Dying on the Vine (24 page)

“Can I help you, sir?” he asked politely in German-accented French.

It was not the same man as the one who had carried in our bags, but he was the same type. Medium height and build, military bearing, and close-cropped hair—the description had a very familiar ring. The uniform was impeccable, black with red trim at the collar and cuffs of the jacket and a red stripe down the pant legs. He looked tough and efficient.

“Just looking around,” I said affably.

“Very good, sir. The bar is, of course, always open. The fair will be on until six o'clock and dinner will be at eight.”

I gave him a nod. He stood, motionless. I went on down the stairs and into the hall. It was empty and I examined the rooms running from it. There was a billiard room, a recreation room with Ping-Pong, darts, and two computers set on game programs, a meeting room, and another room that was set up as a cinema.

The bar, which was comfortably furnished to the standard of a good club, was empty. A quick glance indicated that it was very thoroughly supplied with every kind of drink. I went back into the hall and out through the main entrance. There were two massive, carved wood doors that were undoubtedly old but had been carefully refinished and restored. One swung open slowly and silently, despite its mass, a tribute to newly oiled hinges.

I wandered among the stands and stalls. One was giving a presentation on the Felibrige. This was a group of poets and romantics who deplored the way the old Provençal language, customs, and traditions were dying out. Organized by Frederic Mistral, a familiar name throughout Provence, they made a great number of people aware of their heritage, and when Mistral won the Nobel Prize for literature, the Felibrige received even greater support.

A reading in the Provençal language from Mistral's own work,
Mireio,
was billed for every hour on the hour. Copies of his books and plays were on sale and troubadours in costume stood nearby, eagerly awaiting the call to sing and play.

A large number of people were clustered around the Willesford stand, sampling the wines. I watched from a distance. Two white wines were being offered for tasting—the Pont Vieux and the Bellecoste. The rosé that they sold as Val Rosé was being offered too. I didn't see any of their better wines being poured. I strolled on to see what other festival delights were on display.

Music caught my attention and I headed in that direction. A team of tumblers and jugglers were putting on an act of great dexterity and I watched them for a while. I was expecting to encounter Monika, snapping away at her shutter, but there was no sign of her.

An enterprising farm had an aromatic and visually attractive show of their products, including sausages of various kinds, pigs' feet, and other pork products. It seemed just the place to ask some questions about pigs and sangliers, and the heavy-set, red-faced man on the stand knew all the answers. Cheese appeared to be the main product, though. The most pungent French cheeses are made from
lait cru,
raw milk that has not been pasteurized. This prevents cheese makers from selling outside of France and obliges them to make strong efforts to sell in their own neighborhood where their loyal consumers are used to the cheese artist's moldy masterpieces, complete with ashen rind, blue bacterial tracks, and a pungency that could pierce armor plate.

A familiar figure approached—it appeared to be an English country gentleman having an at-home day in his gray slacks and white long-sleeved shirt. His aristocratic nose wrinkled at the assault of the cheese fumes.

“Hope the stuff tastes better than it smells,” said Lewis Arundel in that languid tone. “But then it would have to.”

“You a friend of the viscomte's?”

“Known him a while.”

I was well enough acquainted with Arundel's laid-back style to know that this was his normal reaction to such questions.

“Is he here yet?”

“Haven't seen him,” Arundel drawled.

“He's alive and well then?” I asked casually.

“Of course,” he said quickly. “Why wouldn't he be?”

We strolled along past a stall that was at the opposite end of the spectrum from the last one. This had herbs and spices of Provence in bottles, jars, cans, bouquets, air-fresheners, sacks, and a dozen other ways. The fresh clean scents of marjoram, rosemary, and basil were strong in the air.

I was determined to press hard on Arundel.

“The reason I'm particularly interested in talking to him today is that I believe him to be responsible for four murders.”

He stopped in midstride. His eyes widened in what looked like genuine surprise. “You're not serious.”

“Not only that but he's also involved in two—perhaps three—attempts on my life.”

A smile was starting to play around his mouth. “A serial killer, for sure. A bit of a bungler though, isn't he? I mean, you're still alive.”

“This isn't funny,” I said, getting angry.

Arundel resumed walking, very slowly. “In fact, it's funnier than you think,” he said. He seemed to be deciding whether to go on. He made up his mind.

“When you were pushed into the vat of Mourvedre—that's one of the murder attempts you're referring to, isn't it?”

“Yes.”

“Well,” he said with a lopsided grin, “that was me. I pushed you in.” He went on quickly, “You
were
nosing into matters that didn't concern you. If I hadn't pushed you in, someone else would have—Simone probably.”

“What matters didn't concern me?”

“You might as well know,” he shrugged. “You probably know already. According, to law, we're only permitted to add twenty percent Mourvedre to a wine. We've had excellent results increasing that to about twenty-five percent—doesn't sound like much, I know, but it's one of the secrets of the high quality of our red. The record book that you were sneaking a look at gives the actual percentages. Oh, it's not that much of a secret—not worth killing somebody for, anyway—but I thought pushing you in might warn you off.”

“I might have drowned,” I said furiously.

He laughed out loud.

“Nonsense. I was prepared to pull you out before that happened. We didn't know that gendarme was on the premises. He got to you first.”

“And the beehive?”

He looked puzzled. “Beehive? What beehive?” He either didn't know or wasn't going to admit to that one. “When you talk about murders, you surely don't mean Chantier and Laplace?”

“And Fox and Morel.”

“It seems like a long string of unfortunate events, I know, but accidents happen. It's been years since we've had anybody hurt in our vineyard until now.”

“Is that the way the viscomte tells it? A string of unfortunate accidents?”

“Yes.” His eyes searched my face. “Well, you know him. Does he seem like a mass murderer to you?”

“I don't know him.”

His expression changed. “You don't? Well, you'll meet him then you'll see. The whole idea is preposterous.”

“Andre Chantier's drowning—was that preposterous?”

“The currents in Marseille harbor are treacherous,” he said.

“He wasn't drowned in Marseille but in Ajaccio.”

He stopped again in midstride. “Ajaccio?” he said hoarsely.

We resumed walking, past a stall adorned with objects carved from olive wood. The wood is very hard and durable and is made into walking sticks, ashtrays, letter openers, pipes, candlesticks, and even small animals.

Arundel was less talkative now. His face was strained. A man in the uniform of the staff walked past us as if on patrol. Again I noted that they all had a similar bearing and competency. They all looked like tough customers.

We stopped at the next stand. It had the Peregrine name above it in large letters and the small wooden counter had glasses and a stack of brochures. Arundel hailed Gerard.

“We'll drink anything—even your awful stuff, Gerard. And make sure the glasses are clean, please.”

Girardet smiled a polite smile, evidently used to Arundel's mocking manner. He poured wine for us, a pleasant white though not as good as the one he had given me on my first visit to the vineyard. Arundel noticed it too.

“This is the cheap stuff, Gerard. Where's the good wine—if you make one?”

Gerard reached under the counter and produced an unlabeled bottle.

“I didn't know you could tell the difference. Try this one.”

Arundel poured his wine out onto the grass and said, “Fresh glasses again too.”

Gerard smiled his polite smile once more. This time the wine was good and had the same superior taste as the one I remembered. Arundel just grunted and said, “Better, Gerard, but not much. Come on over some time and I'll show you how to make real wine.” He emptied the glass, then said abruptly, “I'm going to get ready for dinner. See you later.”

My mind was buzzing—it began when I saw that honey was on the next stand. In Provence, bees are catholic in their choice of flowers to pollinate, so their product may be flavored with thyme, sage, lavender, lemon, lime, or eucalyptus, and all of them were represented here in every size of jar and bottle. I approached the large, capable-looking woman in charge. “Can you tell me something about bees?” I asked her, and she not only could but did. She answered my questions thoroughly and I went up to my room, very satisfied.

T
HE DINING ROOM RESEMBLED
a restaurant in Paris of the last century. Stained-glass windows had medieval scenes of bucolic frolicking and on the walls between them hung Manet oils depicting famous restaurants of La Belle Epoque. The elaborate ceiling of dark wood and gilt gave a baroque splendor to the room; lighting was provided by white-shaded bronze lamps mounted on tall narrow mirrors. At the head of the long table was a chair so magnificent, it was almost a throne. The back and arms were framed in hand-carved mahogany and the back had a padded coat of arms in crimson and gold.

The bar had been sparsely attended and now we were all seated for dinner, though it was barely eight o'clock. The chairs on either side of the impressive throne at the head of the table were taken by Simone and Monika. Monsieur le Viscomte was evidently exercising a certain “droit du seigneur.” Next to Monika, Gerard Girardet gave me a friendly smile from his place opposite Doctor Selvier. Lewis Arundel and I were next. Then came Professor Rahmani and Alexis Suvarov, obviously already acquainted, Suvarov sounding as if he were close to selling the services of his new two-seat ultralight. The two cousins completed the assembly: Alfred Rostaing of Le Petit Manoir at Palliac where I had eaten so recently and the silver-haired visitor there whose face had baffled me, Joseph Tourcoing of Le Reveillon fame in Paris.

The cousins were discussing Menton near the Italian border, the only gap in the culinary eminence of the Riviera. Rostaing was asserting that it was so bleak that the Casino was the only place to eat. The two were contemplating remedying that situation by buying a restaurant there and remodeling it, both architecturally and gastronomically.

Waiters entered and began setting a hot hors d'oeuvre in front of each guest. I tried to catch Monika's eye but she picked up a fork and began on the hors d'oeuvre. Instead, I complimented Simone. “You look terrific,” I told her. She wore a light blue dress, gathered across the shoulders, and her hair glowed—not as strongly as Monika's brighter blond, but for her, soft and warm. She acknowledged with a slight smile.

The aroma of the hors d'oeuvre was enticing but I couldn't identify it from its appearance. It was a soufflé and had been prepared by a master. The top was a delicious brown but not crusty. As I broke into it with my fork, I recognized it as a variant of a Normandy-style crayfish soufflé, but the flavor was so superb that for a moment, all thoughts of plots and crimes went out of my head.

The crayfish were so fresh they must have been flown in within the last hour or two. A salpicon of shrimp, oysters, and mushrooms had been added, and the chef must have put in the eggs the way that is authentic but rarely followed because it is time-consuming and tedious—the egg yolks added first, then the beaten egg whites. This makes a vast difference to the texture, but it was the taste that was stilling conversation all over the room.

I glanced down the table to where Joseph Tourcoing, the great chef from Paris, was nodding in appreciation. Alfred Rostaing was scooping up the soufflé, oblivious to everything. The incredibly wonderful taste was clearly augmented by the thin slices of truffle. I expected to hear a comment from some quarter on the absence of our host, but this superb hors d'oeuvre was occupying everyone's attention to the exclusion of all else.

The conversational level was still at this low ebb when the door opened.

The person entering walked to the elaborate chair at the head of the table and sat.

“I
HOPE YOU ARE
all enjoying yourselves.”

The words brought an immediate response from Joseph Tourcoing.

“Monsieur le Viscomte, this soufflé is magnificent! Never have I tasted better!”

Murmurs of agreement ran from seat to seat.

“Really superb, monsieur, really superb!” confirmed Alfred Rostaing, the other restaurateur in the room. He said it quickly so as to return at once to finishing the soufflé.

A waiter had placed this outstanding hors d'oeuvre before the viscomte as he sat down and he lost no time in dispatching it, nodding with satisfaction as he did so. Waiters flowed in, removing the soufflé dishes and replacing them with another dish. A wine was being poured and I contrived to get a glance at a label. It was a Musigny Blanc, a white burgundy that is lighter than most and fresh enough that it remained aloof from intruding on the meal.

The next dish was a mousse, just a tiny mound, and I heard Rostaing comment quietly that it was prepared from river trout. Flecked with minute chips of truffle, it was excitingly different and the small portion made it all the more tantalizing.