Death in the Vines: A Verlaque and Bonnet Provençal Mystery by M. L. Longworth

I know that you and Maman are crazy for that stuff.”
    â€œI have, late in life, delevoped a love for herbal tea, it’s true,”Anatole Bonnet told his daughter. “But I’ll have a glass of wine to keep you company.”
    â€œI have some cheese in the fridge, and olives,” Marine called from the kitchen. She came back into the living room carrying a platter of cheeses: a pyramid of chèvre from the Loire, a slice of Stilton, and a Saint-Marcellin that was so runny it could only be served with a small spoon. She went back into the kitchen for the wine and glasses, and when she came back, her father was leaning over the coffee table, a small knife in hand, anxious to cut into the pyramid.
    â€œA Pouligny Saint-Pierre,” he said, beginning to cut into the cheese, its inside as smooth and white as marble. “I haven’t had this in years.” Marine smiled, watching her father cut a generous slice of her favorite cheese.
    â€œThere’s a new cheese shop on the Rue d’Italie,” she said. “The owner worked for twenty years in high tech and gave it all up to follow his passion.” She thought that if she told her father where the shop was he might go and buy some cheeses for himself. Her mother had always done the grocery shopping—buying food for the price and convenience, instead of the taste and quality—even though both parents had busy careers. But it was her father, a general practitioner, who was the
gourmand
in the family. This was one of the things he shared with Antoine Verlaque.
    As if on cue, Dr. Bonnet asked, “How is Antoine, anyway?”
    It didn’t surprise Marine that her father asked about Verlaque at the same time that she had been thinking of him. The mental telepathy between her and her father happened all the time. “Busy,” she answered. “There’s been a wine theft at Domaine Beauclaire. And this thing tonight—I don’t know—but, judging from Antoine’s voice on the phone, it sounds serious.”
    Her father quickly took a bite of the Saint-Marcellin before itran off the bread. “I like Antoine,” he said, as casually as if he had said that he liked the cheese.
    Marine felt her heart could burst. Her father’s opinion meant so much to her. “I’m glad,” she said, trying to sound equally casual.
    â€œAnd anyone who can make your
maman
laugh the way he did the other night must be okay.”
    Marine laughed, remembering what she had feared would be an awkward family dinner the previous week. Antoine had hosted it—he and Marine had cooked a leg of lamb together—and the evening had been a success. Not rip-roaring fun, but passable. “I wasn’t sure how Maman would take a religious joke,” Marine said. Mme Bonnet was a retired professor of theology.
    â€œOh, your mother loves a good joke that involves a priest, a rabbi, and an imam in an airplane together.” He took a sip of wine and made a sound of delight. “What’s this we’re drinking?”
    â€œA Burgundy, from Givry,” Marine said. “Do you like it?”
    Anatole Bonnet took another sip. “Just to recheck,” he said, smiling. “It’s very good. Where did you buy it?”
    â€œAntoine orders it from the vintner, by the case,” Marine replied.
    â€œFancy that,” her father said. “Do you think he could order me a case, next time there’s a delivery?”
    â€œOf course.” Marine took this new interest in fine wines as further proof that her parents—or at least her father—approved of Antoine.
    â€œAnd how’s your pal Sylvie?” Dr. Bonnet asked.
    â€œGreat. She just called from Mégève—it’s already chilly there—they’ll be back just before school starts.”
    â€œJust before school?” he asked. “Poor little Charlotte will need more time to get