sharp, upward flick of his head, one eyebrow raised in query. ‘Can I help you?’ But he didn’t sound as if he wanted to, and Nicole quickly found herself reappraising her initial impression of him as handsome. He steadfastly avoided looking at her breasts.
‘I called earlier. About the
chambre d’hôte
.’
‘Oh, yeah.’ He leaned back into the doorway. ‘Maman! It’s the girl about the room.’
Maman turned out to be a formidable old lady with sharp, suspicious eyes. Unlike her son, she was tiny, birdlike, and had a voice that could cut paper. She led Nicole upstairs to a landing of faded floral wallpaper, and a door off it leading to a small bedroom with shutters closed tight against the hot September sun. The young man followed them in and hefted Nicole’s suitcase on to the bed with no apparent effort. The room seemed crowded with the three of them in it and so dark Nicole could only just make out the old framed family photographs on the wall. The inside of the door had the same floral wallpaper on it as the hall outside. Her immediate sense was one of depression. She had spent the last two months sitting in a darkened room at her mother’s bedside, and her impulse was to open the windows and throw the shutters wide, letting life flood in. But she resisted the urge. ‘This’ll be fine.’
‘We’ve never had any complaints,’ Maman said.
‘Have you eaten?’ The young man spoke to her for the first time since greeting her at the door of the
cave
.
‘No.’
He looked at his mother. ‘There’s enough for one more, isn’t there?’
His mother shrugged. ‘I suppose.’
‘That’s very kind of you,’ Nicole said. And she stuck out a hand towards him. ‘My name’s Nicole.’
He seemed suddenly embarrassed. ‘Fabien.’ He took her hand with reluctance, and it felt huge and rough, and she saw his eyes glance fleetingly towards her cleavage. Perhaps he wasn’t so rude after all. Just shy, maybe.
His mother watched her with patent disapproval. ‘Do you want to eat or not?’
***
A hush descended for a moment over the gathering at the table when Fabien and his mother returned with the girl who’d appeared briefly at the door a few minutes earlier.
Nicole found a free seat at the far end, beside an old man whom everyone called Pappy, and who had none of Fabien’s inhibitions about letting his eyes wander at will. He had a face as sharp as a blade, and fine, muscled arms exposed by a grape-stained sports vest. ‘Come to pick grapes with us, madamoiselle?’ he asked.
‘Not exactly.’
‘On holiday, then?’ This from a ruddy-faced man across the table who poured her a glass of wine.
‘No, my boss is staying in a
gîte
at the Château des Fleurs. He’s the one going grape-picking. Sort of under cover. He’s here to investigate the death of the wine critic, you know, the American, Gil Petty?’
A silence you could touch fell across the table, and Nicole wondered what she had said wrong. All eyes were turned towards her.
‘Grape picking where?’ Fabien said.
Nicole was beginning to think it had been a mistake to say anything at all. But having started, she could hardly stop now. She said, with a lightness she did not feel, ‘The vineyard where the body was discovered. He starts tomorrow.’ She glanced anxiously around all the faces turned towards her. ‘Do you know it?’
The long silence that followed was finally broken by Fabien, whose dark look was reflected in the ominous tone of his voice. ‘We do. It’s here. La Croix Blanche.’ He paused. ‘And you can tell your boss he needn’t bother turning up tomorrow.’
Chapter Five
I.
Enzo guided his 2CV through a narrow archway, to the front of a house built in the style of a Spanish
hacienda
. Steps led up through a garden of small trees and potted plants to double glass doors opening into a cool reception hall. Wisteria, long past its season of tearful, violet bloom, grew gnarled and twisted around the doorway, and
‘I called earlier. About the
chambre d’hôte
.’
‘Oh, yeah.’ He leaned back into the doorway. ‘Maman! It’s the girl about the room.’
Maman turned out to be a formidable old lady with sharp, suspicious eyes. Unlike her son, she was tiny, birdlike, and had a voice that could cut paper. She led Nicole upstairs to a landing of faded floral wallpaper, and a door off it leading to a small bedroom with shutters closed tight against the hot September sun. The young man followed them in and hefted Nicole’s suitcase on to the bed with no apparent effort. The room seemed crowded with the three of them in it and so dark Nicole could only just make out the old framed family photographs on the wall. The inside of the door had the same floral wallpaper on it as the hall outside. Her immediate sense was one of depression. She had spent the last two months sitting in a darkened room at her mother’s bedside, and her impulse was to open the windows and throw the shutters wide, letting life flood in. But she resisted the urge. ‘This’ll be fine.’
‘We’ve never had any complaints,’ Maman said.
‘Have you eaten?’ The young man spoke to her for the first time since greeting her at the door of the
cave
.
‘No.’
He looked at his mother. ‘There’s enough for one more, isn’t there?’
His mother shrugged. ‘I suppose.’
‘That’s very kind of you,’ Nicole said. And she stuck out a hand towards him. ‘My name’s Nicole.’
He seemed suddenly embarrassed. ‘Fabien.’ He took her hand with reluctance, and it felt huge and rough, and she saw his eyes glance fleetingly towards her cleavage. Perhaps he wasn’t so rude after all. Just shy, maybe.
His mother watched her with patent disapproval. ‘Do you want to eat or not?’
***
A hush descended for a moment over the gathering at the table when Fabien and his mother returned with the girl who’d appeared briefly at the door a few minutes earlier.
Nicole found a free seat at the far end, beside an old man whom everyone called Pappy, and who had none of Fabien’s inhibitions about letting his eyes wander at will. He had a face as sharp as a blade, and fine, muscled arms exposed by a grape-stained sports vest. ‘Come to pick grapes with us, madamoiselle?’ he asked.
‘Not exactly.’
‘On holiday, then?’ This from a ruddy-faced man across the table who poured her a glass of wine.
‘No, my boss is staying in a
gîte
at the Château des Fleurs. He’s the one going grape-picking. Sort of under cover. He’s here to investigate the death of the wine critic, you know, the American, Gil Petty?’
A silence you could touch fell across the table, and Nicole wondered what she had said wrong. All eyes were turned towards her.
‘Grape picking where?’ Fabien said.
Nicole was beginning to think it had been a mistake to say anything at all. But having started, she could hardly stop now. She said, with a lightness she did not feel, ‘The vineyard where the body was discovered. He starts tomorrow.’ She glanced anxiously around all the faces turned towards her. ‘Do you know it?’
The long silence that followed was finally broken by Fabien, whose dark look was reflected in the ominous tone of his voice. ‘We do. It’s here. La Croix Blanche.’ He paused. ‘And you can tell your boss he needn’t bother turning up tomorrow.’
Chapter Five
I.
Enzo guided his 2CV through a narrow archway, to the front of a house built in the style of a Spanish
hacienda
. Steps led up through a garden of small trees and potted plants to double glass doors opening into a cool reception hall. Wisteria, long past its season of tearful, violet bloom, grew gnarled and twisted around the doorway, and
Similar Books
