Bruno 02 - The Dark Vineyard

shrugged. “That’s what the book says.”
    “Do you remember her arrival?”
    “Not particularly; we were busy then. And I hardly saw her during the day—she was out and about. In the evenings she always seemed to have a different beau in tow. Sometimes the beau didn’t leave when he should have.”
    “Did you know them?”
    Bruno knew what was coming. “There was a young American, and then poor Max from our rugby team,” Mauricette said, dropping her voice almost to a whisper. “The American was a stranger to me, except he’s been in here at lunchtime for a sandwich and spoke enough French to get by. We got to talking, so I learned he was from California. A little plump but very well dressed.”
    “Did you ever talk to Jacqueline?” Bruno never underestimatedthe amount of information that could be elicited by a hotel keeper, and Mauricette was a born gossip.
    “Oh yes, she told me all about her job down at Hubert’s
cave
and her own family’s wines. I never knew they could make wine in Canada. She was a very pleasant young person, apart from her love life. She checked out a few days ago, and Max helped her with her suitcases. One was really heavy, full of wine books. She used to have them all piled up on the desk in her room.”
    “How did she pay her bill?”
    “By credit card, a Visa.” Mauricette turned the register toward him and pointed to the final column, where she had written down the number of the credit card. Bruno copied it into his notebook.
    “What’s your interest in the girl, Bruno? Is she in trouble?”
    “No, but we’ve got a team of detectives looking into that fire and they asked me to get the details of any strangers staying in town. It’s just routine. Thanks, Mauricette.”
    Back in his office, when he opened his e-mails, he doubted there’d be one from Isabelle, but he sat up straight when he saw the message from her private address on Hotmail, not her official one: “Sorry for silence. Suddenly reassigned to Luxembourg. Same case, new direction. I’ll call when I can. Maybe. Don’t use my other e-mail. Kisses, Isabelle.”
    What on earth did she mean by that, except to keep him guessing and uncertain? She’d call,
maybe
. And “Kisses” was the way you might end a note to an old boyfriend from school, or to a family member. It was a usefully vague word for Isabelle to deploy. There was a hint of conspiracy in her asking him to avoid her official e-mail address, and what on earth could be taking the case to Luxembourg?
I’m being kept on the hook
, Bruno concluded,
and I’m a little old for that
. A ringing phone brought him back to the real world. It was the funeral parlor calling. Could he come at once?

29
    François Cheyrou had inherited the Saint-Denis funeral business from his father and grandfather, and Bruno expected that François’s teenage son, Félix, would probably bury him one day. Since Bruno was responsible for the registration of all deaths in the commune, he knew François well and was a frequent caller at the funeral home, which was tucked away behind the municipal campground. There was a large parking area in front of it, shaded by trees, and then inside, a row of rooms where the dead could be laid out for viewing. The rooms were furnished with simple dignity, each containing a bed, two prayer stools, vases for flowers and a small table that held the condolence book for visitors to sign. Behind the viewing rooms was an office, a waiting room and a garage for the hearses. Farther back was the large workshop, where the coffins were made. To one side stretched some smaller rooms for embalming and others for the dressing of the dead and the application of cosmetics that could repair the ravages of death before the deceased were subjected to public view.
    It was to one of these smaller rooms that François led Bruno; Max’s washed and naked body lay on a long metal table that had two taps at one end and a drain at the other.
    “I was trying to comb out the hair when I found it,” said François, and he lifted Max’s head so Bruno could see the gash on the side of the scalp. He bent down to examine it more closely. It was less a wound than a bad scrape, but the skin had been broken and the flesh was swollen. Max’s body had spent hours soaking in wine before being washed here at the funeral parlor; Bruno wondered what effect that had on a wound.
    The ash on the end of the cigarette François kept in his mouth curved down at an improbable