Page 55 of Dagger’s Shield

Everything else in the ledger was a footnote beside it. Where the estate’s other buyers took a few hundred cases at a time, Fontenay had bought by the container, twice a year, for nine years, without a single missed or late payment. My mother had told me the deal quadrupled our sales. Looking at the totals from ten years ago versus when they became a customer, I thought she’d understated it.

I examined the cost per case they paid versus the other distributors. “This doesn’t make sense,” I muttered.

“What’s that?” Dagger asked, peering over my shoulder.

“The prices Fontenay is paying are too high.”

“How so?”

I opened the next largest customer’s account history. “Why would they pay more?”

“The higher volume would suggest otherwise,” he said.

“It’s more than that. While discounts vary by industry, the rule of thumb is a distributor pays sixty percent of retail.” I wasn’t telling Dagger anything he didn’t already know.

“What are they paying?”

“Eighty percent.”

“Other than the obvious, what reasons would they have?” he asked. “They might pay extra to guarantee their supply. They might pay more so they’re first in line.”

“That would account for a percentage or two. Not twenty.”

“Would they do it to keep the wine away from their competitors?”

“The domaine sells the same vintages to a dozen other distributors.”

“Try this one. Fontenay sells to luxury markets. Gulf hotels, Michelin restaurants, collectors who don’t ask prices. Maybe they overpay here because their own buyers overpay them and your father knew that going in?”

“While I can’t say whether or not my father is a particularly astute businessman, it seems ludicrous to think that whoever is running Fontenay is equally obtuse.”

Footsteps too heavy to be my mother’s or Marthe’s sounded down the corridor. As they got closer, I could hear my father talking on his mobile about the spring releases. When his voice faded, I let out the breath I had been holding.

Dagger walked over to the window, then turned to face me. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”

“The same thing you are. My father is laundering money.”

At two o’clock, Dagger and I left the bedroom. While I met with Maman, he went for a walk in the vineyards.

My mother sat on the sofa, with a notebook open on her lap. Color had come into her cheeks since breakfast, and she’d dressed as though she were expecting guests.

“There you are.” She patted the cushion beside her. “Sit. We have decisions to make.”

I glanced at the page and the columns she’d started for flowers, linens, and music.

“How long have you been at this, Maman?”

“Not long.”

When I sat, she tapped the first column with her pen.

“First, the date. The garden is at its best during the second half of May, when the peonies open. Shall we say the third Saturday?”

“Oui, Maman.”

She wrote it down. Every time I made a decision, the weight of the lies felt heavier. When the truth came out about the engagement being fake, it would devastate my mother. I had no idea how I’d live with myself then.

“If it rains, we’ll have it in the cuverie. It will still be beautiful. Marthe will help decorate.”