Cold Vengeance - Lincoln Child [67]
Pendergast held the memory briefly, like a precious jewel, then let it fade away. Turning from the window, he let his eye roam around the room, taking in the African sculptures, the beautiful mahogany furniture, the jades, and the bookshelves laden with gold-stamped tomes. He did not know when Esterhazy would return, but he wished he could be there to appreciate the homecoming.
He let the wines rest for half an hour—a longer rest would be risky with the older vintages—and then began his tasting. Starting with the 1892, he poured no more than a mouthful into the decanter and swirled it slowly, examining the color in the light. Then he poured it into the glass, inhaled the aroma, and—eventually—took a generous sip. Placing the bottle on the windowsill, uncorked, he moved on to the next younger.
The entire process took another hour, and by the end his equanimity was fully restored.
At last, he put the decanter and glass aside and rose from the chair. He finally addressed his attention to the small safe he had earlier discovered behind one of the diplomas hanging on the wall. It resisted Pendergast’s advances quite valiantly, yielding only after ten minutes of delicate work.
Just as he was opening its door, Pendergast’s cell phone rang. He examined the incoming number before answering. “Yes?”
“Aloysius? It’s Peter Beaufort. I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”
A sudden silence, and then Pendergast said, “I was just enjoying a quiet glass of wine.”
“The results are in.”
“And?”
“I think I’d rather tell you in person.”
“I would like to know now.”
“I won’t tell you over the phone. Get here as quickly as you can.”
“I’m in Savannah. I’ll catch a late-night flight and meet you in your office tomorrow morning. At nine.”
Pendergast returned the phone to his pocket and returned his attention to the safe. It contained the usual items: jewelry, some stock certificates, the deed to the house, a last will and testament, and a variety of miscellaneous papers including what appeared to be some old bills from a nursing home in Camden, Maine, concerning a patient named Emma Grolier. Pendergast swept up the documents and put them in his pocket for later examination. Then he sat down at the roll-top desk, took a sheet of blank linen paper, and wrote a short note.
My dear Judson,
I thought you’d be interested in the results of my vertical wine tasting of your Latours. I found the 1918 sadly faded, and the 1949 was to my mind overrated: it ended worse than it started, with tannic overtones. The 1958 was, alas, corked. But the rest were quite delightful. And the ’45 was superlative—still rich and surpassingly elegant, with an aroma of currants and mushrooms and a long, sweet finish. Pity you only had a single bottle.
My apologies for what happened to your collection of old pots. I’ve left you a little something to compensate.
P.
Pendergast placed the letter on top of the desk. Reaching into his pocket, he extracted a five-dollar bill from his wallet and put it alongside.
He had reached the doorway before a thought struck him. Turning back, he walked over to the windowsill and picked up the 1945 bottle of Château Latour. Corking it carefully, he took it with him, making his way from the den to the kitchen and out into the fragrant night air.
CHAPTER 35
Armadillo Crossing, Mississippi
BETTERTON WAS OUT FOR AN EARLY-MORNING cup of coffee when the idea hit him. It was a long shot, but not so much that it wasn’t worth a ten-mile detour to check on.
He turned his Nissan around and headed once again in the direction of Malfourche, stopping a few miles short at the sorry-looking fork in the road known locally as Armadillo Crossing. The story was, someone had run over an armadillo here years ago, the smashed carcass remaining long enough to give the fork its name. The only house at the fork consisted of a tar-paper shack, the residence of one Billy B. “Grass” Hopper.
Betterton pulled up in front of the old Hopper place, almost indistinguishable beneath a thick