Backstabbing in Beaujolais (Winemaker Detective Book 9) by Jean-Pierre Alaux, Noël Balen Page B

simple.”
    “I see.” Benjamin smiled at the bottle, whose ruby color let one imagine all kinds of virtues.
    They raised their glasses.
    “To your health, Mr. Cooker.”

15
    Virgile was behind the wheel, driving slowly down the tree-lined driveway.
    “Maserati—Périthiard; Peugeot saloon—Sylvain,” Benjamin said, guessing the guests by their cars.
    “The Mini Cooper S with leather seats is Annabelle’s,” Virgile said. “The Audi A1 is Solène’s, and that A3 is Mr. Chavanne’s. We saw them the first day we were here.”
    “Okay, then the Jaguar belongs to Mrs. Périthiard, and the Range Rover is Fabien Dujaray’s.”
    “How do you know that?”
    “Quillebaud drove the same model, and Dujaray junior would probably try to copy him.”
    “If you say so.”
    The men got out of the convertible and walked to the back of the manor house, scanning the vineyards as they went. The Beaujolais rows were like purple and golden-brown taffeta. Autumn had begun to make its appearance.
    Benjamin headed first to the vines. “I see the damage now—how odd.”
    After inspecting the vines, they joined the other guests, who were gathered on the lawn. Annabelle and Solène were off to one side, whispering. Fabien was nibbling a canapé and keeping his eye on the women. Sylvain was planted near the stone fountain. He had shaved. Eric Chavannes was pouring himself a glass of wine. Guillaume was holding the elbow of an elegant woman with a blond bob cut and pearl earrings.
    “Ah, Mrs. Périthiard. What a pleasure to meet you.”
    “Mr. Cooker, the pleasure is mine. Do call me Bérangère.” With pursed lips, she held out the tips of her fingers.
    Benjamin nodded, and as he took her proffered hand, he watched her turn her attention to her husband, who was staring at Solène. Without bothering to say good-bye, Bérangère walked away and joined Sylvain near the wine table. They exchanged a few words, and it almost looked like she giggled—if a woman of her upbringing and standing were prone to giggling.
    Virgile arrived with two glasses in hand. “It’s not a Vol-au-Vent, of course, and it’s not even a Régnié.”
    Benjamin sniffed, swirled, and tasted.
    “Sylvain makes a basic Beaujolais. This must be his wine.”
    As the evening wore on, guests continued to arrive: local personalities, members of the wine community, and upper management from Maison Coultard-Périthiard. Benjamin and Virgile mingled and tasted several local wines.
    “It looks like Périthiard wants to showcase some local estates,” Virgile said. “Do you think he’s being diplomatic and trying to make friends?”
    “I think Mrs. Périthiard planned this party, Virgile, and I think she’s trying to rub his face in the competition.”
    The sun was setting, and Benjamin was raising a glass of a neighboring estate’s wine to his lips when a tormented scream from the winery pierced the twilight calm.

    After the body was fished out of the maceration vat and identified as Solène Chavannes, the guests were ushered into the manor house to be questioned by the police.
    Benjamin stood near the marble fireplace in the living room and watched as an officer started calling the guests into the dining room one by one. Virgile joined him.
    “I heard the cops say blunt-force trauma, boss.”
    “Hit on the head and tossed in with the grapes.”
    “Boss, who do you think did this?”
    “Any one of the guests could have slipped away and done it.”
    Annabelle was sitting as stiff as a board on a vintage sofa with a wooden frame of carved vines. She was staring into the distance. Although her mascara was smudged, she looked entirely in control. Her silk Gucci minidress wasn’t even wrinkled.
    “Do you think it was Annabelle?” Virgile whispered.
    “I’ve known her since she attended wine school.”
    “A crime of passion? Maybe Solène broke up with her. Remember what Mercedes said about sex and money.”
    “No, Annabelle’s only real passion is her