The Vintage Caper

hadn’t heard her. “You know I have this fabulous wine collection?” He looked in vain for some change in Cecilia’s expression, some quiver of appreciation from those impassive eyebrows. “Well, I do, and I’m prepared to give an exclusive interview, in my cellar, to the right journalist. Here’s the angle: I’m not just a business machine. I’m also a connoisseur, a guy with taste who appreciates the finer things in life—châteaus, vintages, Bordeaux, all that great cobwebby French shit. What do you think?”
    Cecilia shrugged. “You and a hundred others. L.A. is full of wine freaks.”
    Roth shook his head. “You don’t understand. This is a unique collection. These are first-growth Bordeaux reds from the exceptional vintages—more than five hundred bottles.” He paused for emphasis. “Worth more than three million dollars.”
    Three million dollars was a concept Cecilia could grasp. “Cool,” she said. “Now I get it.”
    “I’m thinking of an L.A. Times exclusive. Do you know anyone at the L.A. Times? ”
    Cecilia studied her nails in thought for a moment. “The owners. Well, Daddy knows the owners. I guess he could ask them about someone to put on the story.”
    Roth smiled, leaned back in his chair, and admired his buttercup-yellow ankles. “Terrific,” he said. “Then we’re all set.”
    The interview had been fixed for a Saturday morning, and the Roth household was briefed and ready. Michelle was to have a walk-on part at the beginning of the proceedings, playing the role of gracious hostess and, if you believed her, occasional wine widow. Rafael had been instructed to clip and reclip the purple bougainvillea that tumbled along the terrace wall. The Mercedes, glossy from its latest waxing, had been left, as if by chance, out in the driveway. In the cellar, a Mozart piano concerto drifted from speakers concealed in shadowy nooks. Evidence of wealth, taste, and refinement was everywhere. Roth had even considered opening one of his precious bottles, but in the end couldn’t bring himself to make the sacrifice. The journalist and the photographer would have to make do with the Krug that was cooling in a crystal ice bucket on the cellar table.
    The arrival of the L.A. Times was signaled by a call from the security guard at the gate. Michelle and Roth took up their positions at the top of the staircase that led down to the driveway, where they waited for the journalists to get out of their car before making their stately progress down the steps.
    “Mr. Roth? Mrs. Roth? Good to meet you.” A burly man in a rumpled linen jacket walked toward them, hand stretched out. “I’m Philip Evans, and this walking camera store”—he nodded toward a young man festooned with equipment—“is Dave Griffin. He does the pictures. I do the words.” Evans turned on his heel until he faced south. “Wow. This is some view you have here.”
    Roth dismissed the view with a proprietorial wave of the hand. “Wait till you see the cellar.”
    Michelle glanced at her watch. “Danny, I have all those calls to make. I’ll leave you boys here if you promise to save me a glass of champagne.” And with a smile and a farewell flutter of her hand, she made her way back into the house.
    Roth let them into the cellar, and while the photographer was wrestling with the problems of light and reflection, the interview began.
    Evans was something of an old-fashioned reporter, in that he dealt with fact rather than speculation, and nearly an hour was spent covering Roth’s history: early days in the entertainment business, his first encounter with fine wines, his developing passion for the great vintages, his installation of the technically perfect cellar. In the background, punctuating the sound of Mozart, were the clicks and whirrs of a camera as the photographer made his rounds.
    Roth, whose business life was spent speaking on behalf of clients, found that he was relishing the novelty of talking about himself to an attentive listener. So much so that it took a question from Evans about vintage champagne to remind him to open the Krug. This led, as a glass or two of champagne so often does, to a more relaxed and less discreet turn in the interview.
    “So tell me, Mr. Roth,” said Evans. “I know you collect these wonderful wines for pleasure, but are you ever tempted to sell? I mean, you must have a considerable amount of money tied up down here.”
    “Let’s see,” said Roth, as he looked around the