Dying on the Vine (13 page)

That did it. The waiter brought a chair and she sat.

“A Kir? A glass of wine?”

“No, no, really, I just wanted to tell you something.”

“Two Kirs Royales,” I told Madame, who ducked her head and left. She would have preferred to hear what it was that Veronique wanted to tell me, so I was sure she would be back very quickly with the drinks.

“This is a very good auberge,” I told Veronique. “Do you know it?”

“Yes,” she murmured. “I have eaten here a few times.”

She had a lovely face. I hadn't noticed at our original encounter just how attractive she was—after all, with a shiny revolver aimed at my middle, I was distracted from such perceptions. She had firm, regular features that were far above ordinary, but it was the eyes that were most striking: large and luminous, full of tenderness and understanding but strong and unwavering.

Madame arrived with the drinks. She handed me a menu and gave me the briefest of inquiring glances as she still clasped a second menu. I nodded and she handed it to Veronique.

She was still a protester. “No, really, I—”

“Madame, do you still have some of that superb Pâté de Grives?” I asked.

“Indeed, m'sieu.”

“You must taste it,” I told Veronique. “It really is excellent.”

I gave Madame a quick nod. She was gone before Veronique could protest further.

“First, we'll drink to health, happiness, and good fortune,” I said, “then you can tell me your news.”

We drank. “This is very kind of you,” she said, recovering her composure. She took another sip of the Kir. “What I want to tell you is this—a postcard came to the house for Edouard. It was from the public library in Saint Symphorien, notifying him that a book he had borrowed was overdue.”

Madame arrived with the pâté and triangles of toast. We were going to get priority service, I could tell. Veronique daintily spread some pâté on a piece of toast and agreed enthusiastically that it was, as I had said, excellent.

“What was the book?” I asked.

“The
Almanac de Reszke.”

I had another sip of Kir. The name meant nothing. “What is it?”

“It deals with the aristocratic families of France. It tells of their origins, shows family trees, indicates who they are related to …”

“When we had our first meeting—in the cave—you mentioned that your husband was researching the aristocratic families of Provence. How did you know that?”

“The last time I was in his office, he had on his desk a list of books dealing with that subject. Edouard had put a big red star next to the
Almanac de Reszke.”

I urged her to have some more pâté and she did, leaving just enough for me to have a couple more toast triangles. “Go on,” I urged. “Do you have any idea what it means?”

“Until the revolution, the aristocracy ran France. There were over ten thousand of them—princes, barons, dukes, earls, counts, viscounts. Half of them died on the guillotine or at the hands of the mobs. Today's survivors keep a low profile, but they have a lot of influence.”

“I'm surprised to hear that,” I told her.

“Ah, but it is not because they are aristocrats but because they are in positions of wealth and influence. Their education and background give them all the qualifications needed to be successful in banking, insurance, industry, the armed services, government, farming…”

Madame returned, eager to know if we had decided on a main course.

“I couldn't,” Veronique said. “No, really, I—”

“Let's just find out what Madame has for us today.”

Merou, a Mediterranean fish belonging to the same family as grouper, was the catch of the day. Daube, a rich dark beef stew and a Provençal favorite, was also on offer but I decided on the third choice—paella. Madame assured me that it was extra good today with freshly caught shrimp and squid as well as chicken.

“Have just a small portion,” I urged Veronique. “You can't let me eat alone.”

“Très bien,”
said Madame, giving Veronique no opportunity to decline. “And to drink?”

“Do you think Sancerre goes well with paella?” I asked Veronique.

“Well, yes, but—”

“Parfait,”
said Madame.

“So,” said Veronique when Madame had gone, “I went to Edouard's office.” She leaned forward and her face was animated. “The mail had been picked up from the floor. It had been sorted. Judging from the postmarked dates, he had been there a couple of days earlier. Anyway, the files on the Willesford case were gone.”

“Gone! Did you look around?”

“Yes, they were not in his office. I went through the books on his shelves—he has a lot of them—and I found the
Almanac,”
she said, her eyes brighter than ever. “A marker was in one page and an arrow was drawn to one name. It was the viscomte de Rougefoucault-Labourget.”

“Did the
Almanac
tell anything about him?”

“The Rougefoucault branch of the family is very old. They were prominent during the Cathar rebellion and Robert, the head of the family at that time, led a column to relieve Simon de Montfort at the Siege of Valence. King Philip Augustus gave him a château and a huge tract of land in Provence as a reward. A marriage with the Labourget family made them even more powerful a century later.”

“Doesn't tell us much, does it?”

“Maybe that's why Edouard was at the newspaper office. They have records of old Provence families.”

She looked down at the tablecloth and brushed away a couple of crumbs that weren't there. “There's something else… I want to tell you that I have not been completely honest with you,” she said in a small voice. I wasn't completely surprised—in my business, honesty is as rare as a good German red wine.

Madame chose that moment to arrive with the Sancerre and when it had been poured, tasted and approved, and the bottle settled into its ice bucket, Veronique continued.

“We have had … difficulties in our marriage. I suspected another woman but maybe he just spent more time working.”

As we drank the Sancerre, she told me of their earlier days of marriage when she had been part of her husband's business. She had known the details of all the cases and had often helped him to put his reports together. It was only after he had become involved in the Willesford case that he became more secretive and began to shut her out.

“What do the police say about his disappearance?” I asked.

“The police?” She looked alarmed, surely the normal reaction of a law-abiding person when the police are mentioned.

“Yes. You told them he was missing, didn't you?”

“I told them. They know nothing.”

The paella came. The French sausage in it was not as spicy as the chorizo sausage in the traditional Valenciana version, but otherwise it compared well. It contained peas and beans but not artichoke hearts as in the original. Similarly, it had clams but no mussels. Madame served Veronique the same size portion that she gave to me and the girl turned out to have a very healthy appetite. Her plate was so clean it would not justify a dishwasher and the basket that had contained half a dozen rolls was empty. I had only had two of them, but nobody was counting.

She smiled apologetically. “I didn't know I was hungry,” she said.

Madame beamed with approval though she tut-tutted when we declined a liqueur. I walked with Veronique out to her car, an elderly but serviceable Diane.

“We need to visit the newspaper office,” I told her.

“We?” she asked hesitantly.

The contrast struck me—the contrast between this uncertain girl and the tough broad who had held a gun on me in a cave. I was reminded of a line from
My Fair Lady,
something to the effect that “women are irrational, exasperating, irritating, vacillating.” This one certainly vacillated—between scared girl and pistol-packin' mama. Still, I was convinced that tins part of my investigation could be carried more effectually with her than without her—she was French.

“I'll do it by myself if you really—”

“No, I'll come with you,” she said.

“Tomorrow? After lunch?” I suggested. “Let's meet in Saint Symphorien, about two o'clock. By the fountain in front of the
mairie.
”

She nodded. Those luminous eyes glowed briefly, then she was gone.

T
HE CREAM-COLORED ROLLS
Royce Phantom that pulled up at the entrance to Le Relais du Moulin caused most of the heads breakfasting in the garden to turn. I drained my coffee cup and went out to the vehicle as though this were just part of an everyday scenario.

Grant Masterson greeted me as I joined him in the capacious and luxurious backseat that was large enough to hold board meetings. He was scanning a computer readout of what looked like stock market reports.

“Beautiful morning for a truffle market.”

“No wonder the Greeks, the Romans, and the Moors all liked Provence,” I said.

The Rolls moved onto the driveway so smoothly and silently that there was no sound except the slight crunch of gravel.

“That's Helmut up there at the wheel,” Masterson said. “Master chauffeur.”

In the driving mirror, Helmut met my eyes and inclined his head slightly. He wore a peaked cap and under it looked to have a very close-cropped haircut. He looked tough and capable and I wondered if he doubled as bodyguard too. A man as wealthy as Grant Masterson must need one.

“Three terms in the Legion,” Masterson said, “so when he wanted to quit and take a quieter job, I snapped him up.”

“The French Foreign Legion?”

“Of course. Helmut's from Bremen but he likes the soft life down here on the Côte d'Azur, don't you, Helmut?”

The chauffeur's eyes moved fractionally and his cap dipped a quarter inch in recognition. Masterson leaned forward and touched a button. “Coffee?” he asked. Mounted in the back of the seat before us was an electronic coffee maker. It was quiet but still made more noise than the Rolls's engine. I was tempted to ask for a cappuccino but I just said, “Thanks, I will.”

The liquid in my cup stayed as calm as if we were stationary even though we were cruising at least sixty miles an hour around the curves. Masterson pushed the computer sheets away. “I enjoyed your party,” I told him. “I talked to some very interesting people.”

“Bertrand—from the casino—for instance?”

“No, I missed him. The professor held several of us enthralled, though.”

“Ah, yes, planetary influences … unfortunately a lot of people associate his ideas with astrology whereas his theories are quite sound and based on scientific evidence.”

“So I gathered. I was particularly interested in his ideas on improvements in wine.”

“He does sound very convincing,” Masterson agreed.

“Do you have any financial interest in the wine business?”

“Not really. My delicatessen chain will sell wine, but only because the two go together—when people buy delicatessen goods, they often like to buy their wine at the same time. That means, of course, that we can only sell the better vintages.”

We rolled almost silently through the countryside, climbing steadily.

“How's the article coming along?” he asked casually.

“I'm behind schedule due to finding the body,” I said, assuming that he knew about Emil.

“Body?” he asked in alarm.

I told him about it. “I hadn't heard,” he said, and I reflected that a multimillionaire is probably concerned about events on a higher plane.

“Sanglier, they think?”

“Yes.”

“Vicious creatures, or so I've heard. I'll probably think twice before ordering it in a restaurant again.”

It was still early as we drove into Aupres but already cars were lined up on the grass verges coming into the village—an indication that the parking areas were full. Such a problem, however, meant nothing to Grant Masterson. Helmut simply drove to the center of the village, dropped us, and nodded when Masterson told him to come back in a couple of hours.

Aupres was a typical market village and its square was the venue for the twice-weekly market that saw produce coming in from the farms. The Hôtel de Provence sat behind iron gates on one side and the town hall, with three steps leading up to it to emphasize its importance, fluttered a large tricolor flag from a long white pole. Vehicles were parked everywhere including a number of places they shouldn't occupy, but on such occasions the law turned a blind eye. Vans, trucks, and pickups dominated and the area set aside for motorcycles was just as crowded.

“You probably know more about this,” Grant Masterson said, “but I asked around and it seems that the whole village is the venue for truffle sales. Any farmers or hunters who find truffles can bring them here and sell them, and the buyers may be commercial or entrepreneurs or just anybody who wants to buy a truffle.”

“So I believe. I've heard that this village has hardly changed since Roman days when it comes to truffle marketing.”

“Look over there,” Masterson said.

At one of the tables in front of a tiny bar, two men were arguing and we edged closer, trying to appear uninterested. An empty coffee cup was near each of them but their mutual attention was on a plate on which sat an ugly, dirty, misshapen, knobbly lump of fungus the size of a walnut.

“Looks like a turd,” said Masterson inelegantly, “but it's really a black diamond.”

It was a truffle, the most sublime food known to man and by far the most expensive on earth.

“It's been brushed,” I pointed out to Masterson. “They used to sell them just as they were pulled from the ground—the idea being that they were in their natural state. On today's market, the price is so high that the weight of even a few particles of soil clinging to them makes them more expensive, so now they usually brush them.”