Uncorking a Lie Page 6

  “Thank you, Katie. You don’t know how much this means to me.” Paul cut into his steak. “I didn’t think I would get my appetite back, but suddenly I’m hungry. Thanks to you. Because you’re going to help me.” He took a big bite, a smile on his face as he chewed.

  “I’m glad.” But as I thought about it, I had no idea where to begin. Maybe I needed to tackle it like an unknown wine, a rare varietal sure to trip me up during the Advanced Exam. Stop fearing the unknown and pick up the glass to look for the clues. Or in this case, the bottle. “Paul, where is the empty bottle from last night?”

  “It’s still at the house in Sonoma.”

  “Okay.” Along with the second bottle from the auction. It would take me at least an hour to drive there and Paul was here, so I needed another place to begin. “You bought it at the Sonoma County Red Heart Charity auction, correct?”

  “Correct.” Paul took another bite of his steak and my stomach turned. Cold steak was not exactly appetizing.

  “Who was the seller at the auction?”

  Paul shook his head. “I don’t know. It was a private party. When they don’t want to be known, they aren’t.”

  “You’re giving me a dead end here.”

  A small smile slowly appeared on Paul’s face. “Not exactly. You should go talk to Henry Diven.”

  “Henry?”

  “He was in charge of the auction. You didn’t know?”

  I shook my head. “You wouldn’t let us talk about work at the dinner.”

  “That’s right. It was supposed to be a fun evening …”

  I wanted to distract him before he became sad again. “Where is his office located?”

  “He works out of his home. Not too far from here, actually.”

  “I’ll start there. Can you call him and let him know I want to see him? I’ll leave now.”

  Paul stopped eating. “Do you think that’s a good idea? To go on your own, I mean?”

  “Why?” I stared at him. “Is there something about him I should know?”

  “No, he’s been a good friend for many years. I just want to make sure you’re okay doing this. I don’t want to put you in any dangerous situations.”

  “Paul, if there is something about Henry I should know …”

  “No, he’s fine.”

  “So you’ll call him?”

  “Yes.” Paul pulled out his phone.

  “Wait.” I put my hand out. “What are you going to tell him?”

  “What do you mean?”

  I thought about it for a moment. “Don’t tell him I’m investigating. If he was in charge of the auction, he knows the seller and if he says something to them, they’ll be able to cover up their tracks before we get to them.”

  “You’re very clever, Katie. I’m glad you’re working for me.” Paul beamed in the same way my dad used to. It made me feel like my dad was proud of me. Which he wasn’t, at least as far as I knew.

  “In fact, I don’t think you should tell anyone about the wine,” I added.

  “I agree.” Paul held his phone, ready to call. “Any thoughts on what I should tell Henry then?”

  I tapped my fingers on the table as my eyes drifted to the glass wine cellar in the restaurant. “Does Henry have a wine collection?”

  “Yes, an extensive one.”

  “Perfect. Call him and say that I’m working for you. That I’m going to expand your wine cellar. You’ve hired me to help with it and I want to check out his collection, or something like that.”

  “Ah, great idea. I know what to say. He has a bottle of 1958 Chateau Mouton Rothschild that I’ve wanted for a long time. He keeps hinting about selling it, but then says he’s not ready to part with it. I’ll tell him you want to look at it.”

  “Couldn’t you just buy a 1958 at an auction?”

  Paul smiled and leaned in closer. “This one is special. It’s signed by the artist who did the label that year. Salvador Dali.”

  nine

  pairing suggestion: spätburgunder—ahr, germany

  A Pinot Noir wine with essences of cherry and earthiness.

  -

  Road construction slowed my journey, but twenty minutes later I arrived at Henry’s house, located not far from the Marina District in San Francisco.

  It had a quaint exterior dotted with meticulous flower boxes, which continued down the steps. Someone, probably Henry, spent a lot of time caring for the garden and I immediately guessed that the inside of the house would show the same amount of attention.

  As I exited my car, Henry stood in the front doorway, watching me. A warning registered in my gut. I was supposed to trust my instinct, but I decided to push it aside in order to help Paul. I walked up the steps.

  “Welcome,” said Henry with a strange half-smile on his face. “I’ll admit, I was rather excited when Paul called and said you wanted to see me. I didn’t think we hit it off at the dinner, even before Cooper’s tragedy.”

  “Yes,” I replied. “There was so much going on that night, I think impressions were muddled. But I’m glad I’m here, Mr. Diven.”

  “Henry, please.” He motioned to the door behind him. “Come inside. Can I give you some tea or perhaps a glass of wine? It’s after twelve so it’s acceptable to start drinking. However, I don’t think the time stops many of us in the wine industry, now does it?”

  I smiled and stepped inside the house. The inside was surprisingly modern, a different turn from the picturesque look outside. As if Henry liked to put out an image that people wanted to see, but actually enjoyed a different side. The contrast was not lost on me.

  “So what can I get you? Red or white?”

  I glanced at Henry. “Thank you, but it’s not necessary.”

  “Are you sure?” He pointed to the glasses lined up on the bar.

  “I am.”

  “Shame,” Henry replied as he motioned to the bright red couch in the living room. “Would you like to take a seat?”

  I sat down, but I kept on the edge of the cushion as I didn’t want to appear too comfy. “I wanted to talk to you about—”

  “Are you sure there’s nothing I can bring you?” Henry interjected.

  “No, thank you.”

  “Okay then.” Henry sat down on the triangle-shaped chair across from me. “Paul said you wanted to talk about a bottle of wine? I think now that he’s had the 1975 Chateau Clair Bleu, he’s hungry for his next quest.”

  “Yes,” I said as I realized I had been presented with an opportunity. “Since you mentioned the Chateau Clair Bleu, now that Paul isn’t here, what did you think?”

  Henry shrugged. “I thought it was fine, but not quite my taste. I would have preferred something a little more tannic to go with the filet mignon. Of course the thing that really comes to mind is poor Cooper falling down the stairs.”

  “Yes,” I replied. “It’s heartbreaking.”

  Henry waited for a moment and then clapped his hands together. “So, what wine are you here for?”

  “Wine?” I wanted to find out more about the 1975 Chateau Clair Bleu and not the Mouton Rothschild Paul had referred to, but I needed to stick to my story. Except I couldn’t remember what year Paul had mentioned. This wasn’t like me. But it wasn’t time to panic. Even if I couldn’t remember, there were other ways to get to the answer. Like in the service portion of my next exam, even if I didn’t have the answer, I needed to think on my feet. And I could do this.

  I took a breath and put on my game face. “Paul was interested in adding another bottle to his collection. One that you have in your possession. A Chateau Mouton Rothschild.”

  “Ah, the 1958. He’s been wanting that bottle for years.”

  “Yes, that was it,” I said with relief. “The 1958 Chateau Mouton Rothschild.”

  “I’m sorry to inform you that it’s not for sa
le. It means too much to me.” Henry tilted his head. “Why did he want you to look at it?”

  My thoughts raced. “I’m working on a project for him, helping him expand his wine collection.”

  “Makes sense since Cooper’s gone. But as I said, the bottle isn’t for sale. Paul knows this.”

  I nodded. “I think he was hoping you would change your mind.”

  “Nope.” A thin-lipped smile formed on Henry’s face. “Are you here to change my mind?”

  A chill crept up my neck. “No.”

  “It might be open to changing …” Henry relaxed into his chair. “I’m glad you’re here.” He smiled knowingly and I didn’t like it. “Well?”

  “Well, what?” A warning bell was ringing inside me.

  He sat up in his chair and leaned forward. “Shall we get to business and go downstairs?” he said, his voice almost a whisper.

  “Excuse me?” Heat rushed up my neck.

  “You know what I’m talking about.” He winked. “It’s what you came here for.”

  My reason for being there dissolved as I was suddenly very aware that I was alone in a house with a man who seemed to think I was there under romantic pretenses. Paul had hesitated when I said I was coming here alone. I didn’t know Henry and I needed to keep my wits about me.

  I stood up. “I think I should go.”

  “Wait, why are you leaving? What about the bottle?”

  “I wish we were still talking about the bottle.”

  “I’m sorry?” Henry shook his head. “I don’t understand. You came here to ask about the Mouton Rothschild. Don’t you want to see why Paul wants it? It’s a special bottle. What’s the problem?” He looked genuinely confused and I was genuinely mistaken.

  I sat down and put my face in my hands, my cheeks burning. I had read the situation completely wrong. I faked a cough to explain the lapse of poise and recomposed myself. “Yes, I would love to see the bottle.”

  “Great. We’ll go downstairs. I’d love to show all of it to you.”

  I hesitated as I thought about how my best friend Tessa would reply to that comment. Tessa was a serial dater and would have encouraged the situation with a snarky reply. I held back a laugh. “Your wine collection?”

  “Yes. I have prized bottles from all over the world. I keep them downstairs to avoid the light and temperature changes that could affect them. Has Paul told you why the Mouton Rothschild is so special?”

  “It’s signed by Salvador Dali.”

  Henry studied me. “Why would that be significant, do you think?” He was testing me. He didn’t know I had nearly two thousand flash cards in my apartment with facts just like this.

  “Because he designed the label. The Chateau chooses a different artist every year.”

  “You do know your wine, Katie Stillwell. You must work in the wine industry. Or perhaps you simply enjoy studying the wine collections of people like me and Paul?”

  I stiffened. I was no longer a guest at Paul’s dinner; people could know what I did now. I also felt the need to assert myself that I wasn’t just a wine fan, but that I was a wine professional. “I’m a sommelier at Trentino.”

  “No kidding.” Henry looked genuinely surprised. “That must have been the pin you were wearing last night.” He stood up. “Come on, I’ll show you the Mouton Rothschild.” He headed toward a staircase at the far end of the house.

  “Since you know wine,” he said with an air of newfound respect, “you’ll love the bottles I have down there. Not to brag, but many wine enthusiasts are jealous of my cellar.” His statement didn’t come across as cocky or arrogant, but passionate. He clearly loved his wine.

  The cellar was located at the bottom of the stairs on the lower level of his house. Its position next to the hallway was where a closet might be. In fact, the door looked just like a closet.

  “I know it doesn’t look like much, compared to Paul’s,” said Henry. “But you’ll see once you look inside.” He pulled open the door to reveal an intricate racking system from floor to ceiling. Though the space was small and was definitely once a closet, there were at least two hundred bottles of wine from Bordeaux, Burgundy, Southern Rhone, Germany, Spain, Italy, and more. It was a treasure-trove of wine packed into a cozy space.

  “I disagree,” I said as I glanced at the names. “Paul would be very jealous.”

  “He might be. I’m sure he has some bottles that would make me envious, too.”

  I nodded as the counterfeit wine went through my mind. I looked up and down the racks, admiring each bottle.

  Then I saw them. Five bottles of Chateau Margaux.

  They were halfway down one section of the racks, the markings ’55, ’62, ’63, ’68, ’69 on the wood below them. A bottle of 1969 Chateau Margaux. It was the same wine I had enjoyed with my mother shortly before she passed away. I longed to relive the memory and once again taste the wine and pretend my mother was still alive, sitting next to me in the kitchen like all those years ago. The bottle continued to elude me primarily due to the price tag, yet here it was, staring me in the face.

  “You okay?” asked Henry. “You’re very quiet.”

  “No, I’m fine.” I motioned to the bottles. “You have an impressive collection.”

  “You seemed to pause in the Bordeaux section.”

  I returned my focus to the Chateau Margaux. “Yes. The Margaux. It’s nice that you have a few different vintages here.”

  “I pick them up at auctions when I can. Are you a fan?”

  I nodded. “In particular,” I pointed to the ’69, “that one.”

  Henry reached for the bottle and pulled it out of the slot. “Not their best vintage, but a great one nonetheless.”

  There it was, the bottle I had wanted for years. Just inches from me. I took it from him, the cold glass contrasting with the warmth from my hands, the memory of my mother waiting inside. I wanted to take it and run. But I needed to focus. I was here for Paul.

  I placed the bottle back in the rack as I returned to my reason for being there. “Paul said you organize wine auctions?”

  “Just one, the Sonoma County Red Heart Charity auction, which happens every year. I also work as an importer.”

  “The Red Heart was where Paul bought the 1975 Chateau Clair Bleu, correct?”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  I faced Henry, my back to the wines. “Do you know who sold that bottle? I mean, who put it up for auction?”

  He looked surprised. “Why?”

  I smiled. “Just curious. Since Paul enjoyed it so much.”

  Henry crossed his arms.

  I suddenly felt the small space of the closet behind me and the image of Henry blocking my exit. I stepped past him into the hallway. “It meant so much for Paul to open that wine. And it’s always fun to learn the wine’s story. As a fellow wine lover, I’m sure you also like to know the history of every wine, especially those that come through your auction.” I was rambling and I needed to tone it down a notch. I had to be calm and confident.

  Henry slowly nodded. “I do. Although in this case, if I recall, the Chateau Clair Bleu was sold by a private party.”

  “Any chance you want to reveal the name of that private party?”

  He tilted his head to the side as he studied me. “Katie, why are you really here?”

  “I told you, the Mouton Rothschild. I think Paul wants to make sure you still have it. And as for my questions, I’m just curious about the auction. I’d love to know more about them in general.” My game face was on, but I could feel it cracking under the anxiety that had taken hold of my lungs.

  Henry’s demeanor softened. He turned and removed the bottle of 1958 Chateau Mouton Rothschild from the shelf. “You can tell Paul you’ve confirmed I have it.” The Dali designed label had a sheep drawn in curved lines with his signature in black ink on the
left side. “You can also tell him that when, if ever, I decide to sell it, he’ll be the first person I’ll call.”

  “Thank you. I’ll let him know.”

  Henry put the bottle back into its place in the wine rack. “As for the auction, the private party who sold the 1975 Chateau Clair Bleu would like to remain as such.” Henry revealed a small smile and it was clear that sommeliers weren’t the only wine industry workers who wore game faces.

  My heart fell. I couldn’t think of another way to get the information. “Do you get a lot of those? Anonymous private parties, I mean.”

  “Now and again. Often times it’s someone wanting to sell their personal collection, but they don’t want people to know.”

  I nodded. “Understood. Well, thanks for the information. This was helpful,” I lied. I glanced at the bottles in the closet. “Thanks for showing me your collection. Especially the Chateau Margaux.”

  “You know, if you wanted to hang around for a little while, we could open the Margaux.”

  A spike of adrenaline shot through me. I could actually revisit the memory of that moment with my mother.

  “I wouldn’t mind sharing it with you,” Henry said as he moved the hair off of my shoulder.

  Maybe I hadn’t read the situation wrong when I first came in. “Thank you for the offer, but it’s time for me to leave.” I walked up the stairs with Henry just a few steps behind me. “I’ll let Paul know you still have the bottle and if I need anything else, Mr. Diven, I’ll call you.”

  “Katie, I’m sorry,” said Henry as he followed me to the front door. “You know, I didn’t mean anything there. It was just a nice moment … that I ruined. I’m sorry.”

  I opened the front door and stood holding it as I turned to Henry. “It’s fine, but I feel I should make it clear that I was here for Paul and only for Paul.”

  “I know and I’m sorry,” said Henry, his face full of concern. “I felt connected to you right then. It’s not often that I get a chance to talk with someone like you about things that I’m passionate about.”

  “Someone like me?”

  “Nice, attractive, knowledgeable about wine. Again, I’m sorry. It was inappropriate and I was out of line.”