Free Blood Wine by John Moss Page A

Rembrandt not a Rembrandt? Simple, when it’s recognized to be by someone else.”
    â€œWell, thank you,” said Miranda. “I think there’s no doubt you’re in the wine trade. It shouldn’t be too hard to track you down —”
    â€œWhen is Elke not Elke?” said Morgan.
    The other two ignored him.
    The end warehouse was different from the others. It had a loading dock on the side and there were power lines running in, suggesting industrial machinery. On the outside, it had the same asphalt shingle siding. Probably all these buildings had been used for apples and cherries, peaches or pears, before the orchards were torn up to plant vines.
    Inside were stainless steel tanks and pipes and a complex of belts and wheels, racks and tracks, for bottling, labelling, packing wine in wooden cases, each clearly stencilled with the imprimatur of Baudrillard et fils, Avignon, designating the contents as Château N euf-du-Pape, with the vendage, 1996, stamped on neck collars in washed-out ink.
    â€œSo this is the set-up,” said Morgan, fascinated. He picked up a loose label lying on a bench and examined it closely. It had a serial number in blue ink stamped under the sketch of the generic chateau. “Were these bottles individually numbered?”
    â€œYes, of course,” said the blond woman. “That would confirm their value, especially in the New World, where individuality is at such a high premium.”
    â€œWhat do you think they’d sell for?” asked Miranda.
    â€œMaybe eighty or ninety dollars a bottle, American.”
    â€œSo, a thousand dollars a case. A thousand cases, a million dollars.”
    â€œI would imagine they sold many, many more,” said the young woman with authority. “Thousands upon thousands, in the American market — I think if you check out lading bills for Bonnydoon Winery we’ll find they exported far more than they could produce from a paltry vineyard like this.”
    â€œSo why is no one around?” said Miranda.
    â€œI think maybe they’ve had a shake-up in management,” said Morgan.
    Michelle, or Elke, as she now chose to be called, walked over and stood near the base of a giant stainless steel vat. She moved a little to one side, as if trying to catch an elusive sound floating in the air. She closed her eyes and opened them several times, then she smiled almost shyly.
    â€œI was right here, I was taped to a chair. Duct tape, I can hear it being stripped from the roll. Nothing over my mouth. My eyes were covered. I didn’t scream. I could hear the steel tank, listen, you can hear the faint pulsing of fermentation, no, not fermentation, this would be the final product ready for bottling. You can hear the air pressure against wine on steel … something, I can hear something.”
    Miranda stood close beside her but could distinguish no sound emanating specifically from the stainless steel.
    â€œMy name is Elke Sturmberg. I know everything now. I work in New York. I work for an auction house. I know who I am. I know I was here, strapped in a chair. There is a disconnect. I was in Rochester, then Buffalo, then a small plane, then I was here.”
    Morgan retrieved a chair from the edge of the scene and set it down beside her. She lowered herself onto the chair with her eyes closed, almost as if she were enacting the role of a clairvoyant. Suddenly she shivered and slumped down in the chair, overwhelmed by her vision.
    â€œWhat is it?” said Miranda, the sharp rise in her voice betraying her close identification with the woman’s overwhelming anxiety.
    Elke Sturmberg reached up without opening her eyes and grasped in the air for Miranda’s hand. She seemed to be jolted from within by a series of graphic revelations.
    Gradually, she sat more upright in her chair. They waited. She opened her eyes and began to speak. “There was screaming. At first I thought it was me. I might have