think you ought to know. I’ll be in an even better position.”
“Well, I’m going to be here in the office all day. And tell Sackheim for me I think it’s time the French cops got to work.”
“I’m pretty certain he opened the investigation in earnest today. But I’ll tell him. Eh bien, au revoir.”
“Yeah, ciao to you, too.”
I fished Sackheim’s card out of my wallet and dialed the number.
“Oui, Sackheim.” Prompt as ever.
“Bonjour, Colonel. C’est Babe.”
“Ah, Babe. So, you have finished la grande dégustation?”
“On all fours and somehow still kicking,” I said.
“D’accord. But is everybody else kicking, as you say, as well?”
“Everyone with the exception of Eric Feldman. He still seems to be missing in action.”
“We will talk about that in a minute. What else?”
“Jean Pitot was there at the tasting, too. He showed up with his maman.”
“And?”
“She doesn’t appear to be very popular. That much is clear. And her cooking wasn’t winning her any awards, either.”
“Pardon?” I described Goldoni’s response to her pâté. “What about the boy?” Sackheim said.
“Weirdly carrying on in the parking lot, having some sort of one-sided conversation.”
“Did he taste wine?”
“I don’t think so, but he brought a bottle he wanted Goldoni to sample. It didn’t happen. And he made contact with a woman there.”
“What woman?”
“Monique Azzine, a young winemaker. She and Pitot got into a fight.”
“And what was it about?” He was naturally curious but couldn’t disguise his impatience.
“I don’t know. But she knows all the players. She met them in Bordeaux last summer. I have to assume that Wilson asked Rosen to check up on her before he was killed.”
“Intéressant.” Sackheim was silent for a moment. “Do you think this woman suspects that young Jean is someone other than he appears to be? Perhaps Wilson himself said something?”
“Hard to tell,” I said.
“You are now at the hotel?”
“Yes, but I’ll be changing my base of operations. I need to get out to Saint-Romain. The house I’m moving to is owned by Frossard. In the morning we’re in Beaune for the Hospices.”
“Ah, Frossard. The barrel maker. Very famous, very rich people. They sell their barriques all over the world. Perhaps your friends will take you.”
“Maybe.” Barrels now, for me, had become personal. “What did you find out about Feldman?” I asked.
“He did not return to his hotel Wednesday night. He had been scheduled to meet some colleagues for dinner. And as you said, he missed his meetings yesterday. His schedule, it was written on a notepad by the telephone.”
“You were in his room?”
“Bien sûr. After all, I am a colonel in the gendarmerie. On the same pad, Feldman wrote down his appointment at Domaine Carrière.”
“But Carrière claimed he hadn’t seen Feldman, that Feldman hadn’t been there.”
“Hnh!” Sackheim snorted. “It is written down.” He paused. “Was there anyone else with you at Carrière when you had your accident?” he asked.
“No, he and I were alone. I mean, there were other workers in the winery. And Pitot, whom I saw when I arrived. But, no, not back in the cave with us when the barrels fell. A bunch of men ran into the cellar when they heard everything crash.”
I sensed wheels spinning on the other end of the line.
“So, Monsieur Feldman went out two days ago and never came back,” Sackheim muttered.
“Lieutenant Ciofreddi,” I said. “I called him.”
“Ah, Charlie!” Sackheim exclaimed. “How is he? He does not trust us to do the job!”
“I wouldn’t say that!”
“Oh, come, you know it is true. Repeat to me what he said. Spare me nothing.”
“He suggested I keep an eye on you and said it was about time you guys got to work,” I admitted.
“Ha, you see!” he chuckled. “I told you so.”
“I said you were doing a great job.”
“Perhaps. It is too soon to say, non? We will see, we will see,” he said. “It is the Americans who are best at crime—both the committing of them and the solving. But it would be unwise to write off our French police too hastily.”
“You could do another favor for me,” I now said tentatively.
“And what is that?”
“I’d like to see a genealogy of the Pitot family. I’m sure you have civil records—births, deaths, marriages. That’s a good place to start.” I wanted to see for myself how Pitot’s paternity was explained in their local records.
“Hmm,” Sackheim said. “I will ask for this. Et puis, you will be moving where? You have the address and a phone number?”
I gave him both.
“Perhaps we have enough to warrant a real investigation by the gendarmerie. I