Free Nightmare in Burgundy by Jean-Pierre Alaux, Noël Balen

want to know how this trip to Burgundy was unfolding. He responded vaguely. She pressed him a bit. Benjamin reassured her, “Everything is going well, my sweet. Nothing to report.”
     

 
     
     
     
     
    7
    The dining room was deserted, the shutters closed, the tables empty, and the coffeemaker turned off. Cooker waited for a few minutes and decided to go back and awaken Virgile. When he turned into the passageway that led to the courtyard, he spotted the furtive silhouette of Aurélie hurrying nervously from the annex. She smoothed her hair before slipping through the back door.
    Cooker sighed and walked directly to his assistant’s room. He knocked several times without getting a response. He turned the doorknob and found that the door wasn’t locked. Cooker poked his head in and surveyed the scene. The bed had slid toward the chest of drawers. The rumpled sheets were spilling onto the floor, and the pillows had been tossed to the other side of the room. The sound of a vigorous shower was coming from the bathroom, joyously accompanied by off-key whistling. Virgile was merrily butchering the melody from The Bridge Over the River Kwaï.
    “That’s right, my boy, the sun is shining, shining, shining,” Cooker sang softly as he closed the door.
    When he returned to the dining room, Aurélie was bustling behind the counter and putting the breakfast rolls in wicker baskets.
    “Sorry, sir, I was late. Your tea will be ready in a few minutes.”
    “No rush,” he said and watched, amused, as she laid out the tray with feverish movements that were so unlike her. “I hope it was nothing serious?”
    “No, sir, just couldn’t find my watch.”
    “Ah, Aurélie, time flies when we’re having fun!” he teased.
    The young woman paid no attention and approached the table with an angelic smile. Her pink face, luminous blue eyes, pulled-back hair, and round mouth gave her the honest but still mysterious look of a polychromatic virgin in a Romanesque church.
    Virgile appeared in a heady cloud of Italian cologne. He waved to his boss enthusiastically. He gave the waitress a sidelong greeting that was both subtle and awkward as he walked past the counter. Aurélie blushed and lowered her head to dry a stack of saucers. Virgile focused on devouring his pastries. He drank two glasses of orange juice and served himself cup after cup of tea.
    “One would think you haven’t eaten in a week,” Cooker said. “Build up your strength. You seem to need it.”
    “Did you read my notes?”
    “Yes, and I congratulate you. It’s quite unexpected, considering your condition last night. I hope you got your beauty sleep?”
    Virgile ignored the question and asked about the plan for the day.
    “We are going to Dijon!” Cooker announced as he was getting up. “And we shouldn’t sit around too long.”
    The engine of the Mercedes was already running when the young man trotted out of the hotel, a croissant in his mouth and his jacket half on.
    “You think of nothing but eating, my boy!” Cooker said. “Come on. We’re off!”
    Comfortably stretched out in the convertible’s burnished-leather seat, the assistant pulled a stack of raisin cakes out of his pocket.
    “That young girl spoils you, Virgile. Please don’t take advantage of her generosity.”
    They arrived without mishap in the historic center of Dijon and had no trouble finding a place to park. The winemaker gave some free time to his assistant, who felt duty-bound to visit the former Palace of the Dukes of Burgundy and its fine arts museum. Cooker intended to see the reporter’s nephew at the regional library, which was not far away.
    Once he got there, a receptionist showed him to the office where Pierre-Jean Bressel presided. At the back, to the right of shelves dedicated to the history of Burgundy, a gray silhouette was seated at a table. Cooker approached slowly to get a good look at the archivist, who was filing piles of documents. The man was no more than thirty.