Sin And Vengeance Page 7

  A heavy knock sounded at the door. It was time Henri’s father hobbled over to see why his son hadn’t visited. She was surprised he hadn’t called. Now she’d have to tell him face to face that his son was gone. He’d blame her instinctively and he’d be right. The cows mooed irritably in the barn and she realized they hadn’t had food or water and it was almost noon. She needed help to care for the animals, but if she asked too soon, it would look suspicious. Hopefully, Henri’s father would suggest it himself.

  The knock sounded again.

  She pulled her sleeves down tight and paused in front of the mirror on her way to the door. Stuffed into her twenty-year-old Orangemen sweat suit, she had the tussled, insomniac look of a woman with a guilty conscience. She might also look like a faithful wife, scared for her missing husband. She hoped for the second impression and swung the door open still pulling at her hair.

  The man outside was a blue-uniformed stranger somewhere between the ages of Henri and his father. He wore oval-shaped glasses with thin brown rims, a dark mustache, and a half-bald head. His presence at the door was a complete surprise and this showed clearly on Deirdre.

  “Bonjour. Etes-vous Mademoiselle Deudon?”

  “Oui. Parlez-vous l'anglais?”

  “I do. May I come in?” The man’s English was excellent.

  “It’s not a good time.” Deirdre half-closed the door to block his advance.

  Lieutenant Laroche extended a hand with a white business card. “I know. I’ve come to speak with you regarding your husband.”

  She looked down at the card before letting him in. He hadn’t asked if Henri was home, so either he had come to follow up on her call, or he had already found his body in the burned-out rubble. Laroche’s efficiency was a little unnerving, but the young guy had said the car would be easy enough to trace back to her.

  “Have you found him?” she asked, feigning a balance of hope and skepticism.

  Lieutenant Laroche didn’t answer. Instead, he walked over to the chair surrounded by crumpled white tissues and the quilt Deirdre had dropped on the floor. He motioned for her to sit. When she did, he offered to retrieve a glass of water. She refused and he sat wordlessly watching her.

  Deirdre filled the silence with a nervous banter. “Henri’s never been away this long. We never leave the farm overnight because of the animals. I thought he’d found another woman and run away from me.” She stared into Laroche’s face. His tight lips formed the beginnings of a frown. “That’s not why you’re here, is it?”

  The tears welled up in her eyes and she dabbed them away.

  “I’m afraid Henri has had a terrible accident.”

  The word was a relief. He didn’t say Henri was murdered. He said it was an accident. “Where is he? Can you take me to him?” Deirdre tried to look hopeful, as if he might still be alive.

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Deudon. Henri died this morning in a fire.”

  Deirdre clamped her eyes shut. She didn’t have to force the tears, they came on their own.

  Laroche waited thirty seconds before speaking. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Deudon.”

  He watched silently as she cried with her face burrowed into her palms, careful not to extend her arms and reveal her wrists. She cried, wondering how a woman would react to the news, remembering how she had screamed the night before. She wanted to wail out loud, but couldn’t summon the voice.

  “What happened?” she asked after she’d dampened a third tissue.

  “There was a fire. It appears he was caught sleeping.”

  Laroche’s mistake caught her off guard. “Sleeping? Where?” she asked. The surprise in her voice was convincing even to her.

  “In an old house on Rue de Beauchene. Fifteen kilometers north.”

  Deirdre offered a puzzled look. “Are you sure it was Henri?”

  “Quite sure, I’m afraid. After we received your call, I visited Dr. Harris and retrieved Henri’s dental records. Dr. Harris was certain that we found Henri.”

  Deirdre nodded. She wanted to thank him, but couldn’t bring herself to. She thought a moment and asked why he was there.

  “I was hoping you could help me with that,” Laroche said.

  “He doesn’t go out often. Almost never.”

  “Did he have bills he couldn’t explain? Was money appearing or disappearing?”

  “Henri wouldn’t do something illegal, if that’s what you’re implying.”

  “I know it’s a big shock.” Laroche removed a Polariod of the burned building and handed it to Deirdre. She recoiled at the sight of the devastation. The garage and barn were intact, but there was little left of the house. She froze, panicked that Laroche might see her familiarity with the setting.

  “Do you recognize this house?”

  “No… It looks like a bomb went off. Was he in there?” She pointed to the blackened remains in the picture.

  “Unfortunately, he was.” Laroche looked suspicious.

  “Oh, God!” She covered her mouth and stared at the photo.

  Larchoche grimaced politely and waited a respectful period before continuing. “Can you think of anything odd in your husband’s behavior lately? Was he drinking, depressed, out late, that sort of thing?”

  “No. Nothing. Henri loved this farm. It was everything to him.”

  “What about you?” Laroche asked.

  Deirdre’s face reddened, shocked that Laroche could ask such a question. “He loved me, too, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  “I’m sure he did. I’m not trying to imply anything, Mrs. Deudon. I’m just trying to understand how things were for him leading up to last night.”

  “Things were fine. I thought you said the fire was an accident.” Deirdre wondered if they’d left something behind.

  “We’re still investigating the cause, but I must tell you there are signs that something was going on at that farm. I intend to find out what it was and who was involved.”

  Laroche’s insistent questioning so soon after informing her of Henri’s death seemed completely ill-mannered. She wondered what he’d found in the rubble; a tube of lipstick, or something with her name on it perhaps. She could feel Henri’s outrage from above at the indictments of his character and she vowed not to disappoint him again.

  “You mean signs Henri was doing something illegal?” she asked.

  “Possibly.”

  “Nonsense. Henri never broke the law. Besides, he barely left the farm.”

  “His death was very odd for a man who never left the farm. Wouldn’t you agree, Mrs. Deudon?”

  “That doesn’t make him a criminal.”

  “We haven’t ruled anything out, including suicide.”

  “How dare you?” Deirdre felt the hair on her neck stand up.

  Laroche’s face reddened, but he wasn’t dissuaded. “Was anything troubling him? Was he acting normally this past month?”

  Deirdre considered giving him the answer he wanted. She could end the investigation right here, but the murmurs of suicide would linger in these hills for decades. Henri would not approve.

  “Mrs. Deudon. Is there something you’re not telling me?”

  “It was a very private matter.”

  “Understood. Anything you say will be kept in strictest confidence.”

  “We couldn’t have children—I couldn’t have children,” she corrected. “We talked about adoption, but Henri wouldn’t have it. It’s been two years since we stopped trying, so I couldn’t imagine it was still bothering him.”

  Laroche made a note in a small pad he’d been carrying.

  “Was your husband a pilot, Mrs. Deudon?”

  The surprise on Deirdre’s face erased the question from Laroche’s mind. He rose quickly without waiting for an answer. “I’ve taken too much of your time. If you think of anything odd that happened in the last few months, please call me. And please accept my condolences.”

  Chapter Nine

  The setting sun cast long shadows on rows of budding vines that stretched
nearly a mile from the chateau. Inside the master sitting room, the laptop fan hummed as if vacuuming the sales reports down the phone line bit by bit. Charles waited with a glass of burgundy swirling in his hand, the freshly opened bottle on the antique table. Beside the bottle lay a stack of bills that far exceeded the winery’s pitiful revenue. It wasn’t new ground for Charles nor was it unexpected. He’d saved enough on the purchase of the chateau to finance losses for the next four years. By then, the problems that drove the Poriers out of business would be long forgotten.

  The sales file finally downloaded. Charles clicked it open and savored a long pull from his glass. His eyes drifted through sales and expense numbers for his six wineries in the United States. Each of them had been like this one once. Over time they’d matured and now the numbers showed enough free cash to carry this operation until it recovered. Encouraged, he pulled the top envelope from the stack and tore it open.

  Elizabeth’s bare feet pattered across the wooden floor of the sitting room to the work area Charles had arranged in front of the center window. He turned in time to catch her smile at the financial report on the screen.

  “The Connecticut numbers look good. How about here?” she asked.

  “In a word: atrocious. Sales are a joke since the panel’s ruling and costs are way out of line. But we’ll turn it around. We always do.”

  “What about moving Charlie’s sparkling to Westport?”

  “No chance. Charlie’s just itching for a change of scenery, that’s all.”

  “Nice to have him working with us though, isn’t it?”

  “You’ve got to stop babying him, Elizabeth. He’s a grown man. It’s time he stopped playing with that wretched vagabond and got to work.”

  “Isn’t that what he’s trying to do?”

  “It seems to me he’s just running away again.”

  “Why are you so against this?”

  “Haven’t you been watching him? Bad enough he stands to inherit a fortune with no inclination how to manage it. I’m not running my company to suit Charlie’s whims. If he wants a place here before I’m gone, he’s going to earn it. Who knows what he’ll do in Westport without me around to keep him in check.”

  Elizabeth stepped away, disappointed. “He was always responsible until… I think you should give his idea some thought, that’s all.”

  “I have.” Charles drafted a check for the most recent load of fertilizer.

  Elizabeth disappeared into the master bath.

  The next envelope had no corporate logo and the handwritten address suggested it was a personal letter and not a bill. The page inside was mostly blank except for one typewritten paragraph in the middle. Charles read the words three times before he put it down.

  What an empire you’re building, Charles! Six investments—Six failed wineries—Six cheap acquisitions. A terribly fortunate cycle! Terrible for your partners and fortunate for you.

  What’s your secret? Fate? Instinct? Luck? You aren’t lucky, are you, Charles? I know what you’ve done. I know how many lives you’ve destroyed.

  What will your family think when they learn the truth?

  The note asked for nothing, but the demands would come. Charles turned over the envelope and studied the handwriting. The letters were poorly formed, but the return address was discernible: Hixbridge Road, Westport, MA. The blackmailer had used the address of the first winery Charles had acquired. He was showing off, proving he knew the history. He knew about all six acquisitions and he knew what Charles was doing now. He’d be somewhere nearby keeping watch. The Westport address was the last place he was likely to be.

  Charles sat remembering the two seasons he worked with the Joyets.

  Robert Joyet was a kind man with a gift for wooing customers. Unfortunately for him, he lacked the survival instincts of a good businessman. Charles joined the Joyets as an advisor to bring financial discipline to their firm, but in the first year of their partnership, several batches of wine oxidized and the finances were thrown into a shambles. If not for Charles’ prompt investment, the Joyets would have been bankrupt. The next year, propylene glycol was discovered in the wine. Competitors openly bashed the brand, wine magazines shunned their ads, and distributors refused to carry their wines. The money dried up and when the bank refused to issue another loan, Robert Joyet fell apart.

  Work at the winery stopped. After three months of heavy drinking, Robert crashed his car, killing himself and his young wife, orphaning their only son. Soon after, Charles bought the winery from the estate at a deep discount. He remembered the teenage boy defying his lawyer and cursing him at the closing. Charles felt the boy’s rage gnawing at him again. He would have attacked Charles that day had the table and the lawyers not been between them. He’d lost everything, his parents, his home, his future, and was uprooted to live with an aunt he’d never met.

  The winery was worth far more than Charles paid, but the money would have supported the boy indefinitely if he was careful.

  Charles stared blankly at the envelope, reliving the two seasons that had changed his life until Elizabeth called him to bed for the third time. He locked the letter away and rested his head on the pillow, but his eyes followed the swirling little half-circles in the plaster. He repeated each line of the note to himself, wondering about its author. The blackmailer knew about the winery in Westport and that Charles was here in Piolenc. It didn’t seem possible he could know everything that happened, but he knew enough. The demands for money would come and Charles would have to pay. He’d been more careful this time than ever. He was sure no one had seen what he’d done. He wondered if one of the panel members had talked.

  For the next five hours, Charles turned the note over in his mind, never taking his eyes off the swirls in the plaster.

  …

  The next morning, Charlie took his regular seat at the breakfast table while Randy walked around the far side. Charles was unshaven for the first time in months, his swollen eyes intent on his reading. He shielded himself from the new arrivals with his paper.

  Randy sidled up and peeked over the newsprint. “What the Hell happened to you, Chuck? You look like you went out boozing. You should’ve called me.”

  Charles lowered his paper and looked up at Randy. “I can’t look any worse than you—you damned loony.”

  “Chuck, Chuck, please. I have a look.” Randy made a grand gesture from his long wavy hair down to his black boots. “What you have is just a pitiful disregard for good grooming. Lose your razor? You hit the vino, didn’t you? Come on Chuck, you can tell me.”

  Stout whiskers bristled behind the newspaper.

  Randy settled behind his empty plate like a preacher taking to his pulpit. “Those who sleep, sleep in the night and those who are drunken are drunken in the night. Surely you’ve heard that, Chuck. What kind of foster patriarch are you?”

  Randy had studied every biblical reference to alcohol and enjoyed mangling them to suit his interest. The quote’s reasoning was lost on Charles.

  Rosalie interrupted the sermon with homemade banana bread followed by a bowl of dry scrambled eggs and a plate piled with toast.

  Charlie waited for the sting of Randy’s comments to fade, chewing his eggs, watching patiently. “Did you reconsider moving the sparkling to Westport?”

  Charles folded his paper so he could see Charlie, but not the vandal. His face was pale and enfeebled. Red blood vessels showed through his reading glasses. Charlie expected a snarl, so the receptive look he got was totally unexpected.

  “Your mother doesn’t see any reason for you to come back here every time you want to check this one batch.”

  Charlie saw his mother perk up. She seemed surprised, but did not say anything. He heard Charles Sr.’s words, but couldn’t believe them either. “So you’re ok with me going back?”

  “Well, I’m not excited about it, but Andre has more than enough help here. Sebastian is really short-staffed, so I’m willing to send you, on one condition. I want you to commit, re
ally commit, to helping Sebastian.”

  “What about the wine?”

  “It’ll go right away. I’ll order the container you need.”

  Charlie timidly raised two fingers. Six thousand gallons would fill two containers and thirty thousand bottles after landing in Westport.

  “Fine. I’ll call this morning. Do you want flexitanks?”

  “I don’t want to risk oxidization. I’ll use barrels. We can protect the wine better that way.” Charlie remembered well his father’s stories about secondary fermentation in years past, but that wasn’t why he chose barrels.

  “Get your barrels ready. The containers’ll be here Monday.”

  “Right away. You won’t regret this.”

  “Make sure I don’t.”

  Mrs. Marston nodded approvingly at her men.

  Charles focused on his newspaper, weary, too tired to do much else. For once, Randy kept quiet and didn’t upset the agreement that had won them their release. Charlie ate quietly, burying his exuberance beneath cautious manners.

  Randy dabbed his stubble with a napkin, snickered at Charles, and stood up. “Thank you again for your hospitality Mrs. M. Breakfast was delightful and you look ravishing as ever.”

  “Please,” she said, embarrassed, yet glowing, and uncharacteristically at a loss.

  Charles waited until he heard the front door close. “Once you land in Providence, nix the bum. Understand? That guy is bad news.”

  “He just talks crazy. He’s harmless.”

  “Harmless? Every damn second he is looking for trouble. I bet he hasn’t worked a day in his life.”