Backstabbing in Beaujolais (Winemaker Detective Book 9) by Jean-Pierre Alaux, Noël Balen

done, she’d marinate the meat in fromage blanc with mustard and thyme.”
    Benjamin finished his tea and smiled.
    “What?” Virgile asked.
    “We just finished breakfast, and even though your belly’s full, you’re still talking about food.” Benjamin got up and left the room, returning a few minutes later with his Daninos book in hand.
    “Listen to this: ‘The French have such a passion for food that between meals they can have feasts of words. It is an incomparable pleasure for a foreigner to be a contemplative guest at one.’”
    “Yeah. At home, we’d spend entire banquets talking about nothing but food, as if there wasn’t enough on our plates.”
    “Well, you know what they say: eat well, laugh often, and love abundantly, all of which you do with gusto, Virgile.”
    “Yes, and life is too short to drink bad wine. So what’s on the schedule today?”
    “They’ve started some leveling for the new wine cellar, and I believe a shipment of winemaking equipment is scheduled to arrive today. I’d like to check everything and have a word with Sylvain. And perhaps we should think about going back to Bordeaux soon. I called Jacqueline on Friday. She may enjoy having the place to herself, but she did reprimand me for not checking my e-mail.”
    “So we just go on as if nothing happened?”
    “Yes, I think that’s the best course of action. Quillebaud’s death is unfortunate, but we can still do our work.”
    The two men cleaned up their breakfast dishes and headed to the car. Benjamin had to turn the key several times before the convertible would start. He’d get the car tuned up when he returned to Bordeaux. He’d take it to Stofa, the only mechanic he trusted with his baby.
    They wended their way along the hillsides, slowing down to enjoy the sight of any plots that were especially well groomed and criticize those that were neglected. They drove all the way to Belleville to buy the newspaper, which they decided to read at a local café.
    The two walked over to a table at the back and opened La Vie Beaujolaise . Laurent Quillebaud’s death took up part of the front page, and more followed inside. A blurry and pale photo of the man accentuated his thick lips and large neck. He was wearing a dark suit and polka-dot tie and looked larger than Benjamin remembered. The front-page article was a cold regurgitation of the facts. A dozen hunters had been out in the woods, hunting wild boar. They separated, and several hours into the hunt, a gunshot rang out. A certain Marceau, who was a farmhand and talented hunter, had found Quillebaud’s body. The first responders had taken forever to get there, but according to witnesses, the man had died quickly. A 7.65-caliber bullet had perforated his left lung and lodged in his spine. The body had been sent to Lyon for an autopsy, and the investigation was following its usual course.
    “I thought he was shot in the head.”
    “Apparently not. The story changed overnight.”
    “That’s strange.”
    “Indeed, it is.”
    “In another twenty-four hours, we’ll find out that he impaled himself on a sharp object.”
    “In matters like these, rumors spread like wildfire, and everyone thinks they know what really happened. I hope the reporter is getting his facts from reliable sources.”
    Quillebaud’s studies and experience in the wine industry, including his recent acceptance of a job offer from Maison Coultard-Périthiard, were covered in a sidebar. The reporter wrote at length about the man’s time with Dujaray and mentioned that Fabien, the eldest of the Dujaray heirs, had been in the deceased’s hunting party.
    “He’s almost suggesting that this was a crime organized by the competitor,” Virgile said.
    “Yes, it could be interpreted that way, and it certainly raises questions.”
    “That’s not very responsible, if you ask me. People will read between the lines. It won’t take much to turn members of the Dujaray family into suspects.”
    Another local