Bruno 02 - The Dark Vineyard

at the girl in the Porsche. “Perhaps a Madame Dupuy?”
    Dupuy colored, his face almost matching the pink of his polo shirt. “I doubt it, not at this time.”
    “And your business address, if you please.”
    Dupuy opened the wallet again and fished out a card that identified him as
chef d’entreprise
of a business consultancy named after himself, with an office on the rue de Monceau. Bruno pulled out his cell phone. “And there would be somebody at this number in Paris, monsieur, to vouch for you and confirm that the car is yours?”
    “Yes, my secretary. But I have the car’s registration papers and insurance and …”
    Bruno held up a hand, turned away and dialed the number of Philippe Delaron, a photographer and part-time reporter for the
Sud Ouest
newspaper, whom he had seen at the fire. Bruno suggested that Philippe come with his camera. Bruno then turned back to the now silent group.
    “I’m not sure any crime has been committed,” he said with a deliberately ponderous delivery, “but there’s clearly the prospect of a civil lawsuit, and I’d have to be a witness. So I have to ask you to be patient while I satisfy myself that I understand what’s happened here. To help us with that I’ve asked a local photographer who sometimes works with the police to join us.”
    Bruno noticed with satisfaction that Dupuy’s face was coloring anew. Bruno looked at the employees of the wine shop, who were still clustered around the hood of the Porsche.
    “Perhaps, madame,” Bruno said, looking at Nathalie, “you can come from the front of the car now that everything is calm and under control.” Nathalie flounced off, and the pretty young stranger beside her slid off rather less gracefully. Bruno noted that Hubert reached quickly forward to help her, only to be beaten to the task by Max. Nathalie, Hubert’s longtime mistress, had also noticed Hubert’s protective move, and her jaw tightened.
    “I don’t believe you’ve met our new
stagiaire,”
Hubert said to Bruno. “Mademoiselle Jacqueline Duplessis from Quebec.She’s a quick thinker, the first one out to sit on the car after the bottle broke and the customer tried to leave. She’s been studying wine in California, and she’ll be working with us this year, learning our ways. Her family in Canada makes a very interesting dessert wine.”
    Bruno shook hands with the young woman, who held his hand a moment too long, greeted him in the curious accent of French Canada and almost stroked his palm as she released it. Bruno murmured a pleasantry before turning toward the entrance, weighing how best to proceed. The first thing would be to keep this as private as possible.
    “There’s no more to see,
messieurs-dames,”
Bruno called to the little audience in the doorway. “Please go back inside and continue your shopping.” He moved forward with a smile on his face, his outstretched arms steering them inside. Then he resumed his official expression and faced the white-haired gallant from Paris.
    “Monsieur Dupuy, you agree that you handled the bottle of Château Pétrus and that it fell from your hands?”
    “Well, it slid. It was greasy.”
    “Then let’s go inside and examine the remains of the bottle. With your permission, Monsieur de Montignac?”
    The
cave
was one of Bruno’s favorite places. Directly ahead lay Hubert’s own wines, which were the source of his success. He had started by blending the wines of various local growers into his own brand of Bergerac whites, reds and rosés. Then he’d bought a small vineyard near the castle of Monbazillac to produce his version of the sweet and golden dessert wine. Later came the partnership with an English businessman who had bought a run-down château and vineyard outside Bergerac and produced a wine that won prizes at the great fairs in Dijon and Paris. To the right lay the seat of the
cave
’s reputation, row upon row of the finest wines of Bordeaux, year after year afteryear of Latours and Lafites, Cheval Blanc and Angélus, and the famous unbroken run of Château Pétrus. To the left was what was said to be one of the finest selections of malt whiskies outside Scotland and one of the best collections of vintage Armagnacs in France.
    Between these two wings was the heart of the place, six tall plastic cylinders. These gigantic vats, with their gas station–like pumps attached, dispensed wine in bulk. All comers were invited to buy their Bergerac white, red and rosé, their
vin de