Bruno 02 - The Dark Vineyard

separate them, then the troublemaker toppled backward and broke the window.”
    “That’s exactly what happened” came a chorus of voices from the spectators. “The guy must be crazy.”
    “Let’s take a look at him and see if he’s hurt,” said Bruno, and Gilbert rose carefully from the prone figure, still keeping firm hold of one of his arms as he grabbed the man by the lapels and hauled him to his feet. Bruno was not greatly surprised to see that it was Bondino.
    “I’m okay,” said Bondino, shaking his head and standing upright. He was clearly drunk, but hardly incapacitated. He pointed at Jacqueline. “She’s my girl.”
    “That’s between the two of you. Stand still for a moment,” snapped Bruno. He inspected the back of Bondino’s head, brushing some glinting shards of glass from his back and from his hair. He was not bleeding, and his coat seemed to have taken the brunt of the window’s impact. Bruno looked at René and Gilbert. “It’s up to you to bring charges.”
    “He smashed a few things, a chair and some glasses, plus the window,” said René. “That’s the big thing.”
    “I’ll pay,” said Bondino, reaching for his wallet and taking out a wad of seldom-seen yellow five-hundred-euro notes. He peeled off three and handed them to René. “I’m sorry,” he said. “If it costs more, tell me.”
    “What about you?” Bruno said, turning to Max. “Do you want to bring charges for assault?”
    Holding a handkerchief to his bleeding nose, Max shook his head. “As long as he promises to leave Jacqueline alone and stop making trouble. But if he comes at us again, don’t blame me if I beat the shit out of him.”
    “Right,” said Bruno. “No charges, so we all go home. You first, Bondino. Now.” He watched as Bondino shambled off toward his hotel and then looked back over his shoulder at Max and Jacqueline.
    “You haven’t asked me yet,” Jacqueline said, angrily butwith control, casting a look of pure hatred after Bondino’s departing figure. “He tried to pull me out. That’s assault.”
    “So it is,” said Bruno coldly, recalling the way she had danced with Bondino and left with him after Joe’s party. His mild liking for the girl was rapidly disappearing.
    “It seems the American thought he had a relationship with you,” he said. “If you want to bring charges, you understand that I’ll have to take statements from everybody involved, and I mean everybody, to establish whether there was something that could have misled him to believe he did. You might want to consider that, mademoiselle, before you make a decision. You may also want to get advice from a French lawyer, since these matters can be complicated once it becomes a formal matter.”
    “I’ll help you take the statements, if it’s to be a criminal matter,” said J-J, who had been standing off to the side since his arrival. He could tell Bruno needed no help. “I should introduce myself: Chief of Detectives Jalipeau of the Police Nationale. I’ll start by looking at your passport, mademoiselle.”
    Jacqueline looked for a moment at Bruno and then shrugged. “I don’t want to put anyone to such trouble, so long as the bar owners are happy to let it drop,” she said, and turned to Max. “I’d better take him back and make sure the nosebleed stops. I’m sorry that this happened.”
    It isn’t over yet
, Bruno thought as she led Max away.

22
    Sitting alone at the bar in Fauquet’s over his morning coffee, Bruno checked his phone again. Three days now without any word from Isabelle. He had left messages and sent two e-mails and had gotten no reply. But then it had been the same after she had left for Paris—not a word until her sudden announcement that she was arriving. He wasn’t irritated so much as mystified that she behaved this way. When she left the first time, he had understood her silence to mean that it was over. Now he supposed it meant it was really over. Or did it? In another woman, he might have suspected crude manipulation, but not in Isabelle. She was too honest for that, he told himself when his cell phone rang, and with a surge of hope that surprised him he scrambled to fish it from his pouch.
    “It’s Pamela,” said the voice, strangely subdued. “I’m afraid there’s been a death. That sweet old man Cresseil. I’m at his place now, over by the Domaine. I think he’s been dead for a while, but can you call a doctor? Damn, my battery’s running out. I’ll wait