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Rhône—say, a Condrieu.”
    â€œI am glad you like it,” he said politely.
    It was, in fact, considerably better than I had expected. If he made wine of this quality, it wasn’t surprising that it could be sold in Paris or Marseille for good prices—certainly better prices than the local auberges would want to pay.
    We drank again and somewhere a door banged. Footsteps could be heard and then the door to the laboratory opened. A man peered in. When he saw me, he said quickly, “Sorry. See you later, Gerard.” He closed the door and was gone before I realized that he had spoken in English.
    In the glimpse that I had of him, the man was very heavily built and carried himself in a slight crouch. He had a mass of unruly, curly hair and a face that was dark, almost swarthy. His complexion was uneven, with small growths on the nose and one cheek.
    â€œIt has been compared to a white Chateauneuf,” Gerard said as if there had been no interruption.
    â€œI would say this is better,” I told him. I could ignore interruptions too.
    â€œAnother glass?” he offered.
    â€œNo, thank you. It really is excellent but I must go.”
    â€œStop in again anytime,” he said as we came out into the neat courtyard. “I am always glad to be of help.”
    I stopped as I reached my car and made a show of going through my pockets for the car keys. In truth, I was scanning the cave entrances—those dark, mysterious holes in the chalky cliffside—and trying not to be obvious about it.
    I could see nothing now, but when we had been outside before, I had distinctly seen a figure come out of one of the caves, then hastily duck back out of sight. And this was Friday—not Saturday, the day of the schoolteacher’s tour.

Chapter 7
    T HE WILLESFORD VINEYARD WAS just as deserted as the last time I had been here but this time Annabel came bouncing toward me as soon as I got out of the car. I said a few soothing words which amounted to “I come in peace” and this, surprisingly, prevented her from barking, though she stood poised and quivering, regarding me with a reproachful look that I couldn’t avoid interpreting as “You—last time you were here there was a dead body.”
    Simone was in one of the offices, encased in glass and surrounded by paper. I rapped on the door and went in.
    â€œAh, c’est vous,” she said. Her tone would have been appropriate four hundred years ago when a messenger announced the approach of the Black Plague.
    â€œYes, it is,” I agreed. “I’m sorry I didn’t get to talk with you before but it was not the right moment. Now that the police have gone, however, I wonder if I might have a few minutes of your time?”
    She mentally reviewed several good excuses but evidently rejected them all on the grounds that she would have to do this sooner or later so better get it over with. She sighed, put down her pen, and said, “Very well. What do you want to know?”
    I eased her into it gradually with questions about the area, the yield, the type of grape, the quality of wine, the market … all the routine questions that anyone would ask. They were also the questions to which she had answers right on the tip of her tongue and this gave her confidence, so when I hit her with my next question, she was taken aback.
    â€œWhy does the Peregrine vineyard want to buy you out?”
    She straightened in her chair. “Who told you that?”
    I gave her my look of surprise. “Everybody. It’s common gossip.”
    She said nothing so I asked quickly, “Why? It’s true, isn’t it?”
    â€œThere—there have been offers,” she admitted slowly.
    â€œI can see they might want to expand—they don’t have much land.”
    â€œYou’ve been over there?”
    â€œYes. You were tied up with the police so I went and talked to them first.”
    â€œYou talked to