Free The Bordeaux Betrayal by Ellen Crosby Page A

down time I’m going to go nuts. What’s up?”
    He sounded friendly but guarded.
    “Could I ask a favor?”
    “What is it?”
    “You were right about the national attention your column would bring our auction,” I said. “The winery is getting calls from all over the place. Jordy Jordan told me the day it ran he booked every room at the Fox and Hound for that weekend.”
    “Glad to hear it. So what’s this favor?”
    So much for trying to butter him up.
    “It’s not a local fund-raiser anymore. Now it’s a big deal,” I said. “Before that column ran we accepted any donation we got, meaning wines that came straight out of people’s wine cellars. Bottles they’d gotten as gifts or wine they’d been storing for a while. I haven’t begun to catalog any of it, nor do I have any idea what prices to set for the opening bids. Now I think we’re going to have a savvy, street-smart crowd bidding on them. Nothing like we anticipated.”
    “You want me to help catalog your wines?” He blew out a short, sharp breath. “Do you know how much work that is?”
    “Please, Ryan. I’m begging. It’s for charity. And, uh, one other favor? I’d like you to be the auctioneer. We need a pro now. You’d be terrific.”
    I could hear him drumming something on the top of his desk, a pen or a pencil, while he thought about it. The rat-a-tat stopped. “You paying for my expertise?”
    “Of course.” I should have seen that coming. “What’s your fee?”
    “I’ll cut you a break,” he said, “since it’s for charity. Pay me a thousand and I’ll handle the catalog and raise a bundle for your charity. Deal?”
    I wondered what his noncharity price tag was. Everyone else was doing this for free.
    “Deal,” I said.
    “Okay, get me a list of everything you’ve got and shoot it to me in an e-mail. I’ll start figuring out your floor prices.”
    “I’ll get you the list, but do you think maybe you could come over here instead?” I asked.
    “Why do I have to come over there?” He sounded ominous. I was on my third favor and thin ice.
    “I just want to make sure the donations we’ve got are the real thing. So I’d like you to actually
look
at the bottles.”
    “If you want me to do that, I need to ask twelve-fifty.”
    I hadn’t even bargained on paying him the thousand, but I couldn’t afford to lose him. “Okay, okay. Twelve-fifty. We’ll pay you after the auction. From the proceeds.”
    “Yeah, fine. I know you’re good for it.”
    “How about coming by tomorrow evening?”
    “Hang on.” I waited, probably while he scrolled through his electronic calendar. “Looks like I could do five.”
    “Five’s good. See you then.”
    “How come you didn’t corral Jack Greenfield into doing this? Or Shane Cunningham?” he said. “You know Shane’s running Internet wine auctions now. He and Jack do this stuff all the time.”
    Shane was Jack’s business partner. I knew about the wine auctions but I’d been too busy with harvest to check out what he was selling. Might as well come clean and tell Ryan the truth before he got here tomorrow.
    “Because one of the bottles I’m worried about is the Washington wine and I can’t ask Jack or Shane.”
    He barked a laugh. “Well, you can relax about that one. I
did
look that bottle over when Jack had it. I guarantee you, it’s the real deal.”
    “You’re sure?”
    “Why wouldn’t I be? What’s up?”
    “Valerie Beauvais said there was something I didn’t know about its provenance. She was on her way here to look at it the morning she died. I never found out what she knew.”
    Ryan snorted. “Valerie—God rest her soul—wouldn’t have known provenance if it walked up and slapped her upside her head.”
    When I was silent he said, “Okay, sorry. That was rude. When I’m over there tomorrow, I’ll show you why I’m so sure you don’t have anything to worry about. Satisfied?”
    I said “yes” but he’d already hung up.
    He seemed to know a