The younger man moved dutifully to the chair nearest his father and sat as well, murmuring quietly beneath his breath, “Are you all right? Need some water?”
Before Mr. Reber could reply, though, the woman snapped her fingers toward the officers. “Water, please! If you don’t mind.”
“Excuse me,” said Agent Renee, sitting across the table in the provided seat he’d placed earlier. “But they’re not waiters. And this won’t take long. We wanted to know what you could tell us about your employee, Ms. Gueyen.”
The woman turned, her long—and, Adele felt certain, fake—eyelashes fluttering as she regarded the tall French agent. “Oh my,” she said, smiling now and looking John up and down. “Mrs. Reber,” she said, extending a hand in greeting. “But you can call me Margaretta.”
John hid a quick smirk and shook the extended hand. “Pleasure,” he said. “I’m Agent Renee. But you can call me”—he grunted as Adele elbowed him in the back—“Agent Renee,” he finished, coughing.
Adele took her seat as well now. She and John sat on one side of the table, facing the strange threesome on the other.
“So you’re co-owners of this place?” Adele said, deciding to start with the basics in an effort to warm the subjects.
One at a time, the Rebers nodded. The woman opened her mouth to speak again, but Adele quickly beat her to it.
“Right, and how well did you know Ms. Gueyen?” She turned to Mrs. Reber. “You said you were quite fond of her.”
“Of course, dearie,” said the woman, still clacking her long red fingernails against the table. “We’re like a family here, after all. Little Ms. Gueyen was like a daughter to me.”
Adele hesitated. “Apologies, but she was in her mid-twenties. As lovely as you are, I can’t imagine you’re much older than late thirties, no?”
The woman began to laugh, a short, baying, barking sound like a horse in heat. Adele pressed her lips firmly together, trying to pass her grimace as a thin smile.
Mrs. Reber reached out across the table, trying to press a hand against Adele’s, but Adele kept her own hands folded in her lap, waiting patiently. “What a dear you are,” declared the woman, pulling her hand back when it wasn’t received. “I am nearly forty-two… Though, I’m known to keep up with the younger crowd,” she said, wiggling her eyebrows at John. “If you know what I mean.”
Mr. Reber Jr. looked to his wife, frowning. “What do you mean, Margaretta?”
She waved a hand airily as if clearing an odor. “Just a little joke, Paulo—just a joke.”
Adele felt exhausted already with the exchange, and only a few moments had passed. She intentionally turned her body to face the younger Mr. Reber. His father still seemed out of it, looking over the tables, through the windows at the vineyard beyond. But the younger man seemed to be listening attentively.
“What can you tell me about Ms. Gueyen?”
“Hopefully not too much!” Mrs. Reber chortled.
This time, everyone ignored her. Mr. Reber said, “She’d only been with us for a year. Decent at her job, from what I hear. One of our older sommeliers had some complaints. But nothing that couldn’t be taught.”
“And this older employee—he wasn’t fond of her?” said John, ratcheting up his eyebrows.
But Mr. Reber shook his head. “Oh, no—nothing like that. Andre is a good friend of the family. Can be a bit critical, if you let him have his way. But he’s harmless, if that’s what you’re wondering.”
Agent Renee nodded. “And Ms. Gueyen—can you think of anyone else who might have disliked her? Any complaints? Any comments from employees about enemies in her personal life?”
Mr. Reber sighed and shrugged. “Can’t help you much there. I don’t pay too much attention to the personal lives of my employees.”
“Hang on, darling,” said Mrs. Reber. She placed a hand against her husband’s arm as if to hold him back. She said, “What about the complaint she filed? The one Andre told us about? The nasty little man who was harassing her.”
Mr. Reber hesitated, then conceded with a nod. “I suppose perhaps.” He looked from John to Adele. “Sometimes Ms. Gueyen would have customers make a pass at her. Part of the job, I’m afraid in this region at her age. I’m not excusing it—but it is the way of things.”
John glanced at Adele, but she gave the faintest shake of her head. Inwardly, she considered Mr. Reber’s words, but shelved the information as useless. A tipsy customer hitting on a sommelier didn’t fit the MO. The killer was calculating, clever. Charming enough to gain Ms. Gueyen’s trust before sedating her. No, this wasn’t some drunken fool. Nor was it a crime of revenge or passion. The killer had struck in the Ahr region of Germany, and now in Bordeaux in France. They were looking for a practiced murderer, not a passionate buffoon.
After a few more questions, Adele flashed a look to John, which he returned. Slowly, politely, they began to extricate themselves from the situation, pushing up from the table and bidding their farewells.
Then, in lockstep, they left the co-owners of the vineyard behind them and moved back through the door, out into the afternoon now fading to evening and to the waiting car.
CHAPTER EIGHT
After dinner in the region and a taxi ride to the nearest motel, Adele was beginning to feel the weight of the day descend on her shoulders. It came in a sort of quiet prickle at first, somewhere near the base of her neck, then spreading to her spine. She winced, rolling her shoulders and shutting her eyes as John slid the keycard in the door.
She watched him, lowering her hand from massaging her neck and extending the same hand toward him expectantly.
He looked at her hand, then up at her, then back to her hand, then gave her a high five.
“No,” she snapped, “my keycard, where is it?”
John paused, his mouth half open. He glanced at the card he’d just used, toward the open door on the second floor of the small motel, then back to her. A couple of tasteful pieces of simple art hung above a chocolate-wooden divider lining the hall. The carpet was surprisingly clean and the air smelled a bit of disinfectant—which, in Adele’s estimation, was a significant improvement on most motels she stayed in for work.
John winced.
She stared. “You’re joking—you only booked one room?”
He coughed delicately, then glanced over his shoulder again. “I thought…” he said, trailing off.
“I’m taking the bed,” she said, firmly. “I hope you know that—I’m taking the bed!” Then she marched past him, into the room, snatched the keycard from his hand, and shut the door behind her, slamming it in his face.
She stood in the small motel room, glancing around. She spotted the side door leading off into a bathroom, a closed window with open blinds peering out into the street flickering with headlights. She heard a quiet tapping on the door.
“It was an honest mistake!” the voice called.
“Bite me,” she retorted.
A pause. “If you’d like.”
Adele rolled her eyes. “You just can’t resist, can you? And there I was, about to open the door and everything. Hope that hallway is comfy!”