handing it over to Monty. He examined it and opened his mouth to say something, then changed his mind and served himself a second helping of salad instead. Sunny looked at him.

“What?”

“Nothing,” said Monty.

“There’s something. You have a funny look.”

“It’s nothing.”

“What? Tell me,” said Sunny.

“You’re insane. I’m just getting more salad,” said Monty.

“No you’re not, you’re hiding something. Tell me what it is.”

“No way.”

“She’s right. You have to ante up when you make a face like that,” said Rivka.

“For the last time, it’s nothing.”

“Okay,” said Sunny. “You leave me no choice. I am going to throw all of this delicious food on your nice, clean floor in exactly ten seconds if you don’t tell me what that look was about. Ten.”

“It was nothing.”

“Nine.”

“Stop counting.”

“Eight. Come on, tell me. It makes me crazy when you do this.”

“Wouldn’t you rather live the fantasy?” said Monty. “Instead of getting it all smudged up with reality?”

“Seven. Of course not. What are you talking about? You know how I am about full disclosure. I always want the whole truth, no matter what,” said Sunny. “Six.”

“Okay, stop counting. I just hate to tarnish what sounds like a lovely evening.”

“What do you mean?”

Monty picked up the cork, turned it a few times, and set it down again. “What you drank was a very good bottle of Château de Marceline St.-Quinisque, but not the Premier Grand Cru Reservée. That particular producer bottles several different wines each vintage, only one of which is estate grown and has the winemaker’s signature and all the other goodies. It’s like Hess Collection versus Hess Select, or DKNY versus Donna Karan black label. They sell the bridge line and they also sell really high-end stuff. This cork comes from a bottle of their less expensive wine, who knows what year.”

“How do you know?” asked Sunny.

“All of these producers do things a bit differently. Some put their name on the cork, some put the year. Some producers put everything on there, the name of the winery, the vintage, distinctions like Grand Cru or vintner’s reserve or whatever, their phone number, the web site. I’ve even seen bin numbers on some corks. There are no rules about this stuff. All the Frog’s Leap corks say is
ribbet
. Marceline does everything differently for the Grand Cru. The bottle has green foil instead of red, the label is different, of course, and the cork says Premier Grand Cru Reservée right on it along with the year. And they use slightly longer, higher-grade cork because the really expensive wines are built to last. This cork comes from a bottle of their very good but
not nearly so expensive regular release. You can tell because they didn’t print the year, and because it doesn’t say Premier Grand Cru Reservée, and it’s the wrong style of cork. I’ve probably opened a hundred bottles of this stuff and the cork has always been the same. Like this.”

“I don’t understand how that could be right,” said Sunny. “I made a point of looking at the label. It was definitely the Grand Cru, with the winemaker’s name on it and everything.”

“Do you remember what color the foil was?”

“I’m not sure. I didn’t pay much attention to the foil. Are you absolutely certain, Monty?”

“Completely. This is the wrong cork for that bottle of wine.”

“One of us has to be wrong. I saw the label.”

“Maybe you saw a forgery,” said Monty.

“A forgery?”

“Where did he get it?”

“I don’t know. He didn’t say.”

“Are you going to tell him?” Rivka asked Sunny.

“I don’t know. No, probably not. He was so excited about opening it.”

“Believe me, he’ll be plenty excited when he finds out he paid eight hundred dollars for a sixty-dollar bottle of wine,” said Monty. “He needs to go back to the place where he got it and get them to explain where that bottle came from.”

“Have you seriously heard of that?” said Sunny skeptically. “I mean, somebody getting hold of wine that isn’t authentic?”

“Absolutely, especially at the very high end. I don’t think it happens often, but it happens. That’s why the industry has traditions like special foil and labels and printed corks and stamped wax. Most people couldn’t tell the difference between a 2001 California Pinot and a 1972 Burgundy if all they had to go
on was the wine itself, and yet the price difference between those two bottles would be at least two hundred dollars, and sometimes hundreds or even thousands more. Authenticity becomes a matter of packaging, and in wine, the packaging amounts to a hunk of green glass, a square of paper, some cork, and a scrap of foil. Can you think of a commodity worth that kind of money that’s as easy to falsify? Every once in a while somebody gets caught doing it. The French are particularly bad on that score. It’s always some little old man from Marseilles who looks like he belongs on a bicycle with a baguette in the basket and a beret on his head who’s been selling bottles of seventy-year-old St.-Aubin that he happened to have whipped up in his basement about a week ago.”