Read Chapter 2: First Taste

The gravel crunched under the rented Peugeot’s tires as Alex rolled to a stop in front of a two-story stone farmhouse. A woman in her fifties stood on the steps, wiping her hands on a cloth apron tied over a canvas work shirt. Her grey hair was pulled back tight, and her eyes—sharp, assessing—never left him as he killed the engine.

“You’re late,” she said. No handshake. No greeting.

Alex stepped out, the Burgundy air cool and tinged with something green and living. “Claire, I assume.”

“You assume right.” She turned and walked toward a low building to the left, not bothering to check he was following. “You said nine. It’s nearly ten. Time moves differently here, but the grapes don’t wait for anyone.”

He grabbed his overnight bag from the back seat and fell into step behind her. “I got held up with the lawyer.”

“Ah. Maître Rousseau.” She said the name like it tasted of cork. “He talks a lot and says little. Did he give you the speech about your father’s legacy?”

“Something like that.”

Claire pushed open a heavy oak door and gestured inside. The barrel room was vast and dim, the air cool and damp. Rows of oak barrels stretched into the shadows—but nearly half the racks were empty. Dust motes hung in the slanted light from high windows. A few barrels sat in the corners, their bungs sealed with wax, but the space had the hollow feel of a church after the congregation had left.

“This is the chai,” Claire said. “Where the last three vintages should be aging.”

“Should be.”

She gave him a look. “The 2023 went to a négociant in Lyon at a loss. Your father’s decision. One I advised against. The 2022 and 2021 were sold in bulk—also at a loss.” She paused, letting the implication settle. “The previous twenty years of stock? Gone. Sold off in pieces over the last two years.”

Alex ran a hand along the rim of a barrel, feeling the grain under his fingers. “That’s not a working estate. That’s a liquidation.”

“Life under your father’s management,” Claire said. “In theory.”

She walked past him, deeper into the chai, until she reached a back wall lined with stone. She pressed a worn iron latch hidden in the mortar. A section of wall swung inward with a low groan, revealing a staircase descending into darkness. She took a flashlight from a hook and clicked it on.

“This is the old cellar. Pre-revolution. The monks dug it.” She started down.

Alex followed, the air growing colder with each step. The stairwell opened into a low-ceilinged chamber carved from the earth itself. His breath plumed. Claire’s flashlight swept across the room, and Alex’s heart rate picked up.

Racks lined the walls—not empty ones. Bottles. Thousands of them. Dark glass glinting in the light, lying in neat rows with labels faded to cream and gold.

“These are the old vintages,” Claire said. “The ones your father kept. He sold everything else to keep this room full.”

Alex stepped closer. Dust coated the bottles like a second skin. He picked one up, wiped the grime away with his thumb. *Château Margaux, 1959.* He set it back carefully and moved along the racks. *La Tâche, 1971. Musigny, 1966. Chambertin, 1955.*

“This must be worth a fortune,” he said.

“More than the estate,” Claire said flatly. “And fewer questions are asked about it.”

Alex stopped. He turned to face her. “What does that mean?”

Claire’s expression was unreadable. “It means your father kept two sets of books. The ones he showed the bank, and the ones he kept down here.” She moved the flashlight to a corner shelf, isolated from the rest, set apart by a brass rail. A single bottle rested there.

Alex walked to it. A magnum, dusty and imposing. He lifted it gently and read the label: *1961 Romanée-Saint-Vivant.* His pulse jumped. That bottle alone could fund a year of the estate’s operations.

But what caught his eye was the stamp on the label’s corner—a faded circular mark, blue ink bleeding into the paper. *Banque de Change et de Crédit, Genève.*

“This was a bank’s,” he said.

Claire’s voice came from behind him, tight. “Put it down.”

He didn’t move. “Why?”

“Because it doesn’t belong to you.”

“Everything in this cellar belongs to me. I inherited it.”

“You haven’t accepted yet.” She stepped closer, her hand hovering near the bottle. “And if you know what’s good for you, you won’t take that one.”

“Why?” Alex repeated. He turned the bottle slightly, reading the handwritten notation on a small tag tied to the neck. A date: three months before his father’s death. A name, partially smudged: *B. Moreau*—his father. And beneath it, a reference number that meant nothing to Alex but matched the format of the lawyer’s correspondence. “What is it? Collateral?”

Claire’s jaw tightened. “I don’t know exactly. But I know your father used that bottle the way other men use a safety deposit box. It was his marker. His promise. When the debt comes due, that bottle goes to someone else.”

“What debt?”

Before Claire could answer, a shadow fell across the top of the stairwell, and a voice echoed down from above. “Mademoiselle Bernard? Are you down there?”

Claire exhaled, a sound of barely suppressed irritation. “Delacroix.”

She turned and started back toward the stairs, calling up, “Inspector. We weren’t expecting you.”

Alex replaced the magnum carefully on its shelf and followed her up into the barrel room. A lean man in a grey suit stood by the door, his hands clasped behind his back. He was perhaps sixty, with silver hair cut short and the posture of someone who had spent years in interviews that were never quite friendly.

“I heard you were coming,” Delacroix said, his eyes moving to Alex. “You must be the son.”

“Alex Moreau.”

Delacroix extended a hand. His grip was brief, dry. “Inspector Étienne Delacroix, Gendarmerie Nationale. Financial crimes unit.” He smiled without warmth. “I had a professional relationship with your father. We were discussing some irregularities before his unfortunate accident.”

“His death,” Alex said quietly. “It was an accident.”

Delacroix tilted his head, considering. “Is that what they told you?”

Claire moved to stand between them. “Inspector, Monsieur Moreau just arrived. He hasn’t even accepted the estate yet. Whatever questions you have can wait.”

“I’m sure they can.” Delacroix’s gaze drifted past Claire, toward the back wall where the hidden entrance blended seamlessly into the stone. “But I wanted to introduce myself. And to pass along a courtesy.” He turned back to Alex. “Your father and I had an arrangement. He provided information about certain transactions, and I provided protection from certain… inquiries. When he died, that arrangement died with him. The estate, however, remains of interest.”

Alex felt the weight of the key in his pocket, the one the lawyer had given him. He hadn’t mentioned it to Claire. He hadn’t mentioned it to anyone.

“What are you investigating?” Alex asked.

Delacroix smiled again, tighter this time. “The same thing your father was laundering money through fine wine for. I’m trying to find out who he worked for.” He glanced at Claire. “Perhaps you can convince the new owner to be more cooperative than the last one.”

He turned and walked out, the door swinging shut behind him. The room fell silent.

Claire stood very still. “You can’t trust him.”

“And I can trust you?” Alex asked. “You knew my father had hidden cellars and secret arrangements, but you never mentioned any of it until I stepped through the door.”

Claire held his gaze. “Because until you stepped through that door, I didn’t know if you were his son or his replacement.” She paused. “Now I’m not sure either.” She gestured toward the house. “Your room is upstairs. First door on the left. Dinner’s at seven.”

She left him standing in the chai, the cool air pressing against his face. From here, the near-empty racks seemed less like neglect and more like a vacuum—a space where something large had been sucked out, taking answers with it.

He pulled the key from his pocket and turned it over in his palm. Somewhere on this property, there was a door it would open. He just had to find it before anyone else did.