Deadly Tasting by Jean-Pierre Alaux, Noël Balen Page B

days! And we both know how awful that tends to be.”
    “You’re right. I agree. People don’t always realize the divine nature of what they’re drinking.”
    The rain had almost stopped by the time they reached the Pomerol church, where the bell tower rose up like a lighthouse in a sea of vineyards. They parked the convertible on the small town square and walked over to the war memorial. Benjamin read the names of the soldiers who had died in battle. Pomerol had lost thirty-one men in World War One. Five young men had been lost from 1939 to 1945. Benjamin bowed his head and remained silent, arms crossed and eyes half closed. He prayed for the souls of the boys who had died far from home and the mothers, fathers, and siblings who had lost them. As he sent up his prayers, he could hear the birds chirping in the vines.
    Benjamin opened his eyes and saw his assistant waiting patiently. He took in the landscape and noted that there weren’t many leaves left in the vineyards, just a few reddish bouquets hanging here and there on the stocks, dozing before the first winter pruning.
    “There’s something I have to tell you, sir,” Virgile said. “But I’m not sure if I’m right or wrong or if I should just trust my intuition. Besides, it was so brief and fleeting. A little while ago, in the cemetery…”
    “How cautious you’re being, Virgile!”
    “Well, here it is: I think I saw streaks of red on Dominique Jouvenaze’s umbrella. Not while it was closed, but as soon as it started to rain, the guy opened it, and there, on the cloth part, near the top, there were red smears. It looked like paint, and it was bright red, like an intense vermilion.”
    “And then?”
    “Well, while you were talking with the inspector, I watched him. He was fighting with the umbrella in the wind, and at one point, the umbrella even inverted. I got a good look at it. When I turned back to the grave and saw the two s ’s, they looked like they were the same red.”
    “What are you trying to say?”
    “Nothing, I’m just telling you what I saw. Or what I think I saw.”
    Jangling the keys to the Mercedes, Benjamin walked back to the car with Virgile. Without a word, he slid behind the wheel. They took off in the direction of the primary school, turned left toward Catusseau, and crossed a highway. They drove along narrow roads that were rough enough to make the car shake. Near a tributary of the L’Isle River, not far from the railroad tracks connecting Bordeaux to Bergerac, was the place called Petite Racine. Barely a handful of modest houses were set among the vines and protected from the wind by oak, sycamore, and acacia trees. Only a beautiful nineteenth-century monastery surrounded by conifers and a stone wall gave character to the uninspired hamlet. Benjamin cut the engine after parking in a secluded spot near an overrun thicket.
    As soon as Benjamin got out of the car, he faced into the wind to attune his sense of smell to the landscape. Oddly, it was a habit he had picked up from his Irish setter, Bacchus. Then, standing still, he got his visual bearings. He assessed the way the rows of vines were established and the nature of the soil, more gravelly than sandy in this place. Nearby would be the Marzy château. Toward the west would be La Croix des Templiers. Behind him was La Pointe.
    It did not take Benjamin and Virgile long to locate Armand Jouvenaze’s house near a large pond. In the distance, the nephew’s house was visible. It was slightly more imposing but just as plain. Plumes of smoke escaped in thin threads from the large brick chimney, indicating that Dominique Jouvenaze was home. A barrier of trees separated the two properties. Benjamin and Virgile cautiously snooped around the little house. Its closed shutters and deserted courtyard overrun with high weeds typified the morbid nature of neglected properties. Virgile walked over to the barn, its worn siding bleached by years of scorching sun and pounded by relentless