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

paper, Le Progrès , also covered Quillebaud’s death, but the article was on the third page, and there were no sidebars. Although the reporter confirmed the perforation of the lung and the spine, he didn’t name any of the other hunters. Le Journal de Saône-et-Loire ran the same picture that Benjamin and Virgile had seen in the first paper, but it was smaller. The article contained no new information.
    “I think we’ve gotten everything we’re going to get from the newspapers,” Benjamin said.
    “At least the articles in the second two papers appear to be more factual than speculative,” Virgile said.
    “I have a feeling they’re expecting us at Vol-au-Vent. Let’s head over there.”
    The fifteen-kilometer drive was quick, and at the estate, Benjamin found that his hunch was on the money. As soon as he pulled into the driveway, he spotted Périthiard pacing under a tree. Benjamin heaved himself out of his old 280SL, following Virgile, who had leaped out from the passenger side.
    “My condolences, Mr. Périthiard,” the winemaker said, shaking the man’s hand.
    Périthiard gave Benjamin a strained look.
    “What a story,” Benjamin said, trying to get the conversation going.
    “Yes, Mr. Cooker, I find myself in quite a predicament.”
    “We just read the papers, but I imagine you have more information.”
    “I spent a good half hour with two investigators from the gendarmerie. They asked me a bunch of useless questions, and I gave them a bunch of useless answers.”
    “Did they tell you how the accident happened?”
    “They didn’t reveal much initially, but they loosened up after a few minutes.”
    “It was an accident, right?” Benjamin asked.
    “The investigation has just begun, but for now that appears to be the most likely theory. It seems Laurent was running after the dogs and tripped. According to other hunters, that’s when the shot went off.”
    “Has everyone given the same version of the story?”
    “That seems to be the case, at least with the hunters who are willing to talk. Hunters tend to be like their dogs: guarded.”
    “I’ve seen this kind of accident before,” Virgile said. “He’s right. Everyone clams up. The hunters suspect each other. A bad feeling can spread through a village.”
    “You hunt, Virgile?” Benjamin asked, wondering if there were other things about his assistant that he still didn’t know.
    “No, not at all. But my father, grandfather, brother, and cousin have all been hunters, so you could say I know a bit about it. Between Bergerac and Montravel, the Lanssien family has at least seven sharpshooters.”
    “Funny, I can’t picture you in fatigues, a rifle over your shoulder and dogs sniffing at your boots.”
    “I hate it, actually. The smell of gunpowder, blood, and freshly butchered meat makes me sick. That said, when I was I kid, I went every weekend, and I’ve shot down every kind of animal you can find in Périgord.”
    Benjamin turned to Périthiard.
    “Was Quillebaud a good hunter? Do you know if he had been hunting a long time?”
    “I heard he loved the sport. I imagine he started young, like a lot of people in this region. He was thirty-five, so he must have had some experience, but we never had an opportunity to talk about it.”
    “Is it plausible that an experienced hunter could trip and kill himself?”
    “I really can’t answer that question,” Périthiard said, shrugging. “I suppose it’s possible.”
    “He was a little overweight, perhaps short of breath. Maybe he was having a hard time running in boots. A tree root was maybe a little too high, and just like that—he fell, and his finger slipped on the trigger. Virgile, what do you think?”
    “Sounds like a Tex Avery cartoon, boss, but it’s plausible. Others have died in ways just as idiotic.”
    “I’m bothered by the newspaper articles,” Benjamin said, looking back at Périthiard. “I don’t like the way they’ve told the story.”
    “I read the newspapers