Free The Vintage Caper by Peter Mayle Page B

primordial human urge to go shopping.
    Sam put aside the newspaper and looked around him. The other customers appeared curiously cheerful. Eating their tartines and drinking their coffee, their fresh morning faces as yet unmarked by the rigors of the day ahead, they seemed unaware that, based on this morning’s news, the world might well come to an end before lunchtime.
    He ordered another crème and jotted down the wines and vintages that he was searching for: ’53 Lafite, ’61 Latour, ’70 Pétrus, ’75 Yquem, ’82 Figeac, ’83 Margaux. What a list. Sam couldn’t help but feel that these treasures were wasted on Danny Roth. To him, they were merely bottled status, and slightly unsatisfactory status at that, since he couldn’t put them on the wall for all to see. What would he do with the insurance money, Sam wondered, if the wine was never found?
    His musings were interrupted by the ringing of his cell phone. It was Sophie, calling to say it was not even ten o’clock yet, and here she was already at the hotel. Bright and early, as agreed. But where was he? Did they usually sleep this late in California?
    He hurried back to the hotel to find her in the lobby. She was clearly in good spirits—smiling, holding up her arm, and tapping the watch on her wrist, pleased to have arrived before him. This morning she was dressed as if she had come on horseback—close-fitting riding pants tucked into soft leather boots, a tweed hacking jacket, a silk scarf with a subtle horseshoe motif (undoubtedly Hermès) knotted around her neck. The height of equestrian chic. Sam wondered if he should whinny as he looked her up and down with an appreciative eye. This was something you didn’t see every day in L.A.
    “Great outfit,” he said. “Too bad you forgot the spurs. Sorry to keep you waiting. Are you feeling lucky today?”
    “Of course,” she said. “Très optimiste . Today we find something. You will see.” She slipped her arm through his as they walked to the car. “Shall we start with Lafite?”
    During the drive up from Bordeaux to the Médoc, Sophie explained the reason for her buoyant mood. The previous evening, after leaving Sam, she had met with her lawyer, who had told her that the three-year squabble with her ex-husband was finally settled, and she would shortly be free to remarry. Terms had been agreed upon. Her ex would keep the boat that he ran as a charter business in Saint-Barth; Sophie would keep the apartment in Bordeaux. Maybe they could even be friends. Or maybe not. He had been trouble from the start, Sophie said, always running off somewhere on a boat, and usually ending up with some unsuitable girl.
    “Hmm,” said Sam. “Sounds like a man after my own heart.”
    Sophie laughed. “You like boats?”
    “I prefer girls. I don’t get seasick with girls.”
    Sophie had chosen a road that bisected flat, immaculate countryside, with ruler-straight lines of vines running off to the horizon. There were châteaus to the left of them, châteaus to the right: Léoville Barton, Latour, Pichon-Lalande, Lynch-Bages, Pontet-Canet. Sam felt as though they were driving through a top-class wine list.
    “Have you ever been to the wine country in California?” he asked.
    “Napa and Sonoma? No, never. Perhaps one day. Is it anything like this?”
    Sam thought of the dry, brown hills, the vast modern wineries with their gift boutiques, and the busloads of visitors. “Not exactly. But some of the wine is pretty good.”
    “You know why that is?” Sophie didn’t give him the chance to answer. “Because you have so many French making wine over there now.” She grinned at him. “I am very chauvine . For me, French wine is best.”
    “Try telling that to an Italian.”
    “Italians make clothes and shoes. And one good cheese. Their wine …” Her mouth turned down, and there was a dismissive waggle from her hand. There was clearly no room for debate. Another victory, Sam thought, for the French superiority