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banker.
    Smiling, she looked him up and down: wet, tousled hair and an old Ritz Hotel bathrobe dating from his days in Paris. “Well, Sam. As dapper as ever, I see. How are you?”
    Looking at her, he felt like an uncle meeting up with a favorite niece. He was having avuncular moments quite often these days. He put it down to getting older. “Kate, what are you doing here? Got time for a cup of coffee? Glass of champagne? It’s great to see you.”
    Still smiling, she brushed a thick strand of dark-brown hair away from her brow with the back of her hand, a gesture Sam remembered she always made when she was considering what to say. But before she had a chance to speak, Sam took her arm and steered her toward a table in the shade. “As a matter of fact,” he said, “I was just thinking about you, wondering how you were.” He pulled back a chair for her.
    “Sam, you haven’t changed at all. Still full of it.” But she laughed and sat down anyway.
    Over coffee, she told him about her work in movie P.R., which had brought her to the Chateau for a meeting with an implausibly well-preserved female star who was preparing to promote her latest film. This involved flying by private jet to premieres in New York, London, and Paris with her hairdresser, her nutritionist, her bodyguard, eight suitcases of clothes, and her husband of the moment. As Kate put it: traveling light, Hollywood style (“without even a psychiatrist in attendance”). Sam was happy to see that she seemed to regard this nonsense with a healthy lack of respect.
    When it was Sam’s turn to report on the state of his life, he told Kate about the Roth job, and was surprised to find that she was already familiar with some of the details. Her husband Richard, who was himself a wine collector in a small way, had been following the case.
    “Most of the wine nuts in America will have seen the piece in the L.A. Times ,” said Kate. “One of them might have set it up. Or maybe Roth did it himself. Why not? Stranger things have happened in L.A.”
    This seemed to be the prevailing theory. “Well, it’s possible,” said Sam, “although he’s putting on a pretty convincing act of being the victim. But that could be all it is, just an act. At any rate, I guess I can’t leave him off the suspect list.” He shrugged. “Come to think of it, he is the suspect list.”
    “Have you looked anyplace else?”
    “Such as where?”
    “I don’t know. Europe? Hong Kong? Russia? America’s not the only country that has crooks who like a good bottle of wine.” Kate finished her coffee and looked at her watch. “I’d better go.” She leaned over and kissed Sam on the cheek. “Come over and have dinner with us soon. You’ve never met Richard. You’d like him.”
    “Too painful. I’d spend the whole evening wondering why you didn’t marry me.”
    Despite herself, Kate had to smile. Shaking her head, she looked at him for a long moment before putting on her sunglasses. “You big dope. You never asked me.”
    Then she was gone, turning as she left the garden to wave good-bye.
    Back in his suite, Sam thought how fortunate he was to remain on good terms with nearly all of the women in his life. Apart from one or two dramatic exceptions—the six-foot Ukrainian model in Moscow, the homicidal rancher’s daughter in Buenos Aires, and, of course, Elena—there had been no recriminations in any of his relationships. Probably, he concluded, because they had the good sense never to take him too seriously.
    As he sat at his desk and looked once again at the list of stolen wines, his mind went back to Kate’s comment. Of course, she was right: America wasn’t the only country that produced wine-loving criminals. But where to start looking?
    He got up and went across the room to his library, a long run of floor-to-ceiling bookcases, stopping in front of the section where he kept his wine books. There, in various stages of wear and tear, were Penning-Rowsell’s The Wines