6. Chiara #2
“I know she’s been working against me.” I close my eyes, remembering Livia’s smile in the shadows, quick and triumphant. “I just didn’t realize how deep it went.”
“I should have said more when I told you about the butcher’s shop.
” Rosalia folds the shopping list into smaller squares, pressing each crease flat.
“I’ve known her longer than you have. She doesn’t play a game unless she thinks she can win it.
And she’s very good at making people think they’re helping her. ”
“You think she sabotaged the wine.” I turn away from the window, wanting her answer and afraid of what I might do with it.
“I think someone did.” Rosalia’s hands twist in her lap. “And I think whoever did it knew exactly how to make you take the blame.”
***
The sommelier is working in a small room off the main cellar when I find him.
He’s bent over a table covered with glasses and documentation, his back to the door, and he doesn’t notice me until I knock on the frame. When he turns, his expression shifts through surprise and something more complicated before settling into professional neutrality.
“Signora Marchetti.” He sets down the pen he was holding. “Can I help you?”
“I was hoping to understand what you’ve found.” I step into the room, leaving Rosalia in the corridor. The space smells of stone and old wood, nothing like the acrid wrongness from last night. “I know you’re examining the contaminated bottles.”
“The Don has my preliminary notes.” He leaves the papers where they are rather than offering them to me. I have to ask for information about the evening I was supposed to be running.
“I’d like to hear it directly, if you’re willing.
” I move closer to the table, studying the arrangement without touching anything.
Several glasses hold small amounts of liquid, each labeled in his careful handwriting.
Beside them, a stack of papers shows what looks like tasting notes.
“I have training in botany. I might notice something useful about plant materials, if any were involved.”
The sommelier considers this for a long moment. His opinion of me has been clear since our first meeting, but he’s also a professional dealing with a crisis that affects him personally.
“Very well.” He gestures to a spot where I can see without being in his way. “But these are evidence. Nothing leaves this room, nothing gets touched without my direct supervision.”
“Understood.” I fold my hands in front of me to show I mean it. “What have you been able to determine?”
He sighs, rubbing a hand over his silver hair. “The contamination is consistent across the service bottles we opened. Same characteristics in each. It gives us a reason to examine how that batch was handled. It doesn’t tell us what happened on its own.”
“What kind of characteristics?” I stay where he indicated, close enough to see the labels without leaning over the samples.
“Visual cloudiness. An odor that doesn’t belong in aged wine.” He indicates one of the covered sample glasses without lifting the lid. “I’ve been working with small portions set aside for testing. The main evidence is sealed and documented.”
I look at the small working sample through the glass. The murkiness is still visible. I know the preparations I used to make well enough to recognize when one has changed, but this isn’t one of mine. I can’t give a substance a name just because I want an answer.
“I can tell you exactly what was in my jars.” I take out the notebook where I recorded the contents and set it on the empty chair, away from his samples.
“I can’t identify what’s in this wine by looking at it.
Nothing from my display went near the bottles, but you should have the list if people are claiming otherwise. ”
“Leave me a copy of the list.” He draws a clean sheet from his stack and writes the names as I read them. “The smell last night makes me suspect a foreign substance. I have asked for analysis, but suspicion isn’t a result.”
“You said the service bottles were affected. What about your comparison samples from earlier?” When I was developing blends, I kept notes on each batch instead of trusting my memory. I want to know what he has to compare with last night.
“I did a routine tasting two days before the launch.” He opens his tasting notebook to the dated entry. “A portion was retained from that session. A different bottle, from the reserve section. I found no fault with the wine I tasted then.”
“But that doesn’t tell us about the specific bottles that were opened last night.” I work through the logic carefully. “Those bottles were sealed until the pour. Your earlier sample came from different stock.”
“Correct.” He meets my gaze with something like respect for the distinction.
“The earlier sample tells us about the bottle I tasted. It doesn’t prove the gala bottles were untouched at that point.
They could have been compromised earlier, or later, or at the same time I was tasting something else entirely. ”
“So it supports checking for something introduced into the wine, but it doesn’t date the contamination.” I draw a line beneath the two separate entries in my notebook. “We shouldn’t treat those as the same bottle.”
“The testing should help identify what we’re dealing with.” He doesn’t sound confident. “But exact timing requires more than chemistry. It requires knowing who handled what, and when.”
I think about the cellar, about all the people who move through it during normal operations. The cellar team who work here daily. Lorenzo, who checks on preparations. Livia, whose authority covers everything that happens in this space.
“Who had access to the service bottles in the days before the launch?” I write handling beneath the sample notes. If I can’t establish when the wine changed, I can at least ask who was responsible for moving it.
“The usual staff.” The sommelier returns to his notes. “The bottles were set aside for the event, but they weren’t isolated from normal cellar operations. Anyone with standard access could have been in this area.”
“Including the cellar steward.” I don’t look away from my notebook when I say it. I know the name I want him to give me, and I need to be careful what I make of his answer.
“Including everyone on the cellar team, and Don Lorenzo, and anyone else with legitimate reason to be here.” His tone sharpens slightly. “I won’t speculate about individuals, signora. That’s not my role.”
Fair enough. I asked a leading question and got a proper answer.
“Could I get a copy of your documented observations?” I gesture toward his notes. “Not the evidence itself, just your written findings. I want to make sure I’ve understood you before I discuss this with Don Lorenzo.”
The sommelier hesitates, then nods. “I’ll have a summary prepared this afternoon. The full documentation stays here.”
“Of course.” I take a step back, giving him space. “What about the reserve stock? The bottles that weren’t part of the service batch?”
“I’ve isolated them for separate testing.” He indicates a door at the far end of the room. “Next set of checks is scheduled for tomorrow. Until then, nothing from the reserve leaves that room.”
“So there might still be uncontaminated wine.” I look toward the closed door, remembering Lorenzo staring at the ruined pour. I want there to be something left for him, even now.
“There might be.” He doesn’t offer false hope. “Or the contamination might be more widespread than we’ve seen. I won’t know until I’ve tested properly.”
I absorb this in silence. The possibility of salvaging something, of finding enough sound wine to attempt another launch someday, feels too fragile to examine closely. Better to focus on what we know than what we hope.
“Thank you.” I close my notebook and leave his worktable as I found it. Being listened to shouldn’t feel like a favor, but this morning it does. “For explaining. For letting me see.”
“The summary will be ready by four.” He adds a reminder beside my list before returning to the sample labels.
***
Lorenzo is on the phone when I reach his study, so I wait in the corridor until I hear him end the call.
He looks up when I knock, and I see the exhaustion in his face. Whatever he’s been doing all day, it hasn’t involved rest.
“I’ve been with the sommelier.” I close the door and cross to stand in front of his desk. “Looking at his findings from the contaminated wine.”
“He mentioned you’d stopped by.” Lorenzo sets aside the papers he was reviewing. “What did you learn?”
“The contamination is consistent across the service bottles.” I take the chair across from him, organizing my thoughts. “He suspects an introduced substance, as we did last night. I gave him the contents of the display jars for comparison. None of those materials went into the wine.”
He pulls a fresh sheet of paper toward him and writes down the comparison I have asked for. “What else?”
The fact that he’s taking notes catches me off guard. I expected dismissal, not documentation.
“His earlier comparison sample came from different stock. It tells us that one bottle was sound when he tasted it, but it doesn’t tell us when the specific gala bottles were compromised.
” I watch him write, surprised by how carefully he’s recording what I say.
“The timing can’t be established from chemistry alone.
It requires knowing who handled the bottles, and when. ”
“Who had access?” He writes handling beneath the sample information, and for a moment we seem to be working on the same problem.
“The cellar team, according to the sommelier.” I lay my notebook beside his new page so he can see where I recorded the answer. “Anyone with normal authorization could have been in that area. He wasn’t willing to narrow it further.”
“Including Livia.” Lorenzo stops writing before he reaches her name. The empty space beneath his last line draws my attention more sharply than any accusation could.