Bruno 02 - The Dark Vineyard

hour at this time of year, let alone all day. The winery office was empty, so Bruno went around to the front of the château, threading his way past the rows of vines heavy with fruit, through the parking area and up the steps to the main entrance of what was now the hotel. There was nobody at the reception desk, so he looked in the small office to the rear. Julien’s assistant, Marie-Hélène, was there, as she had been for years, ever since she retired from teaching at the nursery school. Surrounded by a thick scent of lavender, she was tapping away angrily at a computer as if she had a personal vendetta against it.
    “Bonjour
, Bruno. I hate this thing worse than the telephone.Why does nobody write letters anymore? I have to print out everything so I can file it properly or I’d never find another reservation.”
    “Computers are supposed to make your life easier, Marie-Hélène,” he said, bending to kiss her on both heavily powdered cheeks. “Is Julien around?”
    “Who knows, these days?” she said, almost dismissively. “I hardly ever see him, and when I do his mind’s elsewhere. If I didn’t have this place running like clockwork, I don’t know where we’d be. I tell you, Bruno, I’m worried about him. And did you know Mirabelle has been in the hospital?”
    “That was in the summer. A woman’s thing, Julien said.”
    “Well, she went back, all the way to Bordeaux. She was there more than three weeks, and Julien drove there every day. He told us not to tell anyone. He just brought her back two days ago, and he hasn’t even let me see her. I think it’s really serious, but Julien doesn’t want people to know because he says it will be bad for business.”
    “That’s very troubling. And it’s almost time to pick the grapes,” said Bruno.
    “A bunch of migrant workers has turned up already—Bulgarians, Poles, Moroccans. I’m running out of space in the barn to put them all up, but Julien still hasn’t given the green light to start picking. You’ll probably find him in the family quarters.”
    Bruno walked through the ornate salon that contained the château’s best feature, an original sixteenth-century fireplace that was large enough to roast an ox; Bruno had once been in attendance at the roasting of a wild boar that seemed almost dwarfed by the great hearth. Various assemblies of furniture were dotted around the giant room: some Louis XVI chairs around a card table, two vast Napoléon III sofas squared off against each other across a marble-topped table. An Empirecouch perched against one wall with a decent copy of David’s
Madame Récamier
hanging above it, and two rather battered Empire chairs were on either side. A large Restoration writing desk, bearing an ormolu clock, was placed against the row of French windows, and the rear wall was graced by two lovely English bookcases. No scholar of antiques, Bruno identified all these because Julien, or more likely his wife, had thoughtfully placed small handwritten cards on the respective tables, identifying them, for example, as
“Coin Empire”
or
“Coin Louis XVI.”
    Not sure whether this said more about Julien or his clients, Bruno went through the French windows and along the terrace to the wing adjoining the swimming pool, and knocked on the door that led to Julien’s apartment. No reply. He knocked again, more firmly, and the door was flung open, an angry Julien standing in front of him saying, “I told you not to disturb … Oh, it’s you, Bruno. Sorry, but the staff never gives me a moment’s peace. What can I do for you?”
    “
Bonjour
, Julien. Is this an inconvenient time?”
    It looked very inconvenient indeed. The usually immaculate Julien was wearing stained trousers, slippers and a rumpled denim shirt that looked as if it had been used to polish a car. His hair was uncombed and his jaw unshaven, and his breath stank of alcohol.
    “No, no; come in. It’s a relief to see somebody who doesn’t want something from me. Sorry, Bruno, but I’m having a few problems these days.”
    “Anything I can do to help?” Bruno asked.
    Julien simply nodded, and led the way into what was normally a carefully kept and welcoming living room, with even better furniture than the assortment in the hotel’s salon. But there were papers all over the chairs, empty wine bottles and even a couple of dirty plates on the floor.
    “How’s Mirabelle?” Bruno asked.
    “In bed. Not well.
Putain de merde
, I can’t keep it bottled