Bruno 02 - The Dark Vineyard

at home was the Café de la Renaissance. It wasn’t just because Ivan was a friend but because it was one of the few restaurants in the region that was designed for the locals rather than the tourists, with their expectations of
confit de canard, tarte aux noix
and other famed specialties of Périgord. The people of Saint-Denis ate enough of that at home. The café contained a small zinc-covered bar and an elderly coffee machine in the front room and enough space outside for a handful of tables. In the rear was what Ivan boasted was the smallest kitchen in France, and a dining room into which he’d squeezed half a dozen tables. So as soon as Bruno heard that the plat du jour at Ivan’s bistro was rabbit in mustard sauce, his decision was easy.
    Bruno was not in the mood for company, but when J-J called and asked about his plans for dinner, Bruno invited him along. When J-J arrived he could see how exhausted Brunowas. They exchanged pleasantries during the meal, talking mostly about sports after Bruno curtly blocked J-J’s innocent inquiry about Isabelle. They went easy on the wine, sharing a small
pichet
of Ivan’s Bergerac red, but Bruno drank most of the bottle of mineral water. Realizing there would be no long after-dinner conversation with Bruno in his current state, J-J paid the modest bill and left a generous tip for Ivan. Bruno walked him down the street to J-J’s car, which was parked in the open ground by the gendarmerie, where a group of determined old men played
boules
by the light of a streetlamp. J-J paused as he fished for his car key, and asked Bruno if he had any suspects among the locals.
    “Maybe, but I haven’t got any evidence, just a hunch,” Bruno said, yawning mightily.
    “What’s the brigadier got you doing?”
    “He’s had me calling all the other municipal cops for miles around to ask if they’ve seen anything suspicious, if they’ve seen any strangers,” said Bruno. “Half of them thought I was mad and the other half wanted to complain about the GMO crops. The brigadier won’t find them very cooperative. Most farmers around here think whoever burned those crops is a local hero.”
    “What about you?”
    “On the science, I don’t know, though I can’t say I’m comfortable about tampering with nature. But as far as I can see, there’s not much of a crime here.”
    “How do you mean? It’s arson.”
    “By the letter of the law, maybe. Yet growing those crops requires a series of permits. That’s the law, too. The research station didn’t have a permit from this commune or from our
conseil général
. And if the crops were illegal, what exactly is the crime in destroying them?”
    “What about the shed and the equipment that got burned?”
    “Same thing. No construction permit, no taxes paid on it,no listing of the water pipe and no water fees paid. Whoever did this committed the questionable crime of destroying an illegal building.”
    “You should have been a lawyer,” J-J said, laughing and climbing into his car. He was just closing the door when some shouts and a woman’s scream and the sound of breaking glass came from the Bar des Amateurs, and a small knot of bodies erupted onto the pavement outside the bar, stumbling over the café tables and sending them flying. Trouble at this bar, run by two burly stalwarts of the town rugby team, was unheard of.
    Bruno ran toward the scene, while J-J maneuvered himself out of his car. By the time Bruno reached the bar, René, one of the owners/barmen, was holding Max firmly by one arm, and a disheveled Jacqueline was clinging to the other. Gilbert, the other owner/barman, was kneeling on the chest of another man, and the rest of the crowd had become so many shouting spectators.
    “Silence
, all of you!” yelled Bruno, and pushed his way through to René, noting the smashed plate-glass window of the bar and the stream of blood that trickled from Max’s nose. “What’s going on here, René?”
    “It’s this bastard here who started it,” panted Gilbert, struggling to keep hold of the flailing arms of the man he sat on. “Just came in and started the trouble. He took a swing at Max and tried to drag the girl out.”
    “He hurt my arm,” said Jacqueline, her eyes blazing. “Max saved me.”
    “It’s true, Bruno,” said René. “This guy came into the bar and just punched Max in the face, knocking him off his chair. Then he started pulling the girl and Max got up and began pulling her back. I tried to