“Ah, our sommelier! Or should I say
sommelieuse
?” he offered coyly.
“Good evening, Mr. Meyer. What shall it be this evening?”
“Let’s start with the Nuits-Saint-Georges
blanc
from Gouges. Fascinating wine,” he said, turning to me. “A mutant strain of Pinot Noir that flowered and fruited as white wine. Quite exotic. And slip in a couple flutes of Clicquot for the caviar. That’s a good girl.” He lowered his voice as she left the table to locate the bottle. “Women sommeliers, all the rage right now,” and raised his eyebrows in disapproval. “
Garçon
!” he bellowed, expecting the waiter to materialize at his beck and call. Which he did. There, just like that. “
Eh bien
, we’ll have a fish course of the
rillettes de saumon.
And then I will have the
gigot d’agneau
, and my colleague, Mr. Stern, will try your
poulet rôti.
And find the mistress of wine again, would you? We need to have a little chat about Burgundy. Save room for cheese,” he admonished me, leaving the waiter hanging. “Where were we?”
We were nowhere, as far as I could tell.
“Tell me about the crime! Describe it like you would a fine wine: bouquet, color, texture. First impressions, midpalate, finish.” He rubbed his hands together and leaned into the table as the Champagne appeared as if by magic.
I told him as little as I could, just enough of the crime scene to whet his appetite, the forlorn figure of Francisco Fornes, the motives of Matson and Feldman. I was interrupted midtale by the wine ritual and the serving of the first course. He smeared crème fraîche on a slice of brioche and spooned half the caviar in a single heap, stuffing the whole thing into his mouth. I slurped a dollop and was reminded of how long it had been since I had tasted a woman. He ate greedily, wiping a few errant fish eggs from his moustache with his thumb. Then he started in on the oysters. Even so, I couldn’t tell which he was devouring more avidly, the story or the food. One frenzy seemed to feed the other.
“Well, we’ll get to Feldman. That’s a story worth savoring!” Spoken like a tried and tested gourmand, saving the best for last. “You know, Matson’s not the only poor soul Wilson pilloried,” he continued. “There are others. Indeed, there are.”
The waiter cleared the caviar and repositioned the enormous platter of shellfish.
“Slip in a little foie gras before the
rillettes.
Don’t you think?”
he asked me. “You’ll take some foie gras, won’t you? Of course you will. And have our young lady bring us a glass of Sauternes, something simple. We’ll save the last of the Gouges for the salmon.” He stopped momentarily, to catch his breath. “Did you see his reviews of Tucker? Scalding! ‘Thin, dry, putrid, amateur.’ I’ve never read such vitriol. And then there was his treatment of Clos de Carneros! Unimaginable! The lowest scores I’ve ever seen awarded to a winery in successive vintages. I don’t think either ever recovered.”
As he replayed the reviews, his pleasure at seeing a winery taken out at the knees was palpable. The foie gras arrived, and, slathering a chunk on a wedge of toast, Meyer seemed to inhale it in one gulp. Then he dispatched the salmon
rillettes
, mopping it up with bread and then, when the basket was empty, with his finger, every act of ingestion infused with his innate lasciviousness.
At last he came up for air to order the red wine. The steward stood patiently at the table’s edge as if she had all the time in the world. I felt for her and looked around the dining room. I wanted her to know that I was on her side.
“I’m thinking the Nuits from Arlot. What do you think?” Meyer asked distractedly.
“It’s beautiful,” she said approvingly. “Gorgeous, supple fruit. Elegant but nicely structured, very complex.”
“What else?” he said, scanning down the list. “We could go California. We’re here, after all. Sonoma Coast is hot. The Flowers, maybe,” he proposed, waiting to see if she would endorse his selection.
“You could do that. It’s a wonderful wine,” the sommelier concurred, glancing across the dining room at a man I’d noticed trying to catch her attention, her tone salted with impatience, hoping Meyer would just pick something. I knew the game and felt sorry for her.
“No!” Meyer exclaimed. “Let’s stick with France. Two Nuits. That’s more intriguing.”
He handed her back the list with finality, lapsing into a momentary and uncharacteristic silence. She fled and, after dealing with the guest across the room, returned with the bottle and two enormous goblets. She presented it to Meyer.
“Excellent!” he bellowed. “You’re in for a treat, my boy.”
She carved the lead, expertly pulled the cork, and sniffed it. She poured a splash in Meyer’s balloon and stood at attention.
“Ah!” he moaned, rolling his eyes. “Blood of the gods!”
“Would you like me to decant it?” she asked.
“Oh, let’s dispense with formalities. We’re professionals, after all.”
She carefully poured a few ounces in our glasses, set the bottle on a silver coaster, readjusted our stemware—we each had four wineglasses in front of us, cluttering the table—and disappeared.
We twirled and sniffed and sipped.
“Delicious,” I said. It had been a while since I had tasted this caliber of French juice. The scent of violets rose to my nostrils. The flavors unfurled on my tongue. All the pretentious vocabulary came flooding back and suddenly seemed perfectly appropriate: sweetly roasted game laced with black cherries and chocolate.
“So, what do you know of the desiccated Mr. Feldman?” he probed.
I shared my dossier, which wasn’t much. I told him about the wife’s affair with Wilson—of which Meyer, of course, was already aware—and recounted the story of Wilson’s and Feldman’s tasting in France, which he told back to me in an even nastier version.
“He’s a dry one, Feldman. A great intellect, certainly. Possesses a rare palate. But my God, what a lifeless fellow! As shriveled as a raisin. Where’s the
joie de vivre
? I don’t think the man likes food! I mean it. I’ve been at table with him. Don’t tell my bosses,” Meyer said, dropping his voice. “We’re not supposed to fraternize with the enemy. He picks at his plate like an anorexic girl. For me, half the pleasure of wine is having it with fine cuisine. Wine and food. Of course, that’s why I do what I do. Why drink the stuff if you can’t enjoy it with a superlative meal? What’s the point? To taste it and score it and think about it? Wine is a passion of the body as well as the mind. The pleasure is physical. Sensual.”
I could feel his excitement mounting as he spoke. The entire ritual surrounding the wine seemed a kind of foreplay. But, obnoxious as he was, you had to admire his fervor, even if gluttony characterized everything he fixed upon.
“Do you think he hated Wilson enough to have killed him? Would he have the stomach for that?” I asked.
“Well, he’s always seemed utterly spineless to me. But you have to admit, to lose your wife, your job. And you know these murderers. Have you ever noticed that the most notorious ones are these quiet, mousy little characters always lurking in the shadows? No one suspects anything, and then . . .
poof
! Somebody’s dead. But if I were you,” he said and dropped his voice to a whisper, leaning over the table, “I’d look at Tucker and Carneros. The winemaker at Tucker lost his job after Wilson reviewed them, then proceeded to Clos de Carneros, and
boom
, same thing.” He glanced furtively around the room. “You know, Wilson got a death threat once. Right here, while he was in Napa. Fled in horror, but then, who wouldn’t?”
“And you suspect that winemaker who went from Tucker to Carneros?” I asked.
“I have no idea,” he said, his nose disappearing into the wineglass. “What
was
his name?”
“Teukes,” I said.
“That’s it! So, you know about it? Quite a giant of a fellow, with a firebrand’s disposition. Benjamin Teukes. Got thrown out of Berkeley in the early seventies. The man has a huge ego and an indubitably shady past. Wholly unpredictable, in my opinion.”
Just as I suspected, Meyer knew everything. He had it all—a pig with his nose in the dirt, rooting around for truffles.
“You know that Wilson’s mother died recently?” he said.
I shook my head. I thought I’d hear Meyer’s version.
“Robert Wilson, Richard’s father, is reportedly hugely wealthy. But I understand he’s quite ill. Probably not very much time left. The estate must be worth a fortune. Your employer . . .” He paused, his eyes teasing, provocative, the hint of a smile creeping over his lips. “I don’t mean to suggest,” he stuttered.
Sure you do
, I thought.
“But families are, as we know, extremely tricky. Ah!” he exclaimed as the entrées arrived. “How marvelous!”
Conversation ground to a halt as Meyer devoured his lamb. Now his comments were reduced to a series of grunts and wheezing sighs of satisfaction. I remained firm in my conviction that Julia Child
was right: Roast chicken is the test of a kitchen, and Bouchon’s passed with flying colors.
When the table had been cleared, he opened another avenue. “I’m sure you know that Wilson infuriated our French friends a few years ago when he insinuated that they were showing him wine that never made it to the bottle. Mind you, they’ve never hesitated to fiddle with their wine when it suited the tune
du jour.
They chaptalize, they blend, fudge their appellations, water down with lesser stuff. But this was something of an entirely different order. He basically accused them—well, one
négociant
in particular—of arranging scores for the tastings and then bottling and selling a completely different wine for export.
Un vrai scandale
!”
“There’s a young Frenchman working at Norton.” I was hoping that Meyer might, finally, know something I didn’t.
“Really?” He looked interested. “What’s his name?”
“Pitot, Jean Pitot.”
He shook his head. “Never heard of him. I doubt there’s any connection. The French are sending their sons over all the time. Teach them the ways of the world, international-style, that sort of thing.” He paused. “Have you met him?”
“Yes.”
“Well, you might want to find out who his relations are.”
After the waiter had cleared the table, Meyer ordered a sampler of cheese. There was just enough wine left in the bottle to pour us each a sip. Meyer made certain that I got the sediment.
“This is all very interesting, Babe. But if I were you, I would look more closely at the sister—no offense, but she did jump on this with suspicious avidity—and Teukes. There’s a bona fide vendetta lurking somewhere in his oversize brainpan.”
He lapsed into silence as he examined the plate of cheese, then said, “How about a Cognac? A glass of port?”
“I don’t think I can.” I was stuffed.
“Are you sure?
Wine Watcher’s World
is paying.”
“I can’t. But thank you.”
“All for the best, I’m sure. I have to get back to the city myself. The dreaded deadline.”
We seemed to have exhausted the subject, and I watched as Meyer polished off the cheese plate one hunk at a time.
After he’d signed the bill, Meyer pushed the table out with dramatic finality, momentarily blocking the aisle. Then, as we made our way to the front of the restaurant, he received the bows, curtsies, and gestures of homage offered by everyone from the busboys to the hostess as if he were a prince.
Standing on the patio in front of the restaurant, Meyer gazed at the sky, a beatific smile spreading across his countenance.
“I will follow your progress with great curiosity,” he said, fumbling for a business card from an elegant leather case. “I wish I could write about it myself, but Wilson and
WWW . . .
well, you understand. For our purposes, he mustn’t exist. And now he doesn’t.” Laughing at his bon mot, he snapped his fingers like a magician.
13
Fog had seeped
into the valley during dinner, and a light mist slickened the road. I took the Yountville Cross to the east side. The Silverado Trail glistened in the moonlight, wending its way north like a luminous ribbon. I was lit myself, the glasses of Champagne and Sauternes and two bottles of wine dulling my senses. The truck’s headlights bounced off swaths of fog drifting across the road, and the regular click and swish of the windshield wipers lulled me into a trance as I took the curves up the mountain.
I turned onto the dirt road leading to the trailer. My eyelids fluttered heavily. All I wanted to do was sleep. And then my world exploded. The rear window of the cab shattered, the noise deafening in the confined space, and shards of glass showered across my neck and head. I slammed on the brakes, my heart pounding, pumping through my chest. I frantically searched the rearview mirror. Nothing. No light, no movement. I scrambled out of the truck and scanned the darkness. It was impossible to see anything through the fog. I shook bits of glass out of my hair and off my jacket, and peered through the open door on the driver’s side, and then I saw it, incongruous and impossible: an arrow sticking out of the dashboard.
For a few moments, I was afraid to get back in the truck and
just stood there, frozen with fear. Then I wiped the glass off the seat. I told myself to calm down, but all I could hear was my pulse throbbing in my head. I took a couple of deep breaths and gradually regained my composure, wondering what might happen next. Slowly, I pulled back onto the road, and the headlights picked out the gleaming shape of the Airstream. As I cut the engine, I thought I could make out the faint sound of a motorcycle through the shattered window disintegrating into silence but told myself I was hearing things, that it was only the rush of wind through the trees that swayed and shook against the moonlit sky.
The trailer squatted in a pocket of dead air beneath the towering pines. I staggered up the steps. I didn’t see its rear window until I stepped inside. Glass lay splintered across the dining table and on the benches to either side.