“The Adams bottles,” he said, “they were a gift from Jefferson, right?”
“Fiction,” she scoffed. “That’s Arthur Remy’s story, but that’s all it is, a story.”
“I’m listening.”
“The so-called Jefferson bottles were discovered by Arthur Remy in nineteen eighty-five and were sold at auction for nearly two hundred thousand dollars, in part because the wine was judged to have survived the centuries… no easy feat. Remy claims the Adams bottles are also from Jefferson’s Parisian cellar, which is, like… totally far-fetched. And quite frankly brings into question the authenticity of the original find.”
She made eye contact. “They’re fakes, Sheriff. It’s a hoax. An elaborate and expensive hoax, but a hoax just the same.”
Walt heard the compressor of the kitchen refrigerator kick in. There was a TV or radio playing upstairs.
“I don’t imagine that’s a popular opinion,” he said.
“All I’m asking for is access to the bottles, and the test results. I want to know that I haven’t wasted nearly three years of my life. The point is that Arthur Remy is a liar and a cheat, and everyone is so carried away by the story he’s invented that they’ve blinded themselves to this hoax he’s perpetrated. He’s going to make off with a zillion dollars for some Rothschild bottled as something quite different.”
“You’ve requested access, I take it?”
“A dozen times. And isn’t it just a little bit curious that he won’t even so much as take my calls?”
“Calling something… someone… a fake is quite an accusation.”
“I understand that. Were the bottles vetted and tested? Of course they were. And by some of the best. But you want to take a guess at how many ‘experts’ ”-she drew air quotes-“there are out there who could authenticate a find like this? Very, very few. And, trust me, he got to them. I don’t know how, but that’s not my problem. One of those guys is dead, by the way… killed. That should interest a sheriff, right? Stabbed to death, in Amsterdam. Has any connection been made to Remy? No. Will it ever be made? No. But how convenient the man who signed off on the authenticity of the engraving-the glass and the method used to cut it-ends up stabbed to death in the doorway of a brothel. And guess what? He was gay. He didn’t even belong in a brothel.
“Don’t get me wrong,” she continued, “I suspect Remy’s Jefferson bottles are legitimate. But these Adams bottles? I’m sure the glass is from eighteenth-century France, the cork is Portuguese, the label is the right paper. I’m sure all the facts support Remy’s claims. The bottles wouldn’t be on the open market otherwise. But my work on Jefferson reveals no such bottles. Did you get that? The Adams bottles aren’t accounted for anywhere in Jefferson’s inventory. I think Remy saw a good thing and jumped on it, not fully realizing that Thomas Jefferson was a freak of nature who inventoried every bottle, cataloged every wine he served with every dinner. No one knows Jefferson’s wines the way I do. There are a total of three people in the world who’ve studied his collection the way I have and the other two did so before we had the science we have today-the spectrometers and electron microscopes, specifically. Arthur Remy is not one of those other two, I promise you.”
She was red in the face, the veins in her neck protruding.
“But you lack proof,” Walt said, “because you don’t have access.”
“There you have it.” Janet Finch drew in a deep breath. “The wine industry is based on relationships. Dealers, brokers, consumers, collectors, and connoisseurs. Those relationships are carefully protected. Scholars like me, we’re sought out when authentication is needed and we’re thrown to the wolves when we raise suspicions. Remy claims the Jefferson and Adams bottles were found in two different cellars in Paris. Okay, fine, I’d like to know which cellars. I know where Jefferson lived in Paris, I know where he cellared his collection. I know when and where he moved the collection. If these are, in fact, authentic-and I’m willing to go there if that’s how it proves out-then I need to include them in my thesis if it’s to be complete. I’ve worked forever on this, Sheriff. I’m not going to give up now.”
“The killing in Amsterdam…?” Walt said.
“Investigated and closed. A random act of violence.” Janet studied him. “You actually believe me?”
“If you’re right, you’d cost Remy a heck of a lot of money.”
“It’s his reputation he’s worried about, believe me, not the money. If I’m right, he’s ruined. And I am right.”
“Ms. Finch, I think you’d be well advised to seek other lodging.”
“No thanks. The price is right. L’Anne’s a friend from grade school.”
“When I approached your cabin just now, I scared off a prowler.”
“You what?”
“I pursued, but the individual fled and escaped.”
“There was some guy out there? Are you serious?”
“In light of what you’ve told me, I think it would be smarter if you stayed in the main house, or took a hotel room, or even left the valley.”
“Remy? Are you kidding?” She mulled this over. “Good God! You are totally freaking me out. It could have been someone fishing or just walking the river. Right?”
“Maybe,” Walt said, not sounding convinced. “But still, you might consider staying over with the Gilmans for a few nights.”
“I can’t do that. I gave Remy the phone number here at the cottage. He’ll either call or he won’t. And if not, I’m gone by Sunday morning.”
He didn’t like the idea of her staying here alone but was powerless to do anything about it. “The bottles would be heavily insured,” he said.
“Of course.”
“And if stolen”-En route to the wine auction, he thought but did not say-“the insurance would pay out, and the bottles, as well as any questions of their authenticity, would disappear.”
“I suppose. Why?”
“Call-forward that line and stay in the main house,” Walt said. “And I’m not asking.”
20
As Walt pulled up to the picket fence that fronted his house, a house he wasn’t sure he’d live in much longer, because of the divorce, he flashed the Cherokee’s brights, flooding the porch and signaling his guest.
Fiona Kenshaw waved at him from the Smith & Hawken bench by the front door. He’d given Gail the bench on their tenth anniversary. He wasn’t sure anyone had ever sat in it before. It was more a monument to his picking the wrong gift. Gail had gushed over it, unwrapped it on the porch, and had left it there, never to look at it again.
“Hey there,” he said, climbing the steps.
“Hey there yourself,” she said playfully, in a voice he didn’t recognize.
She looked beautiful despite the glow of the yellow bug light overhead. He tried to think of her only as a professional-a part-time crime-scene photographer, an associate-but failed miserably.
Seeing her with Hillabrand had caused him a moment of unease. He hadn’t processed it at the time but recalled it now, feeling squeamish. There had been a time, not long ago, when he’d have felt awkward having a woman other than his wife on his front porch. But it was just the opposite: he wanted to wake up the nosey Mrs. Mer imer, and all his neighbors, and show them he’d picked himself up. Like Gail, he too could move on.
“This is a surprise,” Walt said.
Fiona patted the bench beside her.
“Would you like to come in?” he asked. He pulled open the screen door and held it with his foot.
“No. It’s a gorgeous night.” She patted the bench again.
Walt sat down beside her. She smelled like lilacs, or maybe the bench was scratch-and-sniff.
Her hands-they were rough from all her hours in rivers as a fishing guide-twisted in her lap. He’d never known Fiona to be the nervous type. Single-minded, independent, socially cautious, to be sure. But agitated and uncomfortable?