Ellen Crosby - The Sauvignon Secret

“Did you know Juliette in those days?” I asked my grandfather. His eyes flickered briefly at the portrait. “Yes.”

“Do you know where it was painted?”

“In France.” With uncharacteristic abruptness he said, “We should find Charles.”

I saw Charles on the other side of the swimming pool seated at a long stone table lit by flickering votive candles and talking to a group of men and women, all of them holding drinks. The withering heat had vanished as predicted, clearing out the humidity. A cool breeze rustled an arrangement of ferns and ornamental grasses growing in a planter set above a waterfall that spilled into the pool. Stone urns filled with more scarlet geraniums sat on pedestals at each corner of the octagonal pool and on either side of the waterfall. Someone had already turned on the lights so the water glowed celadon and turquoise like a tropical lagoon and the underlit plants threw swaying shadows on the white stucco wall behind them.

Charles, like Juliette, fixed his stare immediately on Pépé and me, getting up and excusing himself to his other guests. He was dressed like an aging matinee idol or Hef at the Playboy mansion—bottle-green velvet smoking jacket with silk lapels and cuffs, collarless open-neck white dress shirt, navy ascot and pocket handkerchief, charcoal trousers, black patent leather shoes.

Though my mother had been fond of Juliette, she had never warmed up to Charles, whom she considered a cold fish. Even now, I saw something steely in his dark eyes as he joined us, shaking hands first with Pépé and clapping him on the back, greeting him in flawless unaccented French. He extended a hand to me, clasping mine warmly in his.

“It’s been a long time, Lucie,” he said in English. “So glad you both could make it.”

I smiled and said nothing. Charles had invited us tonight for a reason. How long would it take him to get down to business and tell us what he wanted? I hadn’t seen him for years, yet he seemed well steeped in the details of my life and my business. How else could he have pulled puppeteer strings to get Mick to persuade me to site-sample some fabulous California wine, with the bonus and perfect timing of accompanying my elderly grandfather on his trip to the West Coast?

“I spoke to a couple of friends who flew out to the Grove today for the opening ceremony tomorrow, Luc,” Charles said. “You’ll be well looked after, meet a lot of good people. Those lakeside talks are always one of the highlights of the campout. Of course the alcohol’s first-rate, flows like water. You’ll drink some fabulous vintages, I promise you.”

“The ‘grove’?” I said. “What campout?”

Charles looked from me to Pépé. “Didn’t you tell her?”

“Eh … no.” My grandfather shook his head. “I wasn’t certain how much of what you told me was confidential.”

Until now I’d assumed Pépé had been invited to give a talk at some organization’s annual meeting, probably the featured speaker after a dinner of chicken with mystery sauce or dry roast beef with vegetable medley at a generic convention hotel.

Instead he was going camping. And Charles had arranged that, too.

“What’s going on?” I said. “Why all the secrecy?”

Charles’s smile was tolerant. “The Bohemian Grove is no secret, but it is private. The club, which is based in San Francisco, is probably the most prestigious gentlemen’s club in the United States. Been around since 1872. They’ve been camping each summer practically since that first year. After a while they managed to buy a couple thousand acres in a redwood forest on the Russian River so they’d have a permanent place to camp. They named it the Bohemian Grove.”

“The Bohemian Club is legendary, chérie ,” Pépé said. “Some of the most powerful men in the United States belong, or have belonged—including several of your presidents.”

“All these important men camp together in the woods, out in the middle of nowhere?” I asked. “What exactly do you do that you need so much privacy?”

“Please.” Charles waved a hand. “There’s been enough rubbish written about conspiracies and subterfuge or that the members are an elite ‘guild of illuminati’ getting together to plan their strategy on how they’ll rule the world—picking political leaders and manipulating financial markets. None of it’s true, I assure you. It’s strictly a social gathering.”

“Don’t tell me you spend your time roasting marshmallows and telling ghost stories,” I said. “Or do you?”

Charles pursed his lips. “Actually, I’m not a member. The waiting list is years, even decades, long. But I’ve been a guest there enough times to know what does go on. Obviously you meet … well, the right people. But it’s a couple of weeks to kick back and unwind with friends—get away from all the daily pressures.”

“And you camp in tents like the Boy Scouts?”

The idea of Pépé spending several nights on the ground in a sleeping bag at his age worried me.

“Some do,” Charles said. “Some of the camps are more rustic than others. There are about a hundred or so, scattered throughout the woods. Others would remind you of a European hunting lodge with artwork on the walls and beautiful furniture. Even a piano for the sing-alongs. Don’t worry, Lucie. Your grandfather’s staying in Knockabout, one of the more elegant, well-appointed campsites.”

He signaled for someone to refill our glasses. A striking dark-haired woman who looked about my age came over holding a bottle of champagne.

“Is everything all right, Ambassador?” she asked. “Can I bring you another martini?”

He nodded. “Jasmine, isn’t it?”

“Yes, sir.” She refilled Pépé’s and my glasses with an expert flick of her wrist. “I’ll be right back with your drink.”

“Are you leaving for California on Sunday as well?” I asked Charles.

“I’m not going on the campout this year.” His words were clipped, though he tried to soften them with a small smile. “But I’ve made all your arrangements, Luc. Ah, here’s my drink. Thank you, my dear.”

Jasmine glanced at Pépé and me as she handed Charles his martini. Her eyes met mine briefly and something flickered behind them. After she left, the three of us stood together in uncomfortable silence. We’d exhausted the topic of the Bohemian Grove and Charles had yet to explain why he’d really invited us tonight. By now, though, I suspected he’d figured out that we knew something was up.

He smiled and sipped his martini. “I’d like it very much if the two of you would join me for a drink after the other guests have left at the end of the evening. I have a small retreat, I guess you’d call it, on the property. There’s a bottle of Château Margaux waiting for us.”

A top-drawer bottle of wine.

Pépé glanced at me. “Thank you for the invitation, but it’s really up to Lucie. She’s the driver.”

“No worries about that,” Charles said at once. “One of the staff will drive you home in my car afterward. I promise your own car will be back at Highland House first thing in the morning.”

“Would this private drink have anything to do with Mick Dunne?” I asked.

I’d caught Charles by surprise and an annoyed look crossed his face. Then he recovered. “Ah, I see you two have spoken. As a matter of fact, indirectly it does have something to do with Mick. The California wine, yes?”

I nodded. “There’s more to it than that. It’s rather complicated and I prefer to discuss it when we’re alone.” He lifted his glass to his lips again. His hand shook and the drink sloshed over the rim and dripped on the sleeve of his velvet jacket.

“Damn.”

A waitress materialized and blotted the spot, taking his glass for a refill. Charles looked up.