Dying on the Vine (5 page)

I brought back my surprised look. “That's what he said. You mean you do?”

She shrugged. “Maybe not.” She eyed me suspiciously. “Is this what you want to talk about? Merger? Takeover? I thought you were interested in how we run the vineyard?”

Whoops. She was sharper than I had thought. “I am,” I said promptly. “But the emphasis of the articles will be how English companies run vineyards in France. If you're going to be bought out by a French conglomerate, then I may have to do some rewriting before we go to press.” I hoped that was the right expression.

She stood up suddenly. She was wearing a light gray sweater and a light green skirt. “If you want to look through the operation, come along. I'll show you.”

The Willesford vineyard was quite a contrast to the pristine neatness and sparkling cleanliness of the Peregrine operation. Not that it was dirty or untidy, but it didn't have that shiny look of constant care and attention. The copper and stainless steel at Peregrine made a big difference, of course. Their metallic glitter conveyed a naturally immaculate appearance whereas the oak vats and barrels at Willesford looked brown and dull and lifeless.

The floors here were well swept, though. That was one of the first things I looked for. There were no dropped grape skins, stems, or leaves. Nor were any pieces of equipment in need of cleaning or repair. The place appeared to be operating at an optimum level of production.

Simone led the way on to a catwalk above a row of presses. A dozen enormous vats stood open on either side. The air was sweet and cloying; motors rumbled and the catwalk vibrated. Simone explained that the grapes were crushed and de-stemmed in the bins outside. The red grapes were pumped into the big vats to steep, skins and seeds too. The natural yeasts clinging to the skins would kick off the fermentation and the juice would turn deep red.

“White wines are in the next building,” Simone said, having to raise her voice to be heard over the din of machinery. “Their juice has to be pressed from the grapes first and allowed to ferment by itself. That's called the must. It's more sensitive and has to be kept cleaner—at a lower temperature, too, to protect the aroma.”

She hadn't asked me how much I knew about wine making and I didn't volunteer any information. Better to let her think I didn't know much—that way she might talk more.

In the bottling room, metal conveyor lines clanked and bottles rattled as they were filled, six at a time. Corks were rammed home and foil slipped into place, all mechanically. The next stage was labeling and although none of the equipment was new, it was all running smoothly. Bottles were slid into cardboard cases and automatic folding and sealing completed the operation.

It was a sketchy tour—American friends would call it a ten-cent tour—and Simone didn't describe any of the departments. We went to the tasting room, which was open though none of the public was here yet.

“Try this one,” Simone said and I wondered if she thought that plying me with wine was a way of shutting me up.

It was a white, the Pont Vieux. I recalled that Sir Charles had told me this was one of their table wines and that their best white was Sainte Marguerite. Simone wasn't doing me any favors, that was clear, though when I had drunk half the glass, she immediately filled it.

“Very pleasant,” I said, trying not to sound like a patronizing tourist.

“It's a very popular wine,” she said matter-of-factly.

“In England?” I asked.

“Yes, but here too.”

“In this region?”

“Oh, yes. Almost all the local restaurants and markets sell it.”

“How many different wines do you make?” I knew the answer but I didn't want her to know I knew. She told me their names and identified which were red, white, and rosé but didn't describe them further.

“Like to try another?” she asked without any great persuasiveness.

“I don't think so, thanks. It's supposed to be bad to mix different wines, isn't it?”

She shrugged. I was relieved that at least she hadn't poured me the rosé.

While we were walking back to the office, I asked, “Have the police come up with anything new?”

“No. I don't believe there is anything for them to find. Poor Emil ran into a pack of wild boars while he was mushrooming. They can be very vicious animals.”

I sneaked a sidelong look at her as we walked. Her expression suited her words and there was no hint of her hiding anything. At the same time, I noticed that she was more attractive than I had thought. She had high cheekbones and good features—if she had worn any makeup, particularly on her eyes, she would have been stunning.

“I may find some questions arising as I get further into the story,” I told her. “I hope I can come and ask them?”

She shrugged carelessly. “All right. If you have to.” She even condescended to give me what might have been the ghost of a smile.

I felt I had made real progress.

N
ARROW TRAILS LED OFF
from the vineyard road but the map didn't show them. I drove near to the foot of the cliffs and looked for a footpath. It was easier than I expected. After all, the cliffs and the caves had been here for hundreds of thousands of years and lots of people and animals had been up and down. It wasn't surprising that a lot of paths remained.

The sun was higher now in a cloudless sky and the temperature was rising. Birds soared in the currents of warm air. Soon I was high enough to come out on to a narrow path that ran past the cave mouths. I had to tread carefully but it was just wide enough for one person.

After two or three dozen paces, the mouth of a cave came into sight. I stopped and listened. I could hear nothing but the soft sigh of an occasional breeze and the background music of nature's Muzak—the cicadas. I went on and paused at the mouth of the cave. I could still hear nothing and it was black inside. I took a few tentative steps in and stopped.

When my eyes adjusted to the gloom, all I could see were bare walls. I looked over the ground but it too was bare. I went back out and walked cautiously to the next cave.

It was pitch-black too and I was about to go on along the path when I heard the faintest of rustles. The back of my neck tingled and I had a mental image of a massive hound of the Baskervilles (porcine variant) leaping out at me.

A fly buzzed noisily by, then another. Several were buzzing around and they seemed to be coming out of the cave. I was aware of something else coming out of the cave too—a very strong smell. It was the smell of pigs …

P. G. Wodehouse said, “Pigs is pigs” and I hoped that was all they were, not wild boars. I had an urge to go inside the cave and have a look but I was able to fight that urge without any trouble. …

I stood frozen, staring.

A shiny revolver had emerged from the dim interior of the cave and was pointed right at my middle.

“Who are you? What are you doing here?” The voice was that of a woman, but women can pull triggers as easily as men.

I tried to answer but my mouth was too dry. The revolver jerked impatiently and that brought words rapidly. I gave my cover story about being a journalist from England doing a story on the Willesford vineyard. By the time I was finishing, I was getting a little nerve back. I waved my arms in exaggerated accentuation of my words, hoping that if there were people below, they might be able to see me and know that there was someone up here. I could still see nothing of the woman except fingers around the gun but she was perceptive and realized instantly what I was doing.

“Come inside!” she ordered. The gun backed slowly away and I followed.

The cave widened into a sort of antechamber. Two other caves led away from it and the area we were in was roughly circular and the size of a large room. There was nothing in it although the smell of pigs was much stronger despite the slight chill of air that had never known sun.

“I don't believe you,” the woman said in an unpleasant tone of voice. “Tell the truth—what are you looking for?”

“I've told you the truth,” I insisted.

I was becoming accustomed to the light now and I could see her clearly. She was slim, dark, and attractive with a brisk, businesslike aspect to her appearance. She held the gun as if she knew how to handle it, and the way she carried herself suggested that she was determined and decisive.

“You killed my husband, didn't you?” The gun moved menacingly.

“No, I didn't,” I said quickly. “He was dead when I found him.”

“What?” She snapped out the word and took a step toward me.

“He was already dead. I—”

“What are you talking about? Where did you find him?”

“In front of the Willesford vineyard,” I said.

I could see her eyes now. They were dark and beautifully shaped but they were staring. “What are you talking about?” she asked again. “Who did you find?”

“Emil Laplace, he—”

“I'm not talking about him. He's not my husband.”

Now there was another body and it seemed as if I was under suspicion for it too. “Who is your husband?” I asked. It was time for some clarification. She ignored my question.

“Stand over there,” she ordered. I did so and it enabled light from outside to fall on my face. I hoped she was a good judge of character and would immediately observe my complete innocence.

“Show me your passport,” she ordered.

I took it out slowly and handed it to her. She held it up so that she could see it in the diminished light and keep me in view at the same time.

“This does not say you're a journalist.”

“Sometimes that's an advantage. Gets me into more places.”

She studied the passport further, then closed it and handed it back to me.

“Can you put that gun away?” I asked. “We could talk better without it.”

She had a black shoulder bag that matched her black slacks and light sweater. She snapped it open and put the gun into it, though I noticed that she didn't close it and her hand didn't stray far away from it.

“Who is your husband?” I asked again.

“Edouard Morel,” she said.

“Private detective, office in Nice. Hired by Willesford Wine Group to find out why Peregrine wants to buy them out at a ridiculously high price.”

She said nothing. She had gained more from me than if she had used thumbscrews and an iron maiden.

“How do you know this?” she asked.

My mission was supposed to be confidential. The conventional investigator would suffer all manner of torture rather than divulge who employed him but I wasn't conventional. Furthermore, it looked as if I could learn more by being honest—an unusual state of affairs but one that had to be faced. If I were to tell anyone what I was really doing here, Edouard Morel's wife was surely that one.

“I had intended contacting your husband,” I told her. “Are you saying he's dead? When did he die and how?”

“Sir Charles hired my husband to find out, as you say, why Peregrine wants to buy out Willeford's vineyard. He was not able to find out anything of value—or so his reports indicated—and Sir Charles terminated his contract. It would be reasonable if Sir Charles hired someone else to investigate.” She eyed me critically. “That is probably you.”

I made up my mind. It was my decision, and facing a determined-looking woman with a pistol inches from her hand, I felt justified in telling all.

“You're right. I'm not supposed to tell anyone—that's why I'm using the cover of a journalist. I arrived yesterday. I found Emil Laplace when I went to the vineyard—he was already dead. I didn't know that your husband was dead too,” I went on.

“I don't know for sure that he is. I haven't heard from him for two weeks and he hasn't been near his office. And I have a feeling …”

“You said ‘or so his reports indicated.' Does that mean he really had found out something of value?”

“I don't know.”

Perhaps I had been too hasty in being truthful with her. Maybe honesty wasn't always the best policy after all. Was she holding out on me now?

“You say you don't know. Do you suspect?”

“I didn't work with him. I don't know a lot about his investigation.”

“You know enough to think he had found out more than he told Sir Charles.”

She was hesitant now and I wondered why. When she finally answered, she said, “When I hadn't seen him for several days, I took the duplicate key to his office. I went there and looked through his files.”

“And what did you find?”

“He was researching the backgrounds of several aristocratic families in Provence. I don't know why. Then on two occasions, I saw his car outside the newspaper office. He once said he found back copies of the paper very useful.”

“What are you doing here in the caves?”

“I noticed chalk on Edouard's shoes on two occasions. These caves are the only place I knew it could have come from.”

“What have you found here?”

She shook her head. “Nothing. I think someone has been here but I'm not sure.”

“You smell the pigs?”

“Yes.” Her eyes searched my face. “What about it?”

“Emil Laplace was gored by sanglier.”

She shivered. “You think they are in these caves?”

“They may be.”

She snapped her bag shut. I felt relieved and motioned outside. “Shall we go?”

We went out into the warm air, which was like a blanket after the chill of the cave. She followed me along the path and down the cliffside.

“Where is your car?” she asked when we reached the bottom. I pointed.

“Mine's over here.”

“I think we should cooperate,” I said. “We'd both like to find your husband. We have a better chance of doing it if we pool our information.”

She seemed hesitant again. I felt she was holding back, but she nodded. “Very well.”