Late Harvest Havoc by Jean-Pierre Alaux

The person taken into custody this morning has been released. He had an alibi that was confirmed. At this point, we’re back at square one.”
    Benjamin was actually satisfied with this news. He opened the envelope that had been left under the door. Inside was a flier, folded in two. It advertised power pruning shears that were “highly reliable, easy to use, lightweight, and battery operated.” Several models were available, some of which could cut vines, including shoots, branches, and even stumps.
    â€œQuiet, manageable, a battery life of eight hours,” the advertisement promised. It included a purchase order.
    When Benjamin rushed downstairs to find out who had delivered the envelope, the woman behind the desk told him that a young man had dropped it off during the Mass. He hadn’t left his name.
    â€œHe took off the way he came, after flashing me an angelic smile,” she said. “What I really remember, though, is his shoes. They were all muddy. I had to mop the floor after he left.”

9
    Virgile was disappointed when Fauchié canceled their lunch at the Échevin at the last minute, citing some “nasty business” he had to tend to. They rescheduled for coffee at ten Sunday morning at the Schwendi, a brasserie on the Grande Rue.
    He had wandered in the city all day Saturday, and finally he had gone into the closely monitored vineyards above Riquewihr. In the evening he went to the Mango, where a group of employees from the Maréchal had gathered to forget the tensions of the workweek, with the help of frozen tequilas and Caribbean dance music. Virgile found Théo, who had come with Amina, the chambermaid Virgile had seen in his room. They laughed a lot, danced their hearts out, and drank a little more than they should have. At seven in the morning, Benjamin’s right-hand man made it back to his room at the hotel, turned off his cell, unplugged the wall phone, and fell into bed for a quick nap before meeting with Fauchié.
    Three hours later, as Virgile made his way to the Schwendi, the sun was warming the air despite a heavy cloud cover. The provincial town was languid. Some couples were buying their Saint Honoré cakes in the pastry shop. The devout were safe and sound in church, and the stray dogs were lazily going through the garbage. Of course, some folks were gearing up for that day’s soccer match, but that was predictable, as was the sweet smell of hot croissants wafting onto the brasserie’s outside terrace. The business was empty, with the exception of an older woman with a little girl, and Fauchié, who was facing the other direction. He was reading Le Journal du Dimanche . On the table in front of him were a cup of coffee, a croissant, and a glass of water.
    The inspector looked Virgile up and down, saying nothing about his disheveled mop, haggard face, and late arrival. Virgile was profuse with his apologies, and Fauchié quickly dispelled any unease.
    â€œCoffee?”
    â€œA double, please!”
    â€œCroissant? A tartine beurrée ?”
    â€œNo, thank you,” Virgile answered, suppressing a yawn. He still wasn’t awake.
    When he saw the inspector staring at him, he looked down and noticed that he hadn’t tied his shoelaces. Virgile smoothed his wrinkled shirt and ran a hand through his hair.
    â€œThat’s what they call ‘hitting the ground running,’ young man!”
    â€œYep,” Virgile said. He changed the subject. “What did your experts say about Mr. Cooker’s tires?”
    â€œThe Mercedes mechanic was right: the cuts were most likely made by a power tool and certainly not a knife. There were two slashes in each tire, twelve centimeters long, from two different blades. One of the blades could be manipulated up and down, and the other was more or less stationary. In all probability it was a garden tool—actually, a professional tool.”
    â€œThe theory of the chainsaw is