I turned on the fans as soon as Pépé and I entered the barrel room. Already the primary fermentation, begun at harvest, was showing signs of slowing down. The cauldron-like bubbling and foaming had diminished to a simmer.
I got out the thief and two wineglasses. Pépé opened the bunghole of one of the barrels while I placed the glass thief—which resembled a chubby open-ended thermometer with a handle—inside and sucked a small amount of last year’s Cabernet Sauvignon into the chamber. Pépé reclosed the cask immediately to keep out fruit flies as I released wine into our glasses.
My grandfather swirled the contents of his wineglass, then put his nose in and sniffed deeply. I watched as he let the wine roll around in his mouth. The Cab still had one more year to mature in its barrel before we bottled it, but nevertheless we both would have a good idea of the wine it would become. I tried not to think of Pépé among his colleagues in the Chevaliers du Tastevin, tasting and evaluating some of the world’s fabulous wines as I waited for his verdict on my one-year-old Virginia Cabernet.
Finally he said, “Good nose. Nice structure. The finish is developing nicely. You make good wine, Lucie.”
“Do you mean it?”
“Would I lie to you?” he said. “Now let’s see that famous bottle.”
I brought out the Margaux and set it down in front of him at the winemaker’s table. He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out his reading glasses.
“Formidable,” he said. “Un vrai Margaux. I have never seen one of this age but I have seen others that were well along in their years.”
“Do you think there’s anything wrong with it?”
“Wrong—how?”
“I don’t know. Valerie Beauvais learned something about this bottle when she was in Bordeaux. I have no idea what it was.”
He examined the lettering, touching a finger to the date—1790. “Perhaps, even though the wine is old, it is not from that year. Maybe the lettering was etched later.”
“Then how can we tell how old the wine is?”
“You would need to open the bottle and test it. Carbon-dating. The process is expensive. You would need a special laboratory.”
“I wonder if Valerie saw another bottle just like it in France?”
“Or a similar one.”
“That could explain why Jack wants it back. To keep it from further scrutiny,” I said, “because he knows what she saw.”
“You realize it would still be difficult to ascertain the precise year, even with carbon-dating,” he said. “The most you can prove is that the wine was not made in the late twentieth century. If it were, the amount of Carbon 14 would be higher due to the nuclear atmospheric tests of the 1950s and 1960s.” He shrugged. “Otherwise all you know for sure is that it dates from sometime between the late 1600s and the mid-1900s.”
“Three hundred years! That’s no help.”
“Unfortunately, no.”
“Would you kill to keep information like that a secret?”
Pépé looked startled. “Mon Dieu, of course not. Besides, anyone could be fooled. There have been many scandals involving fake Bordeaux over the years because the wines are so sought after.”
“I have to return this bottle tonight. Along with a bottle of Château Dorgon. Why don’t you come with me? I can introduce you to Jack.”
“I’m sorry, ma belle, but I have a dinner engagement. Perhaps I could meet him another time.” He polished his glasses on the sleeve of his jacket. “You have a bottle of Château Dorgon? May I see it?”
“Of course.”
I got the Dorgon. Pépé put on his glasses again and examined the bottle.
“I haven’t seen one of these for many years. The château stopped making wine after the war. Why are you returning it?”
“Jack drank another bottle recently and said it had turned.”
“Quel dommage.”
“I know,” I said. “A real pity.”
We drove back to the house with Jack’s wine bottles, which I had repacked in the original shipping cartons from Jeroboam’s. Pépé went upstairs to change.
While I waited for him, I called Amanda to see if she’d had any luck persuading Sunny to talk to Jack.
“She’s on our side,” Amanda said. “She thinks Jack made a big P.R. faux pas donating it, then asking for it back. But she won’t talk to him.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know. She just clammed up and said, ‘You deal with him.’ So I did.”
“What did he say?”
“Well, I talked to him, but he finally hung up on me.”
“I guess that means I’m driving over there and returning it.”
“We’re in a hell of a mess.”
“Why don’t you call Ryan,” I said, “and tell him what happened. He’ll get the word around that the wine will no longer be at the auction and we’ll just deal with the consequences.”
“Before I do I’m going to pour myself a very tall glass of Johnnie Walker Blue,” she said, “and spend the evening trying to figure out why Jack Greenfield is being such a son of a bitch.”
“Enjoy yourself.”
“Only if you promise that when you see him you’ll kick him in the shins for me.”
I hung up as Pépé came down the stairs, dapper in a charcoal suit with a red and gold paisley tie and matching pocket handkerchief.
After he left, I drove over to Jack’s. I was not looking forward to this errand.
Sunny met me at the front door, cocktail glass in hand, a pleasant but questioning smile on her face. “Lucie, what a surprise. What can I do for you?”
“I should have called,” I said. “But Jack did say tonight.”
She glanced at the carrier in my hand. “Did we invite you to dinner?”
She looked serene and elegant in a long Indian-print caftan. Her shoulder length hair, which she usually wore pulled back or in a French twist, hung loose around her face, making her look younger than a woman in her mid-fifties.
“Your husband asked me to come by tonight and return these. The auction bottles. Is this a bad time?”
She waved me in with her glass. “No, no, it’s not. And I’m sorry about the misunderstanding over these wines. I’m having a vodka tonic. Jack’s still at the store going over something with Shane. Join me?”
“Thanks, but I can’t stay.” Misunderstanding?
The Greenfields lived in a converted stable that had once been part of a larger estate. When the original owners fell on hard times in the late nineteenth century, they divided the land and sold it in three parcels. Jack’s and Sunny’s property came with several outbuildings from the larger place, including a small one-story tenant cottage they’d converted into Jack’s wine cellar.
“At least come in for a minute,” she said. “For your trouble.”
I relented and stepped inside.
A plain glass vase filled with dusky orange hypericum berries, coral Gerber daisies, and dark peach sweetheart roses sat on a table in the foyer.
“You probably want to get this over to your wine cellar right away.” I set the carrier on the floor next to the table. “Unless you want me to do it?”
“We’ve got a small temperature-controlled cellar downstairs.” She smiled at my surprised expression. “Yes, I know. Two cellars. A real extravagance. I’ll put these bottles there myself. Thanks for offering.”
“No problem.” I gestured to the floral arrangement. “Your flowers are lovely. Did you do that?”
“Yes, for Jack. He gets such pleasure from the simplest things. I never fuss with making big professional-looking arrangements. My clients’ homes may end up in Architectural Digest but Jack likes his own home to be gemütlich. Good old down-home German charm.”