MADAME 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.
“Hélas,” 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.
“I’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 another question.
“I was wondering … do you have any research going?”
“Research?” That took her attention from her files.
“Yes. You know—cloning, grafting, hybridization, that kind of thing …?”
She pursed her lips. “We are too busy with production to be doing research.”
“Well, you don’t have to do it here. Some vineyards support programs in laboratories and research institutes; that way, it doesn’t interfere with their everyday work.”
“Research is kept confidential,” she informed me.
“Do you know Professor Rahmani?”
She sighed and put on a pained look that said plainly, I don’t have time for all these silly questions. She shook her head.
“Or the Institute for the Study of Planetary Influences?”
There was a brief hesitation, then she said, “Oh, is that what his crackpot organization is called?”
“Is that what it is?”
She shrugged again. “Astrology and wine making have nothing in common. He may have conned a few vintners to subsidize him but—”
“He has?” I interjected quickly.
“I suppose so … well, he must have … he has a lot of very expensive equipment, large modern buildings … it all costs money …”
“Yes,” I murmured. She knew plenty about a man she had never heard of.
She looked away, aware of her slip, but recovered fast.
“I didn’t recognize the name—your accent. … He approached us some time ago about research on grapes. We didn’t want to have anything to do with it. Are these questions anything to do with your article?” she demanded.
“Certainly,” I said before I had time to think whether they did or not. “Some vineyards believe in long-term development. Do they do it themselves, do they farm it out as a program … ?”
“I have a lot of work to do,” she said, pulling the files a little closer. “Can you find your own way?”
“Thanks. I will.”
I went through the other door, into the winery, leaving Miss Congeniality to her files. There was no one in sight. The sweet smell of fermenting grapes was powerful. Machinery buzzed softly and water was running somewhere. I walked past the rows of vats, their oaken exteriors sweating moisture. The floor was a little slippery and I trod carefully.
Farther along, I found what I was looking for. A rickety wooden desk had some papers on a clipboard, an operating manual, and a school-type exercise book. I glanced at the papers on the clipboard first. They were an hourly log of temperature readings and a record of sampling times. The manual was standard stuff and didn’t appear to be much used. The exercise book was different, though—it showed grape varieties, weights, dates, and I was getting really interested when …
Sounds from above echoed through the cloying air—loud metallic clicks. I listened. It stopped then I heard what sounded like soft footsteps coming from the catwalk above the vats. I put the book back exactly as I had found it and stood without moving. Once more, I heard the footsteps—and while I didn’t like the idea of going up myself, I liked even less the idea of a person who didn’t want to be identified being above me.
I found a stairway. The metal rail was cold and clammy but I clung tightly with one hand as I climbed. One foot kicked a step and the vibrating hum sounded loud but probably wasn’t. I kept on upward to the catwalk.
It seemed dizzyingly high now that I was up here. I recalled the old adage about never looking down—and promptly looked down. The catwalk ran the length of the building, branching off to run between the vats. A person could be hidden anywhere. I thought of calling out in case it was a worker engaged in the legitimate pursuit of his trade but then reflected that it was more their responsibility to challenge me as the interloper. I edged cautiously along the metal-grill flooring.
I passed two rows of vats. The lids were open to permit air to be ingested, and the contents bubbled gently. Clouds of sweet, fruity vapor swirled slowly and an insistent hiss indicated that fermentation was at a high level. A piece of cloth caught my eye. It was tied to the top of the rail and I went to inspect it. It was a scarf, once white and now stained with dark red. Wine stains, I told myself firmly … I was looking at it to determine why it was there when to my horror, it moved. …
It was too late by the time I realized that it was not only the scarf moving but the rail. Then I was moving with it as the result of a strong push in the middle of my back. My fall was like slow motion and there seemed to be ample time for the realization that the metallic sounds I had heard had been the removal of the locking pins from a detachable section of the rail.
The rail fell away and I fell after it.
The surface of dark liquid soared toward me and a thick warmth was all enveloping. …