Treachery in Bordeaux (The Winemaker Detective Series) by Jean-Pierre Alaux, Noël Balen Page B

his inside jacket pocket. He was sure that Pascale Dartigeas would be talented enough to rework his portrait and reproduce his features accurately.
    The end-of-April evening breeze was warm. As he left the train station, he removed a parking ticket from under the windshield wiper of his Mercedes and tossed it onto the back seat. Benjamin Cooker had just spent an excellent day.

9
    D O YOU THINK YOU can suffocate on your own vomit?” Virgile asked, folding the newspaper.
    “Spare me the details, please,” Cooker said, looking disgusted.
    The winemaker hadn’t read more than the first paragraph of the article in the latest edition of the Sud-Ouest before setting it on the edge of the table.
    It was late morning, still chilly, and there were only a few scattered patrons at the Régent’s outside tables. A handful of regulars, comfortably sheltered by a large red awning and ensconced in their rattan chairs, took in the city’s moods. Some were deep in their newspapers, not paying any attention to their neighbors, while others sipped their coffee in seats at the front to better observe the comings and goings on the Place Gambetta, with its buses swerving along the Cours Clemenceau and young women hurrying between stopped cars.
    Virgile had joined Cooker a little late. He sputtered an excuse and immediately started talking about the story in the paper. The headline read, “Pessac loses its living archives.” The story took up two columns but didn’t have any pictures.
    “The quiet Cité Frugès, a modern architectural jewel designed by Le Corbusier, is in mourning. Mr. Ferdinand Ténotier, a professor of medieval history at the University of Bordeaux for 30 years, was found dead yesterday morning by the postman. The latter came to deliver his pension payment when he found the old man slumped on his kitchen table, his face lying in the remains of a meal he had regurgitated. This solitary, sometimes extravagant man, once married to an aristocrat from Andalusia, was one of the top experts in Pessac’s history. Mr. Ténotier had studied at the École des Chartes and had a comparative literature degree from La Sorbonne. He spoke Latin, Greek, Hebrew, Armenian and several other languages, including 16 th -century Spanish, which brought him many honors for his 1954 annotated translation of ‘Don Quixote.’ He was also the author of a popular pamphlet on the history of Pessac, which, unfortunately, is out of print. No stone in the town was a secret to him, and his tragic death at the age of 78 is a great loss for our region.”
    “It’s strange. There is no time or date mentioned for the funeral,” Virgile said.
    “I’m not surprised.”
    “They’re not going to bury him like a dog, are they?”
    “You never know. I suppose they’ll do an autopsy to make sure his death was accidental,” Benjamin said, getting up from the table.
    “You think so?”
    “What I think is that it is high time we get to Moniales and check some things out. Don’t you agree, Virgile?”
    “If you say so.”
    ALEXANDRINE de la Palussière was already at work when they arrived at the cellars. She had checked the steel tanks, taking a few new samples before intervening to treat the contamination. She was wearing a pair of beige leather espadrilles, plain linen pants and a sky-blue cashmere sweater. She looked like she was off to a private golfing resort or some sailing club for spoiled teenagers. Her bob cut, held back by the never-changing mother-of-pearl hairband, brought out the best in her smooth face.
    She carefully descended the stepladder on which she was perched to join her employer, who was fretting at the door of the building, his face pale. Alexandrine put on a smile as she walked over to him with a light swaying step. She shook Cooker’s hand and gave Virgile a look-over. She thought he might actually be nice, but his good looks were a little too impertinent. Denis Massepain had just arrived from his office, where a phone call