Read Death in the Vines: A Verlaque and Bonnet Provençal Mystery for Free Online

tilted his head. “You had no biases?”
    â€œExactly, my dear judge. You’re one of the few people ever to have understood that. I didn’t have a great love for one region over another. For me it was a numbers game, and one I was good at. Since then I’ve changed, naturally, and now have preferences. But back then I didn’t.”
    â€œFascinating,” Verlaque said with complete sincerity. He lovedstories like this one—where against all odds someone makes something out of his or her life—a story that he thought very un-French, given the French preferences for the right schools, the right accent, the good families. Hippolyte Thébaud was a wine expert who didn’t grow up in a Bordeaux wine family, didn’t attend the right schools, and certainly had no connections, having begun his career as a waiter. “You could write your memoirs,” Verlaque said.
    â€œOh, but I have already!” Thébaud mused. “We’re just hunting around for a good title.”
    Verlaque wasted no time in answering: “
Confessions of a Wine Thief
.”
    Thébaud beamed. “Wonderful! That’s exactly why, when you walked through the door, I knew I had to tell you my story,” he said, drawing his legs up under him.
    Verlaque paused, unsure how to respond to the exaggerated compliment. Thébaud was a salesman, first and foremost, and wine expert and consultant to the police second. He decided to say nothing, and instead he plunged straight into Olivier Bonnard’s wine theft. He gave Thébaud the details and ended the story by saying, “We believe that the thief is someone who knows the family and the winery.”
    Thébaud sat back and put his hands behind his head. “Why so?”
    â€œBecause the lock hadn’t been tampered with, and the key was found in its usual spot, beside the kitchen door.”
    â€œClassic!” Hippolyte Thébaud cried out. “Vintners are
so
imaginative! They hide the keys to their cellars—whether in Argentina, Alsace, or Adelaide—all in the same idiotic place. Any fool could have slipped in and made a copy. I’ve done it before, while pretending to check the electricity meter. Next!”
    â€œOkay. The thief didn’t take all of the premier crus; he or shetook different wines, here and there, regardless of their age or quality.”
    Thébaud threw his hands in the air. “They’re stealing my moves! I did that once or twice, to make it look like an in-house job. The second time, I went back for more while the Bordeaux police were on the premises, busy interviewing family and staff. Ha!” He had such a look of divine pleasure on his face that Verlaque thought, very briefly, that the handsome young man might be stealing again. Seeing the judge’s look, Thébaud said, “Don’t worry. I was telling the truth when I said that I don’t need to steal anymore.”
    â€œSo what’s your opinion?” Verlaque asked.
    â€œThey’ll be back for more,” Thébaud answered. “Would you like another coffee?”

    Verlaque, uncharacteristically, had decided to take the metro to the train station, knowing that over the lunch hour taxis would be few and far between. After sitting on a bench in the Tuileries for a few minutes, admiring the top-heavy, rounded women sculpted by Maillol, he got on the number-1 metro line. At the next stop, Musée du Louvre, the train sat in the station for four minutes before the doors finally closed and the train lurched forward. Verlaque breathed a sigh of relief, glancing at his watch, realizing that he had underestimated the time it took the number 1 to snake along downtown Paris, parallel to the Seine. At the next stop the train had been in the station for more than seven minutes when, finally, an announcement came over the PA that a passenger had met with “an accident” farther up the line and it would be