Dying on the Vine by Peter King Page A

came to tell him that a call from Cairo awaited. He excused himself and left. Suvarov called out to an elegant woman in a clinging flowery dress. “An old customer,” he explained with a dashing Errol Flynn smile, “must take care of business—oh, and don’t forget, if you need anything taken, fetched, brought, or delivered and it’s really urgent—I’m your man.” He whipped out a card and handed it to me. Then he was gone as fast as his reputed service.
    A producer on Monte Carlo television was the next person I talked to but his interest in me waned fast when he learned I was a journalist and he escaped quickly. Monika finally reappeared with a dark-featured man in a silk suit whom she introduced as being from Iran. A car rally was being planned, she said, crossing the deserts of six nations and she was eager to participate. The way the man looked at her suggested that it was not her car-handling abilities that interested him.
    I assured her I understood why she was going back to the Metropole Hotel with him to study a map of the proposed race across the deserts, agreeing that a knowledge of the route would be highly advantageous. I watched her go and with the sun sinking slowly over neighboring Spain made my lonely way back to Saint Symphorien and the Relais du Moulin, meditating on life, women, and other related and unrelated subjects.

Chapter 18
    M ADAME RIBEREAU AT LE Relais du Moulin could not understand why I didn’t want a full meal that night even after I told her that I had lunched at the Louis XV.
    â€œHélas,” said Madame with a dismissive toss of the head, “that was lunch. Now you are ready for dinner.”
    My continued protestations were brushed aside and all I could do was trim down the size of the meal and tell myself that I had to eat in order to stay in Madame’s good graces. I had a cup of beef consommé, a poached trout and some parsleyed potatoes, a half bottle of white wine, and a crème brûlée. A stroll around the grounds helped it to digest and I managed to stay awake through a two-hour television program extolling achievements in French literature at the turn of the century. I went to bed rather than wallow in the excitement of Dragnet that followed.
    For once, the French breakfast of coffee and a croissant was adequate and I set off for the Willesford vineyard. The morning was bright and clear, so clear that the Alps with their sparkle of fresh snow covering were clearly visible. I drove through forests of mimosa trees and fields of red soil. A wooden hut was selling fresh milk, cheese, and yogurt and already doing a brisk trade.
    The courtyard of the Willesford vineyard was again quiet. A couple of old cars were parked at one end of the buildings and I put my Citroen alongside them. Simone was once more at the desk in her office. She looked up as I went in, brushed a lock of blond hair from her cheek, and said petulantly, “Oh, it’s you again.”
    I smiled my friendliest smile, said a cheerful “Good morning,” and sat down on the one rickety chair.
    She eyed me suspiciously. “You need more information?” she asked in a voice suggesting that I wouldn’t get it whatever it was. The progress I thought I had made in my last visit had apparently evaporated.
    â€œI’d like to look around a little more—if that’s all right with you.”
    She had her mouth open to say something negative as I went on: “I can just wander round. I need to get the feeling of the place, the atmosphere—so I can pass it on to the readers,” I added, as a reminder that I was writing an article.
    I had another reason, too. I was curious to know if she had any objection to my going through the place on my own. If there was anything to hide, she would promptly refuse.
    She shrugged. “Go ahead if you want.” She returned to the files in front of her as if I had already left. I pressed on with