Dessert Wine

            Marie placed the crusted salmon in the refrigerator, put her finest china and silverware on the table and dimmed the chandelier. Anniversary dinner. Eight months ago, she started seeing Francois after they’d met at the Paris restaurant where she was a sommelier. From her wine cooler, she chose a Chardonnay to pair with the fish and a Moscato for the Creme Brûlée. She remembered their recent history and frowned as she sliced a tomato for the salad. The doorbell rang. She untied her apron, threw it on a chair, and answered the door.
            Francois waltzed into the room, kissed her, removed his scarf with a flourish, and tossed it on the hat rack. “Mon cherie, so cold outside.”
            She smiled. “Dinner will warm you up.”
            She motioned toward the dining room table. “Relax.” She tied her apron and tossed the salad. 
            “Blue cheese dressing good for you, darling?”
            “Ce est magnifique.”
            She served the salad and brought the bottle of Chardonnay to the table.
            “Be a dear and let that breathe.” She got up and placed the salmon in the oven.
            When she returned, he was looking at the wine bottle. He removed the cork and sniffed it.
            “Mon cherie. Such an immature Chardonnay.”
            He filled their goblets to the proper level, swirled his hand over it, sniffed, and then took a sip. He nodded. “Is acceptable.”
            Marie put dressing on the salads, and they started to eat. He took small sips of his wine between bites. A buzzer sounded. Marie stood up, grabbed a potholder, removed the salmon from the oven and plated it. She served the meal. He topped off their glasses and took a bite of the salmon.
            “The salmon she is slightly overcooked, and paired with this Chardonnay…”
            She furrowed her forehead, wondered why she’d gone to the bother, and ate a forkful of salmon. He ate slowly and finished every bite.
            Marie cleared the table and served dessert.
            “Ah. My favorite. You remembered.”
            She smiled and placed the bottle of Moscato on the table.
            “Moscato? I would have served a Sauterne.”
            “Shut up and pour the wine.”
            After filling both glasses, he took a bite of dessert, smiled, and then took a sip of the wine. Marie took a sip of hers. He smacked his lips and groaned.
            “Darling. The wine. She is no good.”
            “Food critic right to the end.”
            He grabbed his throat and keeled over. 
            “This is the worst part, Francois. And it wasn’t in the wine. I put the poison in the glass first.”
            Ten minutes later, the doorbell rang. Marie opened it and Jim the retired American FBI agent she’d met last week walked into the room. Some tawdry sex was all it took to procure his services.
            “He’ll be gone by midnight.”
She kissed him and smiled, happy to get rid of one problem, but sad to inherit another. But she’d deal with Jim in time.