The Vintage Caper

me.”
    Then she was gone, turning as she left the garden to wave good-bye.
    Back in his suite, Sam thought how fortunate he was to remain on good terms with nearly all of the women in his life. Apart from one or two dramatic exceptions—the six-foot Ukrainian model in Moscow, the homicidal rancher’s daughter in Buenos Aires, and, of course, Elena—there had been no recriminations in any of his relationships. Probably, he concluded, because they had the good sense never to take him too seriously.
    As he sat at his desk and looked once again at the list of stolen wines, his mind went back to Kate’s comment. Of course, she was right: America wasn’t the only country that produced wine-loving criminals. But where to start looking?
    He got up and went across the room to his library, a long run of floor-to-ceiling bookcases, stopping in front of the section where he kept his wine books. There, in various stages of wear and tear, were Penning-Rowsell’s The Wines of Bordeaux , Lichine’s Encyclopedia of Wines and Spirits , Forest’s Monseigneur Le Vin , the current year’s Guide Hachette des Vins , Broadbent’s Wine Tasting , Johnson’s Wine , Olney’s Yquem , Lynch’s Adventures on the Wine Route , Healy’s Stay Me with Flagons , and a score of others collected over the years. Trailing his fingers along the spines of the books, he came to a battered copy of Duijker’s The Great Wine Chateaux of Bordeaux and took it back to his desk, making a detour on the way to pour himself a pre-lunch glass of Chablis.
    It was always a pleasure to open this book. In contrast to the ornamental and sometimes comical prose so often used by wine writers striving for effect, the text was simply written and thoroughly researched. Facts took precedence over literary flourishes. And, as a visual bonus, there were photographs in full color of more than eighty châteaus, their caves , their vines, their cellar masters, and, in some cases, their tweed-suited, long-faced, elegant proprietors. For a lover of fine Bordeaux, it would be difficult to think of a more evocative volume.
    With the list of stolen wines as his guide, Sam leafed through the pages: Lafite, Latour, Figeac, Pétrus, Margaux—famous names, legendary wines, handsome châteaus. He had always meant to explore the immaculate vineyards of Bordeaux, an area that he once heard described as a masterpiece of gardening on the grand scale. To his regret, he had never taken the time to make the trip. And it was this regret, as much as the demands of the investigation, that helped him come to a decision. He closed the book with a snap and called Elena Morales.
    Her voice was slightly muffled when she answered, a sign that Sam knew well. “You uncivilized woman—you’re eating lunch at your desk again. You’ll get terrible indigestion.”
    “Thanks, Sam. You really know how to cheer a girl up. As it happens, I’m too busy to go out. How about you? Getting anywhere?”
    “That’s why I’m calling. I’ve done just about all the desk research I can do. I’m sending you a report with all the details, but don’t hold your breath. I haven’t come up with anything. So I’ve decided to do some fieldwork.”
    “Where’s the field?”
    “Elena, here’s a basic rule of investigation: to arrive at an understanding of the crime, go back to the beginning. And in this case, the beginning is where the wine came from. The beginning is Bordeaux.” There was silence from the other end of the line. “I thought I’d go via Paris. There’s a guy there I need to see.”
    “Great idea, Sam, except for one thing: expenses.”
    “Elena, you have to speculate to accumulate.”
    “Listen, I know how you travel. Are you expecting us to pick up the tab for first-class airfares, fancy hotels, fancy restaurants …” Her voice tailed off with a sigh. “Where are you going to stay in Paris?”
    “The Montalembert. Remember the Montalembert?”
    “Spare me the nostalgia, Sam. We are not picking up your expenses.”
    “Let’s be reasonable about this. If I find the wine, you reimburse me. If I don’t find it, you don’t owe me a cent. Do we have a deal?”
    There was no answer from Elena.
    “I’ll take that as an enthusiastic yes,” said Sam. “Oh, and there’s one other thing. I’m going to need a fixer in Bordeaux, someone with local contacts who speaks English. I guess your Paris office can help with that. Sure you don’t want to come with me?”
    Thinking of Paris