Dying on the Vine by Peter King

was one of the aristocrats who had come to the Riviera every year after the opening of the Leningrad-Nice railway in 1864. He had been acquainted with the grand dukes and duchesses and other members of the Russian royalty. Alex’s grandfather had been trapped in Russia under the Communist regime but his father had come to the South of France, which he remembered from his childhood. Alex himself had been born here and was a French citizen.
    He asked me what I was doing here and listened to my tale of being a journalist without showing either the dismay of bank manager Terence McGill or the indifference of the Swedish midfielder.
    â€œWriting about vineyards owned by English, are you? We have one of them near us—Willesford own it.”
    â€œThat’s one of the vineyards I’m writing about.” It occurred to me that if I said this many more times I would really have to write something about it.
    â€œThat Simone’s a great girl, isn’t she?” he grinned.
    â€œShe certainly is,” I agreed. This job was leading me into a lot of prevarication.
    â€œWe delivered a case of wine for them one time,” he said. “It was urgently needed at a banquet.”
    It was another thread of information but like most of them, it didn’t seem to lead anywhere. Still … “You delivered it?” I asked casually. “You have a delivery service?”
    â€œOnly special stuff—high speed, emergencies—that sort of thing.”
    â€œMust be a lot of demand for that here.”
    â€œThere is. We had an interesting one last week. You know they’ve reopened La Victorine?”
    â€œThe famous film studios in Nice? No, I didn’t know that.”
    â€œYes, well, they found that the next day’s shooting script had several pages missing so we had to rush another copy to them. We did it without their losing a minute of their valuable time.” He laughed and winked. “Mind you, the film’s a stinker. It might have been better if they’d lost the entire script. Still, we did our share, rushing the script from the hotel in Orange to the studio in Nice in an hour and a half.”
    â€œThat’s incredible—you must employ race drivers,” I said, amazed.
    â€œWe do when necessary. Didn’t I see you come on board with one of them?”
    â€œMonika? She drives for you?”
    â€œLike a demon—only occasionally, though. She’s usually too busy modeling or shooting photos for a magazine or leading scuba diving teams out looking for wrecks. We have a faster system than even Monika—” He broke off as Grant Masterson joined us.
    â€œGlad to see you two got acquainted. Valuable man, Alexis,” he told me. “Delivers the goods when no one else can.” A thought struck him and he eyed me more keenly. “You write about wine … you must know something about food too.”
    â€œI—er, well, yes, I do.” I saw no reason to deny it altogether.
    â€œKnow anything about truffles?”
    â€œYes, I wrote an article on them,” I answered.
    â€œI’m going up to Aupres in the Var day after tomorrow. How about coming with me? I’m going to the truffle market and need all the expertise I can gather. Between you and me, I’m opening a chain of delicatessens and I’m scouting a good source of truffles. It’s a hit-and-miss business, as I’m sure you know. Can I count on you?”
    â€œYes, I’d like that. Might be another article in it—truffles are a fascinating business.” I was vaguely aware that I should be concentrating on wine and vineyards, but an opportunity to get to know a man like Masterson couldn’t be passed up, and besides, in my real life as the Gourmet Detective the experience would be useful.
    He clapped me on the back. “Right. Pick you up then—where are you staying?”
    I told him as a smart white-uniformed girl crew member