meet at Domaine Collet-Favreau the next morning and to have lunch with Goldoni later on the Place Carnot.
As I drove back to Aloxe-Corton, I played back everything I’d witnessed. I hadn’t learned much. Rosen wasn’t tough to read. He was patently happy to play the concerned mentor to a beautiful young French girl, clearly relished being a cosseted regular at Gérard’s restaurant, and enjoyed serving as power broker between Goldoni and Bayne. And then there was Monique. Who was she? How had she met Wilson? And what had so upset her before Rosen interrupted us?
Impulsively, I decided to call Gio when I got to my room. It was, after all, lunchtime in California.
“I’m here,” I said.
“In France?”
“In Burgundy. You wouldn’t believe it. I met the friend of Biddy’s I told you about. And Jacques Goldoni, Richard’s sidekick.”
“Really? What’s he like?” She sounded disinterested. I couldn’t be sure—it may have been the connection—but she didn’t seem all that thrilled by the call.
“Just the way Janie described him: overweight and underwhelming.”
She was even less pleased that I cited Janie’s authority on the subject, and said nothing.
“Where are you?” I asked.
“At the winery. I have to get going. My father’s waiting for me.”
“Sorry.”
“It’s okay. I hope you find what you’re looking for.”
“Thanks,” I said.
I lay down in bed. What was I looking for? Why did I continue to believe I was the only one who could figure this out?
I fell asleep, the questions spinning into oblivion.
17
The next morning I went downstairs. The dining room was empty. I took a seat at a table set for breakfast and stared at the ashes in the fireplace. An ember released a wisp of smoke. The woman I’d met the day before came bustling into the room.
“Ah, pardon, Monsieur,” she apologized. “You have been waiting long?”
“No, not at all. Just got here.”
“Ah, bon. Du café ?”
“S’il vous plaît.”
A minute later she emerged with a platter. She set down a cup and saucer, a ceramic pot of coffee, and a creamer of steamed milk.
“Vous voulez le petit déjeuner?”
“Please.”
She returned with a basket of croissants, brioches, and bread, ramekins of butter and plum confiture, a plate of prosciutto and melon. I sat and made mental notes on my plan of attack. I’d met Claudine Collet-Joubert, as she now was known, on my first trip to Burgundy. Her family had been vignerons for generations, with extensive holdings. I knew she’d married since I’d last seen her, at the International Pinot Noir Conference in Oregon years before. When I’d called her from the States, she’d told me that her father had died and that she was living with her mother and husband in Nuits-Saint-Georges. I’d begin there with Rosen, then start looking for Jean Pitot at one of the two addresses I’d found.
As the woman reappeared with a small dish that held a perfectly baked apple, a young man in a jogging suit staggered in, gasping for breath, sweat dripping off his forehead.
“Pardon, Monsieur,” he heaved. He stood momentarily, his hands resting on his knees, facing the floor to catch his breath. “I’m sorry. Seven Ks around the Bois. I’m really out of shape. Lucas Kiers,” he introduced himself, extending his hand.
It was a name I recognized. I’d read several of his pieces in Wine Watcher’s World, and it struck me that, beyond the reviews of any given vintage, he seemed to specialize in human interest stories, features that delved into families feuding over their property—father against son, brother against brother. There was an off chance he might have stumbled across the Pitot family in researching an article.
“Aaron Stern,” I said, shaking hands. “Babe.”
“The Babe Stern?” Kiers said.
“The same.”
“I haven’t seen your name in ages. Still in the game?”
“I dropped out. I own a little bar in St. Helena.”
“You’re here for the Hospices?” he asked, uncomprehending. It made no sense for the owner of a bar to attend so prestigious an event.
Having blown my cover the night before with Monique, I figured I had nothing to lose. “I’m interested in the murder of Richard Wilson. He used to be my brother-in-law.”
That got his attention.
“I don’t quite get it. It happened thousands of miles away.” He reached over to an adjoining table, took a napkin, and wiped his face. “So, I’m assuming that you have a theory that caused you to hop a plane.”
“I have too many theories.”
“So, what do you hope to find out? Assemble the suspects like an Agatha Christie mystery and expect one to confess?”
“Eric Feldman called Richard the