Bruno 02 - The Dark Vineyard

till you get here. I’m okay.”
    Tempted to head over there right away and comfort Pamela, Bruno knew there were things he had to do first. He called the
pompiers
, who handled all emergencies, and then called themedical center. One of the doctors would have to certify the death. He climbed the stairs of the
mairie
to tell the mayor the news. Then he headed for his van, punching into his phone the number for Max, who was now the next of kin. There was no reply.
    Pamela always dressed smartly for her morning ride in riding boots, jodhpurs and a black jacket, with most of her bronze hair tucked into her black velvet hat. On horseback, she looked magnificent. But now on foot, holding on to the bridle of her horse, who was munching on the grass by the small farmhouse, she appeared oddly diminished. As Bruno parked his police van at the end of the yard, he noticed that the small plot of vines had been picked.
    “Bonjour
, Pamela,” Bruno said, kissing her on both cheeks, and hugging her. “I’m sorry you had to find him; it must have been an awful shock. Are you all right?”
    She hugged him in return and then stepped back, nodding.
    “I suppose he’s in the house?”
    “No, he’s not,” she said in a small voice. “He’s in that barn, just where I found him. I touched nothing and called you as soon as I realized he was dead.”
    “What brought you here?”
    “I was looking for Max. He wanted me to come and try some of the wine he made. He’s got some idea of selling it to all the guesthouses, with special labels that he can print up. He rather sold me on the idea of a Château Pamela. But there was no sign of him, or of the old man, so I looked around.”
    She hitched her horse to a fence post and walked with Bruno through the yard and down the small pathway that led to the big stone barn and the two smaller ones. She went to the farthest door, which was half open. Inside, Bruno saw Cresseil lying crumpled at the bottom of the stepladder that led up to the ancient wooden wine vat.
    “I just touched his wrist to see if there was a pulse,” she said.
    Bruno nodded, crouching by the body. He put the back of his hand against Cresseil’s cheek. It was cold but not yet stiff, showing that he had been dead only a few hours. The neck looked odd, twisted. Bruno looked at the rickety stepladder, its rungs slippery with grape juice. Had Cresseil been looking into the vat and lost his footing? Or had it been a heart attack or a stroke, a mercifully quick end that Cresseil might have prayed for? The doctors would know.
    “There’s nothing we can do for him now,” he said. “We’ll wait for the
pompiers
and the doctor and then get him to the funeral parlor. If you wait in the yard, I’ll go into the house and see if there are any papers; a will or something.”
    She nodded. “I wonder what happened to Max. He must have been held up. When we arranged to meet he said he’d be picking the grapes in the cool of evening because it was too hot for them in the day, and that he’d see me here this morning. He’ll be devastated, having just gone through the adoption and now this.”
    “So now he’s got a vineyard of his own, a nice little inheritance. All the same, I’d better go inside and look around. The
pompiers
will be here any minute.”
    Bruno had been in a lot of homes where an elderly person lived alone, and he was expecting the usual stale smells. But Cresseil’s place was clean and tidy. There was a large living room and a kitchen on the ground floor, with a small bedroom and a bathroom off to one side, and another room that looked like a study. Cresseil’s legs had almost gone, so he probably spent all his time downstairs. Bruno went quickly upstairs, which contained two spartan bedrooms and no bathroom. One of the beds was made up, but the sheet and pillow were slightly creased, so it looked as if it had been slept in. Perhaps Max used it when he slept over.
    The kitchen sink was clean and empty except for two tumblers with dregs of wine. The towels in the kitchen and bathroom were fresh, the crockery all where it belonged. The study was equally well ordered, with an old sofa facing the window, and a pigeonhole desk off to the side. Most of the pigeonholes were empty; in one was a roll of papers held together with red ribbon—the adoption documents. In the drawers, Bruno found bank statements and electricity bills neatly filed, an old Resistance medal and a box of photographs. Some dated from