Deadly Tasting Read Online Free PDF Page B

which nonchalantly wandered from syrupy violin pieces, Mississippi bluesmen, and Brazilian cooing to funky horn selections, London rock, and Byzantine choirs. This guy had a sense of connection and tempo and a depth of musical knowledge that allowed him to tweak his listeners with just the right amount of bad taste to keep them both intrigued and amused.
    As he approached Libourne, road construction slowed traffic. He turned off and headed toward the first street that seemed clear. Trusting a vague sense of orientation, Benjamin made several detours in an area with tidy houses whose white plastic fences vainly attempted to imitate lacquered wood. After turning into two dead-ends and finding himself in the same traffic circle a number of times, he arrived on the road that led to the cemetery. A police van and two unmarked cars were parked outside the main entrance. A plainclothes detective stood guard on a carpet of wet grass. The winemaker identified himself and was allowed to enter. He could make out the slightly compact, oblique profile of Inspector Barbaroux, who was gesticulating in the middle of a small group of people.
    Benjamin walked down the first road and cut through a row of vaults, some of which, surrounded by rusty gates or decorated with small stylized chapels, were in need of weeding.
    Benjamin saw Barbaroux wave to him and start to walk over. The inspector extended his hand when he reached Benjamin. It was sweaty. He’s still on edge, Benjamin thought.
    “Thank you for coming so quickly,” Barbaroux grumbled as they started walking toward the spot where the inspector had been talking to the group of people. “But you didn’t need to. I could have sent the samples to your office.”
    “Your phone call made me too curious. I had to come. What happened, exactly?” They had reached the grave site, and Benjamin nodded to the three experts from the forensics unit who were standing on its perimeter.
    The tombstone was coldly austere and clearly desecrated. But Benjamin could still make out the name on the black marble plaque in the middle. It read:
    ARMAND JOUVENAZE
    1914–1998
    The final e of the name had been covered with a thick i of red paint that had dripped before drying just above the date. The concrete cross overlooking the burial place hung dismally by the end of its metal structure.
    “Look at this shit,” the inspector said. “Someone took a sledgehammer to the headstone and that slanderous transformation of his name. And, as usual, the fucking twelve glasses.”
    “Three of them filled,” Benjamin said, approaching the grave. “Except this time, the body has been aged!”
    Barbaroux gave a hint of a smile and then broke into a full grin. “More than a decade fermenting in the cellar!”
    “He was a contemporary of the first two victims.”
    “That’s worth noting. We’ve locked down the area, photographed the grave site, and taken samples from the glasses. If you feel like tasting them, they’re all yours.”
    Benjamin proceeded fairly quickly, crouching near the grave and spitting the wine on the grass. He carefully set down each of the three glasses.
    “These are not ideal conditions, but I can confirm what I told you the two previous times.”
    “Pétrus?”
    “Yes, the wine is a bit too cold. Although it’s not that chilly outside for October, the wine has been sitting here for several hours, which has compromised it somewhat. I can’t tell you much more.”
    Barbaroux motioned to his forensics team to clear out. He told them to wait for him at the cemetery entrance. Then he turned back to Benjamin, who was examining the red paint. “That slur painted there smells of vengeance,” he said, pulling a tissue from his coat pocket just in time to catch a sneeze.
    “You’re right. It seems like a fairly straightforward message to me. Maybe a bit cartoonish, but hey, obviously this Armand Jouvenaze was lucky to die when he did, or else he might have been butchered like the two