§ § § -- December 22, 1979
Roarke hadn't been looking forward to breaking the bad news to Sister Veronica, but he'd known it couldn't be avoided; she had to know. But as he'd taken the leisurely walk to call on her (the long way around, of course), he'd been stricken with an idea that he had great hopes for. Perhaps he didn't have to burst Sister Veronica's bubble just yet. He fine-tuned the plan through the rest of his walk, so that it was ready by the time he knocked on her bungalow door. A moment later she answered, lighting up at sight of him. "Oh, it's you, Mr. Roarke! Won't you come in?"
"Thank you, Sister," Roarke said and stepped in as she closed the door behind them.
"I had a lovely nap," she said cheerfully. "I do hope that you and Tattoo enjoyed my wine?"
"Oh…it was an unforgettable experience, Sister Veronica," he said as tactfully as he could manage. "That's precisely why I've come to see you. After sampling your, um…wine…" If it can be called that, ran through his head, but he squelched the thought and focused on the eager nun. "…I came to a very firm business decision. I would like to purchase your entire stock of Santa Rosarita burgundy now, before the judging takes place. I, of course, would pay fair market price."
Sister Veronica lit up. "I see. Then you believe that the outcome of the competition will affect the price of my wine."
"Oh, I do, Sister, I do. I…I expect to make a fortune!" He chuckled a little nervously, but she seemed lost in her own ruminations and didn't appear to notice.
"And," she mused, pacing thoughtfully away from him, "if I should fail to win the gold medal, then the market price of my wine would drop…and you could lose a great deal of money, couldn't you?" She turned back to him, concern all over her kindly face.
"Uh, well…yes, yes, but…that's a gamble I'm willing to take," Roarke assured her. Better he lose money than that the sister's fantasy should come to such an ignominious end. He could afford it in the end. And perhaps I could try to sell it for some other purpose, he thought unexpectedly, such as motorcycle fuel… Again he stifled his train of thought and smiled broadly at Sister Veronica.
Then she said, "No, no, Mr. Roarke. I appreciate your generous offer, and I know you're only trying to safeguard my interests—" He started to protest, but she approached him and insisted earnestly, "It's not necessary! As I told you before, I have perfect faith."
"But Sister—" Roarke tried again.
"Don't worry, Mr. Roarke," she entreated, grasping his hands between hers and smiling serenely. "All will be well!" She patted his hands a few times and released him, leaving him standing there with his hands pressed together as if in prayer. He chuckled with her, then noticed the position of his hands and pulled them apart, shooting a wry glance skyward. It would take a lot more than the hope of divine intervention to pull this off, he realized. Worse than that, ultimately, he just hadn't been able to bring himself to tell Sister Veronica the truth. What an example to set for his ward…
‡ ‡ ‡
"You realize this isn't very honest, don't you?" Leslie whispered to Tattoo as they walked through the dark, quiet town square. They were headed into the pedestrian section where their guests, fantasizers and vacationers alike, bought their souvenirs; there was a wine shop located here, and they were on their way to its cellar, where the wines that had been entered in the competition were being stored till the judging took place. Tattoo was toting a bottle of Les Petits Sorelles, and Leslie had accompanied him, very surprised when Roarke had unexpectedly agreed to let her go out this late. She had been wondering if there were something on his mind, but hadn't asked, figuring it must be business.
"It's the best I could come up with," Tattoo whispered back. "Stop acting like a thief in the night, will you? Just trust me and do as I do." She sighed but gave in, and they approached the guard—a member of the local constabulary—who stood on duty a few feet from the door to the wine cellar.
"Hi," said Tattoo. "We'd like to go in and take a look around."
"Of course, Mr. Tattoo," the guard said with a smile, and he gestured Tattoo and Leslie on toward the door. Tattoo strolled nonchalantly in, let Leslie in after him and closed the door; he pulled his suit jacket tighter around him when the chill of the cellar hit them, and Leslie hugged herself, rubbing her hands along her arms.
"Is it supposed to be that cold in here?" she mumbled and followed Tattoo down the steps. Raising her voice, she said, "Tell me again why we're doing this, just to refresh my memory."
"I've gotta make sure the sister's wine wins," Tattoo reminded her patiently. "If I'd had more time, I might've thought of something else, but the judging's tomorrow. This is the only way."
"Right," she said on a resigned rush of air. She paused behind Tattoo, watching him run his finger down a posted list of the wines in the contest. Shortly he located it under the section headed Burgundy. "Now what?" she asked, shivering a little.
"You don't have to do anything," he said. "Just wait there and let me know if you hear anybody coming." She nodded, a pensive look crossing her face, and hovered at the wall near the list of wines while he dragged a stepstool to the wine racks, climbed onto it, located the bottle of Santa Rosarita burgundy that was stored in its designated slot, and removed it. He then set about opening both wine bottles while she looked on, ears open, straining for any suspicious noises and wondering what was going to happen after Tattoo was finished with his tampering.
§ § § -- December 23, 1979
It seemed nobody had really slept much the previous night. Leslie was still afraid Tattoo's little game of musical wines would be uncovered, and Roarke clearly had something on his mind. This time Tattoo noticed it as well, and he and Leslie looked at each other before he asked, "Boss, are you okay?"
Roarke looked up as if surprised. "Is there some reason I shouldn't be?"
"You just look preoccupied," said Leslie. "You looked like that last night too."
"Did I?" murmured Roarke, contemplating the newspaper that lay near his plate.
"You're doing it again," Tattoo and Leslie chorused at him.
Roarke sighed and glanced at Tattoo, then focused on Leslie. "I thought I would try to find a better way out of the dilemma," he said. "I went to Sister Veronica yesterday as you asked…but I offered to buy her entire stock of wine, rather than telling her the truth."
She stared at him in amazement. "You did?"
Roarke nodded. "However, Sister Veronica refused. She has complete faith that her wine is going to win this contest. Faith in you, Tattoo." This he directed at his assistant; but Tattoo was unruffled.
"Well, I don't think we have anything to worry about, boss," he said, while Leslie suddenly shifted her attention to her plate and started to demolish her breakfast. "I've got it all taken care of."
"Do you indeed?" inquired Roarke with interest, without missing the way Leslie concentrated on her food.
"Sure do," said Tattoo with a smile. "Those judges aren't gonna know what hit 'em."
"You can say that again," mumbled Leslie through a mouthful of scrambled eggs. Roarke and Tattoo both looked at her, and she lifted her gaze for a second or two, shrugged, then returned to her eating.
To her relief, Roarke let the subject drop; she supposed he figured that it was Tattoo's problem in the end, thus the solution was entirely up to Tattoo and none of his concern. He refrained from mentioning the subject any further, even more than two hours later when the judging of the wines finally got under way in the side yard. "And now, to complete the preliminary judging, we have the burgundy of the convent of Santa Rosarita." The rather pompous-looking and -sounding head judge behind the table containing the wines proceeded to pour out a quantity of the contents of the bottle of Santa Rosarita that Tattoo had tinkered with the night before. Leslie compressed her lips; Tattoo looked on with a smile, Roarke looked worried and confused, and Sister Veronica wore a delighted, anticipatory grin.
Silence reigned, except for the chirping of birds, while the three judges sniffed the wine, sampled it, and looked at one another with dignified smiles of approval. Leslie sneaked a glance at Roarke and saw his face morph into a mask of pure bewilderment.
The head judge raised the bottle. "We are unanimous. The wine of Santa Rosarita is superb in all particulars." Tattoo and Sister Veronica beamed; Roarke stared in disbelief, and Leslie stood there wrestling with her conscience. The judge continued, "It will now move on to the finals against the entry of the Fernandel Winery." Restrained applause broke out; nearby, the nerdy young man Leslie had seen early yesterday stood beside an imperious-looking middle-aged woman wearing an expensive blue dress, and an anxious mustachioed older man in a double-breasted suit. They nudged each other and muttered frenetically among themselves. Leslie wondered if they were anything to worry about.
"Well," said Sister Veronica, diverting Leslie's attention, "now that we have reached the first plateau, I must say I'm very relieved."
"How about it, boss?" Tattoo inquired, beaming from ear to ear. "Surprised?"
"I am puzzled," said Roarke, frowning. "Deeply puzzled." He glanced at the nun. "If you'll excuse us, Sister…Tattoo, a word with you, if you please?" He looked up at Leslie, whose instinctive reaction clearly gave her away. "You too, young lady." He beckoned at them, and they traded uneasy glances and trailed him back to the main house.
In the study Roarke faced the two of them, standing before his desk as if facing a firing squad. "You'd better come clean," he advised sternly. "Both of you."
Tattoo and Leslie looked at each other; Tattoo frowned, but Roarke's frown scared her more, and she caved in first. "I just went as the lookout, Mr. Roarke," she said pleadingly. "Tattoo had an idea that would help save Sister Veronica's fantasy."
"And that was?" prompted Roarke when she fell silent.
She studiously avoided Tattoo's disgusted look. "He took in a bottle of his French burgundy and switched it out for that liquid chemical stuff in the Santa Rosarita bottle."
"Ah," said Roarke, folding his arms over his chest and shifting his regard to Tattoo. "Now it all becomes clear. Really, Tattoo, did you think you had to resort to such chicanery to make the sister's fantasy work out?"
Tattoo looked mutinous. "Well, boss, do you really want to know the truth? It was the only thing I could come up with on such short notice. And you weren't going to help—after all, you said the fantasy was mine to grant, since I took it on in the first place. I needed someone to watch out for anybody who might come in while I was…switching the wines, so I had Leslie come with me."
"I see you didn't think of asking her if she might be able to come up with any ideas," Roarke noted.
"Well, I couldn't think of anything either," Leslie admitted, shamefaced. "I spent our whole walk into town trying to, Mr. Roarke. I mean…I didn't want Tattoo getting caught, but I just couldn't figure out a better idea. So he had to go with the one he had."
Roarke slowly shook his head. "My friend, I realize your intentions were good, but the execution left more than a little to be desired. And, considering that you have now managed to successfully fool the judges into thinking your burgundy was actually Sister Veronica's, I think it best if you come clean now—to the sister—before things get any further out of hand."
"But boss!" Tattoo protested, aghast. "What about Sister Veronica's fantasy?"
"We'll cross that bridge when we come to it. First things first. Both of you, come with me—we're going to pay a little call on our unsuspecting guest."
At Sister Veronica's bungalow, Roarke requested that she take a seat and drew in a breath, rounding her chair and watching Tattoo and Leslie expectantly. "Sister Veronica," he said, "I'm afraid Tattoo has a small confession to make."
"Oh?" said the nun, looking curious. But Tattoo looked away, like a chastened child, and held his silence; Leslie stood staring at the floor, fearing that if Tattoo didn't own up to what he'd done, she'd be the one Roarke insisted tell Sister Veronica what had happened.
"Well?" Roarke finally demanded, but Tattoo still didn't say anything, and Roarke turned to the nun, to Leslie's relief. "Well, it seems that he exchanged one bottle of his French burgundy for one of yours." Tattoo looked chastened, yet rebellious at the same time.
"He did what?" Sister Veronica said, perplexed. Leslie looked up and winced at her confused look. The nun appealed to Tattoo: "Why?"
Finally Tattoo spoke. "Because your wine is the pits," he said bluntly. Roarke shot him a look, and Leslie made the mistake of trying too late to stifle a giggle; he gave her a very stern glare, and she felt her face turning crimson. "I'm sorry," Tattoo said, "but it's the truth."
"I'm afraid so, Sister," Roarke confirmed when she looked at him.
Sister Veronica admitted, "Well, I wouldn't know, because of course I've never tasted it…but I did have them follow the recipe exactly." This last she addressed to Tattoo, who looked rather mournful. "And of course, the root stock is the same, so how could it be?"
"Climate," said Roarke sympathetically, "soil conditions…there are many variables which might account for the failure of your wine at Santa Rosarita."
Sister Veronica looked at Tattoo, who nodded, then at Leslie, who bit her lip, and then at Roarke, suddenly looking philosophical. "Don't worry," she said, to their amazement. "We still have the final judging. I'm confident that everything will work out to fulfill my fantasy one way or another."
As she spoke, they had been moving towards the door; now they paused and Roarke turned back to usher Leslie out beside him. Then Sister Veronica admonished gently, "But…Tattoo, no more pranks! Things will right themselves without trickery. Believe…just…believe!" With every word she bent a little farther over, and Roarke unconsciously followed suit, surprise on his face. Tattoo didn't look too certain, and Leslie couldn't see how anything could work out now. But the nun beamed and nodded; Tattoo turned away, Roarke abruptly straightened, and Tattoo came out the door, pulling it shut behind him.
"Nobody in all the world is more optimistic than a nun," said Leslie.
Roarke had to laugh. "Perhaps so, Leslie. Well, come along, we have other things to worry about."
"You have other things to worry about," Tattoo said with a heavy sigh. "Looks like I've blown it."
"Oh, don't be in such a hurry to brand this venture a failure, my friend!" Roarke said, smiling. "The weekend is not over yet, and neither is the judging. Let's just wait and see how things work out. Although I do have an idea. Leslie, tell me again what you think you smelled in that wine."
"Some kind of chemical odor," she told him. "I can't be any more specific than that. Didn't you and Tattoo taste it when you tried it?"
"I'm afraid we were so overwhelmed by this…uh, 'chemical' you refer to, that we didn't think to analyze its origin," Roarke observed wryly, and she laughed as Tattoo made a gargoyle face at the mere memory. "Perhaps it's possible to look into the reason for that. I'm going to make a few phone calls and see if I can find out some things, and then I must go to the casino. Leslie, what of your report?"
"I need help," she grumbled. "I'm stuck on what Lilla Jordsö exports. So far it looks like they don't export anything! I wonder how they survive?"
Roarke laughed. "Then my suggestion is that you visit the library and start looking for books about the country. Tattoo, I'll need you to handle any business at the house while Leslie and I are doing our respective research. I have a feeling we all have quite a bit to learn."