Maëlle
“Other than Marthe, everyone should be asleep until at least zero eight hundred,” Dagger said as we came through the gates at half past four. “That gives us time to make it look like we never left.”
“You would make a decent spy.”
“I’ve been told.”
We eased up the staircase with our boots in our hands, and if Marthe heard us, she let us believe she hadn’t.
By eight, we were dressed and working at the desk in my bedroom, where I briefed him on what I’d learned in the last couple of days.
I started with the padded supplier invoices I’d found on the morning of the réveillon. The rest was my conversation with Jean-Pierre Lavigne that evening, about his ability to retire due to Valais’ generosity and that they were not the only domaine in the region with record sales.
“The most important thing he said was that my father had negotiated the deal for the entire Compagnie de Burgondie—the area’s winemakers’ union.”
“So the union got a deal, the region got rich, and your father took the bows.”
“Allegedly, yes.”
“How much of this can be proved?” he asked.
“The estates file yearly accounts with the public registry that show income. Anyone can request a copy for a fee.”
“Let’s do it.”
I started with the largest producers in the region, and as I’d anticipated, their sales hit record highs starting the same year Valais’ did.
“What we can’t determine is whether their payables are equally suspect.”
“We should be able to prove Valais’ are fraudulent,” Dagger said.
“You’re right.”
“Where do we start?” he asked.
“History.” I sorted the payables by the date of each supplier’s first invoice.
The cooperage we had bought barrels from for three generations showed a first invoice older than my father.
Several others were equally old. Six suppliers were not.
All six had billed Valais for the first time in the year the Fontenay deal was signed.
“As far as hiding fraud, whoever did this didn’t even try,” I muttered.
“Whoever?” he asked.
“Rémy, and you’re right to challenge me on it. With him being in control of Valais’ financials, then at the very minimum, he has to be in on it.”
The next step was to determine where the money went when the additional payments were made.
The estate’s records showed the account each payment was sent to. I lined the six suppliers up and read the numbers side by side.
“Two of them are paid into the same account,” I said. “Our books show where we sent it. We need Hornet’s help with who collects it on the other side.”
I sent him everything I had and what information we were looking for. His answer came within the hour. Give me a day.
Hornet’s message came through overnight. Have answers. Twelve hundred your time. Somewhere you can talk.
We told my mother we had errands in Beaune and drove to the cottage.
“What have you got for us?” Dagger asked when Hornet appeared on the screen at the designated time.
“Your six accounts all belong to one company in Geneva. Who owns the company, I can’t see. Paper directors. That’s the wall I hit.”
“Then, we have nothing,” Dagger said.
“You have one thing. That company sends a payment out every quarter, and it has for nine years. It goes to a numbered account in Geneva, and the numbered account has a name on it. Bertrand Valais.”
Dagger copied the number onto a pad while Hornet read it out.
“Any other name on the account?” he asked. “Withdrawals? Transfers out?”
“None. The money goes in and stays.”
When the video call ended, neither of us said anything for a minute.
“How are you doing?” Dagger asked.
“No differently than I have been since I found the first photo of my father with the man who most likely gave the order to bomb a building I was in.”
The following morning, Dagger drove my mother and me to Dijon for her appointment at the cancer clinic. When her name was called, he squeezed my hand and said he’d be in the waiting room if I needed anything.
The oncologist, Dr. Francois Fauchon, introduced himself, and we did the same. Then he suggested we begin with an examination. He pressed his fingers to my mother’s neck, under her jaw, and above her collarbone, asking each time if she felt any pain. She answered no to all.
“Before treatment begins, we need to determine if the disease has spread. I’d like to schedule a full-body scan as well as a blood draw before you leave.”
“Is that something that could be done today?” I asked.
He typed something into a laptop, waited for a response, then raised his head. “Yes, they have an opening for both, so I’ll write the orders, and you can go next door once we’re finished.”
“And then?” I pressed.
“If the disease hasn’t spread, your mother will begin six cycles of chemotherapy. There will be one treatment every three weeks. The first will begin in January and the final in April.”
My mother’s eyes met mine, and I squeezed her hand like Dagger had squeezed mine. “I’ll be here with you, Maman,” I assured her.
The doctor closed the file. “The drugs will exhaust you, Madame. Some weeks, they will leave you almost no defense against infection. Should you develop a fever, it will be important to contact the office immediately.” He took a sheet of paper from the file and handed it to her.
“This will give you an overview of what to expect, but once I have the results of today’s scan, we’ll meet again to go over the plan more in-depth and answer any questions you have. ”
My mother’s hand was steady when she signed the required consent forms. Mine, in my lap, was not. Neither of us asked whether the delay between her finding the first lump in September and now had made it worse. The scan would give us that information.
Dagger stood when we returned to the waiting area, and I explained about the tests my mother needed to have while we were here.
“What can I do?” he leaned in and asked.
“Being here is enough,” I said.
The blood draw took only a few minutes, but the technician said the scan would take approximately one hour. First, they had to confirm the last time she ate. When my mother said last night, they said they could go ahead with the procedure today.
Dagger’s arm was around my shoulder as we sat in the waiting area.
I checked the my mobile and saw it was already early afternoon. If my mother hadn’t eaten since last night, she would be famished by the time we left.
“There’s a restaurant on Rue Musette that my maman adores. We should stop there before we return to Valais.”
“Do you think she’ll have an appetite?”
“Perhaps not.”
When my mother came out ninety minutes later and announced she was starving, Dagger and I looked at each other and smiled.
“I know the perfect place,” I said.
My mother gasped when we stopped in front of the restaurant. “You remembered.”
“How could I forget? We ate here frequently when I was growing up.” I didn’t mention that the times when we did were when my father was traveling.
Like at Chez Nolette, the owner recognized us right away, welcomed us back, and treated us like his most important customers. It was exactly what my mother needed.
“The roast chicken in cream sauce and the fish stew are excellent here,” I told Dagger once we were seated.
“As is the truffle carpaccio,” Maman added.
“I say we order it all. Everything on today’s menu,” Dagger announced.
I expected my mother to frown at him. Instead, she patted his hand and grinned. “I knew I liked you the moment we met.”
Me? It went so far beyond like. I loved Dagger.
I couldn’t deny it a moment longer. I also couldn’t confess it to him.
Once the investigation into Maison Fontenay and Aristide Géraud wrapped up, he would return to the States while I stayed in France.
We’d have to stage an end to our “engagement,” and my mother’s heart would be broken. Nowhere near as much as mine would be.
“We need to discuss La Saint-Sylvestre—the New Year’s Eve party,” my father announced when we walked in three hours later.
“Tomorrow, Papa,” I said.
“No,” he said, shaking his head. “It cannot wait until then.”
I opened my mouth to argue, but closed it when my mother tapped my arm.
“Come,” he said, leading Dagger and me into his study.
He sat behind his desk and motioned for us to take the two chairs in front of it.
“Right before midnight, we will announce your engagement.”
“We already announced it in the caveau. We had champagne,” I reminded him.
He waved his hand and shook his head. “To tourists. The winemaking families of this valley have known you since the day you were born. They’ll expect to hear it from me.”
I looked at Dagger, who shrugged.
“Fine. A short toast,” I muttered.
He kept us another half hour, going over details I couldn’t care less about and that had nothing to do with me.
“Anything else, Papa?” I asked when he finally took a breath long enough for me to get a word in.
“One more thing. I have a very important business associate attending. Everything needs to go perfectly.”
“Who?” I asked.
“You’ll meet him at the party. His name will mean nothing to you until then.”
“Do you think he means Géraud?” I asked Dagger once we were in the bedroom.
“Could be. Although that might be too much to hope for.”
I murmured my agreement.
“Feel like taking a walk?” Dagger asked.
“Sure.” I followed him outside and over to the cuverie. “What are we doing?” I asked when he led me over to the door that opened onto the vaults.
“The other day, when I was bringing up chairs for the Christmas thing, I found a room with unused barrels in it. I thought they might tell us something.”
“More than you realize. The maker burns his stamp and the year into the bottom of every barrel. By the way, how did you know the door code?”
“I’m a spy, remember?”
“Marthe gave it to you, didn’t she?”
“Maybe,” he said, winking.
There weren’t many to count. Twenty-five in total from the last year. The invoices I found totaled sixty.
“Could some of them have been used?” Dagger asked.
“This year’s barrels won’t be used until next year at the earliest.”
When we came up from the vaults, Rémy was walking into the building.