Dead in the Dregs_ A Babe Stern Mystery - By Peter Lewis Page 0,33

the image collapsed as I neared the table. He was now huge, his shirt straining across his gut and his jacket tight on his swollen limbs.

“Babe, how nice to see you” he said with exaggerated warmth, looking me up and down, visibly disappointed. Time had worked its sorry magic on us both.

“Nice to see you again, too, Mr. Meyer.”

“Let’s pick something to drink, shall we?” he said hurriedly, hiding behind Bouchon’s oversize carte des vins with relief. “Any suggestions?” he queried. How would I know? I couldn’t see a thing. “So,” he said, settling back and rather too obviously feeling the lurid pleasure of the topic at hand. “The estimable Richard Wilson crushed and fermented. That must have been some barrel!”

“An oak foudre,” I said. He’d obviously already made inquiries and knew at least a few of the details of Wilson’s murder.

“Excuse me!” Meyer called out to a passing waiter. “Get us the grand plateau de fruits de mer! And an order of the caviar. You do like caviar, don’t you? Oh,” he looked up at the waiter he had waylaid, “and a large bottle of Vittel and a bubbly Badoit. I never know what I’m going to want, flat or sparkling, so we’ll have them both. And find the wine steward, pronto. We want to order some wine.” As soon as the waiter was certain Meyer had finished with him, he evaporated.

My companion turned back to me.

“The curious thing about our dear and departed Mr. Wilson is that he thought of himself as the great crusader, the champion of the consumer. Yet, by setting himself up as an arbiter of fine wine, he opened the Pandora’s box of wine scores. Now people cower in fear at ordering any bottle with less than ninety points. I think it’s safe to say that Richard Wilson might be held personally responsible for inflating the market value of wine by at least four hundred percent in the past decade, don’t you?”

His look was challenging, and he expected an answer.

“Your magazine followed suit, didn’t it? You use the hundred-point system.”

“What is one to do? You have to keep up with the Joneses,” he said.

“I can’t say I follow it all that closely anymore. I used to. Back when I first met you.”

“Yes, when was that? I’m sorry I couldn’t place you immediately, but then, I meet so many people.”

“Seattle. At Diva.”

“Ah, yes, of course, of course.” It was obvious he had no recollection of it at all. He sent his eyes to the menu. “So, what do you think? I’m contemplating the gigot. Have the steak frites, and we’ll order a nice bottle of red.”

“I was thinking about the roast chicken. You know what Julia says.”

“Seems a bit pedestrian, but have it your way. And I think we should have a little intermezzo. The salmon rillettes, perhaps. But you’re from salmon country, so that would be silly, wouldn’t it?”

“I left Seattle a while ago. I’m living here now.”

A pert brunette approached the table, radiant in her crisp white apron and black vest.

“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