Douglas Preston - Crimson Shore

“How did you happen on a case of the ’04? I thought it was long gone.”

“And so did everyone else. I’m always on the lookout for wine collections for sale, especially when the owner dies and his heirs want to turn it into cash. My wife and I found this case in an old wine collection in New Orleans.”

Pendergast raised his eyebrows. “New Orleans?”

“An ancient French family of means that fell onto hard times.”

As Constance watched, a look of irritation crossed Pendergast’s face — or was it vexation?

Lake turned toward the open door just as Pendergast rose from his chair. “On second thought, I will take on your little problem.”

“Really?” Lake turned back, his face breaking into a smile. “Wonderful! As I said, whatever your fee is I will be glad—”

“My fee is simple: a bottle of the Haut-Braquilanges.”

Lake hesitated. “I was thinking more along the lines of a financial arrangement.”

“The bottle is my fee.”

“But to break up the case...” His voice trailed off and a long silence ensued. At last, Lake smiled. “Ah, well, why not? You obviously aren’t in need of ready funds. I should be glad to have your help. In fact, you can have your pick of the case!” Flushed with his own gesture of generosity, Lake extended his hand once again.

Pendergast shook it. “Mr. Lake, please leave your address and contact information with Proctor. I will join you in Exmouth tomorrow.”

“I’ll look forward to seeing you. I haven’t touched anything in the basement; I left it just as is. The police came through, of course, but they did precious little besides take a few photographs with a cell phone — if you can believe it.”

“It would be helpful if you found an excuse to keep them out, should they return.”

“Return? Little chance of that.”

In a moment he had left, trailed by Proctor. Constance turned toward Pendergast. He returned her look with amused, silvery eyes.

“May I ask what you’re doing?” she said.

“Taking a private case.”

“Stolen wine?”

“My dear Constance, New York City has been depressingly free of serial murders these last few months. My plate, as they say, is empty. This is a perfect vacation opportunity: a week or two in a charming seaside town, in the off-season, with an amuse-bouche of a case to occupy one’s time. Not to mention a congenial client.”

“Blustery and self-aggrandizing would be a more suitable characterization.”

“You’re a worse misanthrope than I am. I for one could use the bracing, autumnal air of the seaside after the events of late.”

She glanced at him privately. It was true — after the ordeal he’d endured over the summer, any diversion might be welcome. “But a bottle of wine as payment? Next you’ll be offering your services in exchange for a Shake Shack hamburger.”

“Unlikely. That wine is the reason, the only reason, I took the case. In the nineteenth century, Chateau Haut-Braquilanges produced the finest wines in France. Their signature claret was the product of a single vineyard, of about two acres, planted in Cabernet Sauvignon, Cabernet Franc, and Merlot. It was situated on a hill near Fronsac. Unfortunately, that hill was violently contested in World War I, drenched with mustard gas and poisoned forever, and the chateau leveled. There are at most two dozen bottles left of the vintages from that chateau known to exist. But none from the greatest vintage of all — 1904. It was believed extinct. Extraordinary that this fellow has a case of it. You saw how reluctant he was to part with even the one bottle.”

Constance shrugged. “I hope you enjoy the vacation.”

“I have no doubt it will be a most amiable holiday for us.”

“Us? You want me to go with you?” She felt a creeping sensation of heat in her face.

“Indeed. I think you’re ready for a vacation like this, away from familiar surroundings. In fact, I insist. You need a holiday as much as I do — and I’d welcome a chance to duck those letters from the Botanic Garden administration for a spell, wouldn’t you?”

Constance Greene could smell the sea air as soon as Pendergast turned their vintage Porsche roadster onto the Metacomet Bridge, a decaying pile of rusted trestles and struts that spanned a broad salt marsh. The mid-October sun momentarily glittered off the water as they sped along. On the far side of the marsh, the road plunged momentarily through a dark pine wood, then broke free again. There, lying along a curve where the marshlands met the ocean, lay the town of Exmouth, Massachusetts. To Constance, it looked as she imagined a typical New England town should: a cluster of shingled houses along a main street; several church steeples; a brick town hall. As they slowed and passed down the main street, she examined her surroundings with interest.

The town had a faint air of benign neglect that only added to its charm: a seaside village with white clapboard buildings, seagulls wheeling overhead, uneven brick sidewalks and local shops. They passed a gas station, several old storefronts with plate-glass windows, a diner, a funeral parlor, a movie theater turned into a bookstore, and an eighteenth-century sea captain’s mansion, complete with widow’s walk. A sign out front identified it as the Exmouth Historical Society and Museum.

The few townspeople strolling on the sidewalks stopped and stared at them as they passed by. Constance found herself surprised at her own curiosity. Although she’d never admit it, she knew that, despite her voluminous reading, she had seen so very little of the world that she felt like a Marco Polo in her own land.

“Do you see any likely wine criminals?” Pendergast asked.

“That elderly gentleman in the madras jacket with the purple bow tie looks suspicious.”

Pendergast slowed and carelessly eased the roadster to the curb.

“We’re stopping?”

“We have a little time. Let us try what I understand to be a local delicacy: the lobster roll.” As they got out, the gentleman in the madras jacket passed with a nod and smile, and continued on.

“Definitely suspicious,” murmured Constance.

“He should be locked up on the strength of that bow tie alone.”

They walked along the sidewalk and turned down a lane leading to the waterfront. A cluster of fishing shacks mingled with shops and a few restaurants, and a row of piers led into a bay at the mouth of the tidal marshes. Beyond, over the waving sea grasses, Constance could see a bright line of ocean. Could she live in a town like this? Absolutely not. But it was an interesting place to visit.

Alongside the commercial pier stood a seafood shack, with a hand-painted sign of a lobster and a clam dancing to a row of mussels playing instruments.

“Two lobster rolls, please,” said Pendergast as they stepped up to the shack.

The food quickly arrived: massive chunks of lobster in a creamy sauce, overstuffed into a buttered, split-top hot dog roll and spilling out into their cardboard trays.

“How does one eat it?” Constance said, eyeing hers.

“I am at a loss.”

A two-toned police squad car eased into the nearby parking lot and made a circuit. The car slowed and the driver, a large man with captain’s bars on his shoulder, eyed them for a moment, gave a knowing smile, then continued on.

“The chief himself,” Pendergast said, tossing his uneaten lobster roll into a trash can.

“Something seemed to have amused him.”

“Yes, and I believe we shall soon discover why.”

As they strolled back up the main street, Constance saw a ticket fluttering on the Porsche’s windscreen. Pendergast pulled it out and examined it. “It seems I parked straddling two spaces. How remiss of me.”