Mayhem in Margaux by Jean-Pierre Alaux, Noël Balen Page B

it means making more money.”
    “I didn’t know you were so lyrical. So you’re actually a sensitive man and a little bit of a mystic, Mr. Cooker.”
    The winemaker stuck the tines of his fork into a cherry tomato. The skin burst open, spitting a spot of sanguine pulp onto the edge of his plate. It looked like a splotch of blood created by a movie makeup artist.
    “That’s because you’ve never read me carefully, Inspector. You must always look for what’s happening between the lines.” After a moment of silence, he added, “Hmm, that makes me wonder what we are missing at the château. Perhaps, Inspector, we do need a more careful reading there too.”

15
    Margaux spent the better part of her days reading. She had found shelves full of detective novels at the back of a closet at La Planquette, and she devoured dozens of the dog-eared paperbacks with faded covers and yellowed pages. She loved Georges Simenon’s plots. The slow pace, odd characters, and provincial rhythm spoke to her more than American hard-boiled fiction with their bursts of gunfire, bloody pursuits, and plot twists on every page. Spy thrillers intrigued her even less. Although they always made the best-seller lists, too many were formulaic, as far as she was concerned.
    From time to time she opened a cyanide-laced homicide concocted by old English ladies whose Victorian perversions she adored. Margaux’s literary inclinations were those of a young woman who knew she was privileged but loved to escape her era. Far from the noise and bustle of New York, she relished this interlude in the land of her childhood. Stretched out on a blue-and-white deck chair or lying on the living room chaise lounge, she turned the pages to the sound of the cicadas, an iced tea on the table beside her.
    When Virgile suggested leaving La Planquette for a change of scenery, Margaux hesitated. She knew the nightlife at Cap Ferret all too well and didn’t miss those aimless outings. There were only two places that interested her. One was the Sail Fish, with its inviting décor, efficient staff, and proper menus. The crowd from the end of the peninsula was always there: the affluent and the nouveau riche of western Paris, middle-class young people from Bordeaux, silicone creatures who came to flaunt their navels, and a sprinkle of celebrities. At two in the morning, when the restaurant closed, most of them migrated to the second spot, the New Centaure, a sweltering nightclub where you could lose yourself in the music, despite the smoky air and the sweaty patrons.
    Margaux didn’t know what Virgile was thinking, anyway. She’d never be able to navigate a disco with her crutches, much less dance. But she didn’t want to disappoint him. She agreed to go to Tchanqué, where they could quietly enjoy rum and tapas on the terrace.
    Sitting comfortably with their glasses of white Pessac-Léognan, Margaux and Virgile were finally alone for the first time. And Margaux found that she and Virgile had a lot to talk about. They started with casual subjects that allowed each of them to get used to the other’s voice, nuances, brief silences, and gestures. They ordered another glass of the same wine, a 2000 Château de France, and then easily recalled personal memories, some of which they had never revealed to anyone else.
    Margaux spoke at length of her childhood at Grangebelle: playing hide-and-seek between the barrels, the extravagant dolls from her grandfather in London, her friends from primary school at Saint-Julien-de-Beychevelle, and her aunt, who had predicted her future by reading her palm. She went on to discuss her overly serious studies at business school and her move to New York and an apartment building full of friendly nutcases. She laughed a lot, loudly and happily, when Virgile recalled his youth in the Montravel countryside, bicycles swapped, slingshots fashioned from hazelnut branches, traps jerry-rigged to catch lizards, the Bergerac fairgrounds, the groping hands