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she immediately filled it.
    â€œVery pleasant,” I said, trying not to sound like a patronizing tourist.
    â€œIt’s a very popular wine,” she said matter-of-factly.
    â€œIn England?” I asked.
    â€œYes, but here too.”
    â€œIn this region?”
    â€œOh, yes. Almost all the local restaurants and markets sell it.”
    â€œHow many different wines do you make?” I knew the answer but I didn’t want her to know I knew. She told me their names and identified which were red, white, and rosé but didn’t describe them further.
    â€œLike to try another?” she asked without any great persuasiveness.
    â€œI don’t think so, thanks. It’s supposed to be bad to mix different wines, isn’t it?”
    She shrugged. I was relieved that at least she hadn’t poured me the rosé.
    While we were walking back to the office, I asked, “Have the police come up with anything new?”
    â€œNo. I don’t believe there is anything for them to find. Poor Emil ran into a pack of wild boars while he was mushrooming. They can be very vicious animals.”
    I sneaked a sidelong look at her as we walked. Her expression suited her words and there was no hint of her hiding anything. At the same time, I noticed that she was more attractive than I had thought. She had high cheekbones and good features—if she had worn any makeup, particularly on her eyes, she would have been stunning.
    â€œI may find some questions arising as I get further into the story,” I told her. “I hope I can come and ask them?”
    She shrugged carelessly. “All right. If you have to.” She even condescended to give me what might have been the ghost of a smile.
    I felt I had made real progress.

Chapter 8
    N ARROW TRAILS LED OFF from the vineyard road but the map didn’t show them. I drove near to the foot of the cliffs and looked for a footpath. It was easier than I expected. After all, the cliffs and the caves had been here for hundreds of thousands of years and lots of people and animals had been up and down. It wasn’t surprising that a lot of paths remained.
    The sun was higher now in a cloudless sky and the temperature was rising. Birds soared in the currents of warm air. Soon I was high enough to come out on to a narrow path that ran past the cave mouths. I had to tread carefully but it was just wide enough for one person.
    After two or three dozen paces, the mouth of a cave came into sight. I stopped and listened. I could hear nothing but the soft sigh of an occasional breeze and the background music of nature’s Muzak—the cicadas. I went on and paused at the mouth of the cave. I could still hear nothing and it was black inside. I took a few tentative steps in and stopped.
    When my eyes adjusted to the gloom, all I could see were bare walls. I looked over the ground but it too was bare. I went back out and walked cautiously to the next cave.
    It was pitch-black too and I was about to go on along the path when I heard the faintest of rustles. The back of my neck tingled and I had a mental image of a massive hound of the Baskervilles (porcine variant) leaping out at me.
    A fly buzzed noisily by, then another. Several were buzzing around and they seemed to be coming out of the cave. I was aware of something else coming out of the cave too—a very strong smell. It was the smell of pigs …
    P. G. Wodehouse said, “Pigs is pigs” and I hoped that was all they were, not wild boars. I had an urge to go inside the cave and have a look but I was able to fight that urge without any trouble. …
    I stood frozen, staring.
    A shiny revolver had emerged from the dim interior of the cave and was pointed right at my middle.
    â€œWho are you? What are you doing here?” The voice was that of a woman, but women can pull triggers as easily as men.
    I tried to answer but my mouth was too dry. The revolver jerked impatiently and that brought words