Free Dying on the Vine by Peter King Page A

my neck. And—ow, there’s another…”
    In the tension of the moment, I had spoken in English but I didn’t realize it until she replied in the same language, almost without an accent.
    â€œDo you know if you’re allergic to bee stings?” she asked anxiously.
    â€œNot as far as I know, but then I’ve never needed to find out.”
    â€œBetter get in the car. I’ll take you to a doctor.”
    She tossed the extinguisher behind the seat, revved the engine, and raced out of the square as if all the bees in Provence were after us. I was beginning to calm down and was able to take stock of the situation. The girl first, of course …
    She had hair the color of corn and it was cut in a seemingly careless manner that had probably taken hours. It draped down almost to her shoulders and fluttered gently in the breeze as I noticed too that this was a convertible. Her eyes were blue but a strong, almost dark shade. She had lovely features, mobile and full of character. She handled the car—I saw it was a Maserati—like a race driver, shifting expertly as we swept out through the stone arch and onto the road. She was wearing a tight-fitting jump suit in immaculate white. It had metal buttons and a wide brown leather belt. A forest green shirt in a silklike material peeked out at the neck.
    â€œI have to thank you for saving my life,” I said, speaking loud enough to be heard over the thunder of the engine, which sounded as if it had enough horsepower for a jet bomber.
    She smiled charmingly. “I was going to say ‘It was nothing’ but that would be an insult in English, wouldn’t it?”
    I introduced myself, using my cover story.
    â€œMonika Geisler. I am from Stuttgart.” I noticed now the slightest of German accents as she went on, “I am a magazine photographer. I am doing a piece on hilltop villages and I heard about this one.”
    â€œIt’s off my list,” I said. “Too dangerous.”
    â€œWhere did all those bees come from?” she asked, paraphrasing George Custer.
    I hesitated. It sounded silly to talk about giant insects dropping beehives on me—silly even to me. “I fell asleep and the next thing I knew, I was surrounded by them.”
    She darted me a sympathetic glance. “Do the stings hurt?”
    â€œNot if I don’t move.”
    â€œThere’s a village just here. We can have those stings examined.”
    â€œOh, I don’t think they’re serious—”
    She gave a dismissive wave of one hand. “Ah, you English! So stoic!”
    She didn’t bother to put her hand back on to the wheel, steering expertly with one hand around a sharp bend in the narrow road without slackening speed.
    â€œIf you hadn’t told me you’re a photographer, I would have thought you were a race driver,” I told her.
    â€œI am,” she said matter-of-factly. “I was second in the Formula Two at Monte Carlo last year and winner of the Mercedes Cup at Nuremberg the year before.”
    A handful of ancient cottages heralded our arrival in a village with a sign announcing its name as Beauvallier. It turned out to be more sophisticated than it first appeared and there was a row of modern shops and stores. Monika stopped in front of a pharmacie with its green on white plaque depicting a serpent coiled around a staff.
    â€œThe pharmacist can advise how serious your stings are,” she said.
    I was aware that in France the course of studies to become a pharmacist is lengthy and difficult. The pharmacist is highly regarded in the community and many smaller villages do not have a doctor as the pharmacist can handle most medical problems.
    Monika’s imperious manner brought prompt attention and two of the staff, a man and a woman, examined me inside the shop. A few dabs with an ammonia-smelling fluid and they pronounced me in no need of a doctor. It seemed much ado about nothing now,