Cognac Conspiracies (8 page)

“Thank you for seeing me,” Virgile said.

“Of course. It’s always a pleasure.”

“I know I was insistent, but I need to have a look at something in the greenhouse.”

Marie France gazed at the Charente River as it carried petals from the wild almond tree blossoms downstream. Then she took Virgile by the wrist.

“Come,” she said.

Marie-France led Virgile to the greenhouse, where Pierre Lavoisier’s little world was still intact. His sister had not moved anything in this baroque setting, where each object, each piece of furniture told a story. Only the dust seemed recent. A gilded cherub holding a torch greeted the silent visitors with a smile.

“You didn’t touch anything,” Virgile said.

“The only thing I’ve done is search Pierre’s desk. I’ve gone through every single account. I even found a secret drawer. Come see.”

Marie-France Lavoisier opened the roll-top desk, pulled out the drawer, and revealed a cache of pages from a variety of catalogs. The same man was in each of them. He was affecting a pose and expression meant to make the products on the pages more appealing. He was damned good at it.

“Wow! Nathan. Yes, that’s Nathan!” Virgile was sure of it.

“Who?”

“The son of…” Virgile stopped himself. “You’ve never seen this man at Floyras?”

“Never, I swear.”

“You’re sure your brother didn’t have visitors here?”

“With Pierre, you could never be sure of anything.”

“Why, then, when I asked you if he might have had a secret lover, didn’t you say anything about it possibly being a man?”

“Be quiet! Don’t tarnish his memory, I beg you.”

“I was fond of your brother, and I respected him. I never would have judged him because of his sexual orientation. I won’t hide the fact that he was attracted to me. He would have been more forward if I hadn’t discouraged him. But that didn’t keep us from being friends. He was intelligent and sensitive.”

“Who is this Nathan? Do you know him? I am sure he’s a gigolo. He’s the one who milked him for all that money!”

“Probably,” Virgile agreed.

“Do you think he killed Pierre?”

“Why would he do that?”

“I…I don’t know. But you still haven’t answered me. Do you know this pervert?”

“Please, don’t talk like that. Pierre wouldn’t want you to speak that way about any lover or friend. And I don’t want you to either.”

“Forgive me. I overstepped.”

“I don’t know this man. I just know who he is.”

“You think he and my brother were…”

“At this point, we can’t rule it out.”

“Do you think this Nathan was holding something over Pierre?”

“Regardless of what you think, there’s no stigma in being gay these days.”

“You’re right. What does it matter anyway?” Marie-France said, looking into the distance. “What’s done is done.”

Abruptly, she turned back to Virgile. “I’m a bundle of nerves. Have a drink with me.”

“No, I have to get back to Bordeaux. Mr. Cooker is expecting me. We have a tasting tonight in a big château in the Médoc, and I really can’t get out of it.”

“Yes, I understand.”

They said good-bye with a handshake, and agreeing that they felt just a little awkward, they hugged like two friends united by a secret pact. It was more than an embrace but less than a kiss, which would have led to more. Virgile needed to take his leave. He knew his weakness. He jumped into the van and took off from Floyras in a cloud of dust.

11

Chinese Investors Consider Upping Stake in Lavoisier Cognacs

A Chinese investment firm is poised to acquire even more shares of one of the oldest and most prestigious cognac companies in Jarnac, following the death of a primary owner. The Cheng Group could acquire enough shares of Lavoisier Cognacs to have equal ownership with Marie-France Lavoisier, who heads the company. Lavoisier has fought the acquisition, first made possible when her older brother, Claude-Henri, sold his shares to the Chinese firm. Now it appears that the accidental death of her younger brother, Pierre, could open the door wider.
A family ally has said he is ready to buy back shares the Cheng Group already owns. But according to
Hong Kong News
, the Chinese group headed by Shiyi Cheng has no intention of selling its shares and, in fact, will move to acquire more shares, even though it would still lack controlling interest. Industry experts say the Chinese firm’s acquisition is intriguing, as the spirits market in the Far East is experiencing a deep recession.

Seated on the Noailles veranda, Benjamin carefully folded the salmon-colored pages of
Le Figaro
and ordered his steak with shallots, grilled just the way he liked it: rare.

“And with that, Mr. Cooker?”

“A Château la Louvière, please, and a carafe of water.”

The waiter, with his Andalusian accent and legendary talkativeness, usually engaged Benjamin in friendly conversation. The winemaker had known him since opening his offices on the Allées de Tourny. But today Benjamin was anxious and moody. Of course, this was not keeping him from fully appreciating the 1994 Louvière, with its herbaceous nose and fullness in the mouth. Benjamin slapped the thick liquid on his palate. Maybe his salvation would come from what was at the bottom of his glass, rather than what was in the papers.

Benjamin’s fleeting optimism vanished when Virgile arrived on the veranda. His assistant flashed his usually irresistible smile. Benjamin, however, hadn’t forgotten the troubling questions concerning his assistant’s behavior.

“Have you had lunch yet?”

“No, boss, I’ve just left the lab. Three of our clients in Graves are fighting an invasion of dead-arm. We might have to use the radical method. Damned fungus!”

The waiter had already set Virgile’s place.

“Tell me, Virgile, I don’t usually meddle in your private life, but how is it going with your women in Charente?”

“What do you mean, boss?”

Much to his own surprise, Benjamin felt himself losing his proverbial British calm. “Can’t you contain yourself, boy?”

“Mr. Cooker, I’m sorry, but I’m not following you. Okay, I dabbled in the cognac a little but found it a bit strong for my taste, and that was that.”

“So tell me, Virgile, how is Sheila these days? I hear you paid Samson’s Mill a visit. Strange—you didn’t tell me you were going.”

Virgile didn’t miss a beat. “Oh, don’t tell me you think I was up to something.”

Benjamin glared at him, cleared his throat, and said in a perfectly neutral voice, “Beware of Delilah.”

“Sir, please don’t give it a second thought. Yes, I do have a weakness for older women, but she’s not my type. And I don’t think I’d get past her son, anyway. He’s not keen on the idea of her having any boyfriends.”

“Her son?”

“Your friend didn’t bother to tell you that she had a grown son, Nathan. His father is none other than her old companion.”

“Styron? The writer?”

“Yes, Styron. But I didn’t know he was a writer.”

“You obviously don’t read a lot of fiction, Virgile. And speaking of fiction, you’re saying that there’s nothing between you and Sheila Scott?”

“Sir—with all due respect—you and I have shared an almost lifelong interest in wine, but we have not shared the same woman.”

Benjamin looked at him without flinching and sighed. “All that is moot at this point. Sheila and I were lovers a lifetime ago. We’re no more than friends now, and that’s the way I want it.” He wiped a dribble of wine off the bottle. It had been threatening to run onto the label, with its handsome château reflected in the water.

Virgile watched. “‘Sooner or later, all the pleasures of youth come back to haunt us,’ my grandfather always said.”

Was this Virgile’s clumsy attempt to philosophize? If so, Benjamin didn’t want any part of it. “As I said, Virgile, that’s all in the past. Next topic.”

“Let me point out that you’re the one who brought it up.”

“That’s true. Forgive me. How old is her son?”

“Mid-thirties. He’s a frustrated actor who models for catalogs. Not too interesting in my book.”

Before laying into a slice of clafoutis, Virgile told Benjamin about Nathan’s affair with Pierre.

“In any case, we may be going back to Jarnac soon, my boy.”

“Yes, I saw in the paper that the Chinese are upping their stake. That Fauret de Solmilhac is just a windbag if you ask me. So Marie-France is going to lose control of the company, isn’t she?”

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” Benjamin said, smiling enigmatically.

When the waiter brought the bill, Virgile grabbed it and took out his credit card.

“Oh, come on, you don’t need to do that,” Benjamin said.

“Let me take care of it, boss. I’ve been feeling indebted to you lately.”

The winemaker cracked a smile and emptied his glass of Louvière, uncapped his Havana, and watched his assistant beat a path between the tables and escape into the Allées de Tourny, where a beautiful brunette with a turned-up nose was waiting for him.

Benjamin picked up the
Le Figaro
again and started to go through the leisure section. He spotted a review of the most recent issue of the
Cooker Guide
. The critics were being particularly nitpicky this year. No one would ever admit it openly, but he suspected it was because he had doubled the chapters on North American wines.

§ § §

That night, Marie-France did not forego her moon bath. The light was warm and caressing. She stretched out on the sofa, thought of Virgile, imagined him in her brother’s arms, and could not fall asleep. The following day, she had a meeting in Cognac with a lawyer named Jolliet. He had been in charge of the estate since her brother’s death.

“We need to meet very quickly,” the lawyer had said in a hushed voice. “Tomorrow at nine thirty will be perfect.”

The lawyer’s office overlooked the Charente River. From the waiting room, Marie-France could see boats with the Hennessy flag carrying sightseers across the river, where gray wine warehouses rose up like cathedrals without steeples. Marie-France watched the spectacle with the pride of a company owner who had, until now, refused any touristy compromises. Lavoisier Cognacs didn’t have to go chasing after customers. Lavoisier customers, whether they were in New York, Hong Kong, Singapore, or Dubaï, were practically handpicked. But for how much longer?

Marie-France was thinking about all this when she heard the refined voice of Mr. Jolliet.

“My dear Ms. Lavoisier, always on time.”

The lawyer’s dark and ostentatious office was as dusty as its occupant. With his snowy hair, badly trimmed beard, and waxy complexion, the Lavoisier attorney was from another era. His bowtie almost brightened the appearance of this man, bent with age or perhaps the weight of secrets in his charge. From among the files cluttering his Napoleon III-style office, he reached for the thickest one, cinched in a purple cardboard folder.

“As you know, you and your older brother are, in fact, the only heirs. The absence of any will simplifies the procedure. Lavoisier Cognacs shares held by your deceased brother, or a little over thirty-three percent of the company, will be split between your brother, Claude-Henri, and you. Half will go to you, and half will go to him.”

Mr. Jolliet paused, as if his explanation was not plain enough. He cleared his throat and added, “Do you follow me?”

“Perfectly, Mr. Jolliet.”

“Your brother informed me yesterday of his intentions.”

“Everyone knows his plans. I read the paper just as you do, Mr. Jolliet.”

“Yes, but the paper did not say that your brother refused the offer made by a certain Maurice Fauret de Solmilhac. Furthermore, your brother rejected the Cheng group’s offer to buy the shares at 2.3 million euros. Mr. Lavoisier has informed me that he does not wish to sell his shares but will henceforth sit on the board of directors of the company you manage.”

Marie-France waited for an explanation of this turn of events but received none. She showed no reaction. Against all odds, the Lavoisier company, which had been up for grabs just a few days earlier, was finally safe.

“Good, good,” she said simply, as though this wise decision was part of the natural order of things.

Who had convinced Claude-Henri that he shouldn’t allow himself to be bought? It had to be the prime minister’s envoy. Marie-France felt like a pawn in the chess game of her life.

Standing before the decrepit lawyer, she pretended that she had arranged the whole thing. With a shaky hand, she signed the documents.

12

“Will you stop by the mill for a cup of tea?”

“I’m afraid I don’t have time,” Benjamin Cooker said firmly. “I’d rather meet in Jarnac, if that’s okay. On the island in the public gardens.”

“That sounds a little like a romantic rendezvous,” Sheila said. “Have you been in the gazebo?”

“The gazebo will do just fine,” the winemaker said a little conspiratorially.

The Englishwoman giggled and promised to be there at five o’clock, no earlier.

The gazebo wasn’t the ornate, nostalgic type seen on many town squares, but rather a modern little building with benches where people could sit and watch the impetuous or languid waters of the Charente, depending on the season.

Carved on the benches were obscenities, along with hearts with initials. At night, the gazebo was the scene of surreptitious meetings, furtive embraces, forbidden affairs, and sighs and groans barely masked by the splash of fish and the rustling of bats. With the river as the only witness and a forest of shrubs as a screen, it was a perfect setting for illicit lovemaking.

During the day, however, there were only runners in jogging outfits, occasional fishermen, and lonely souls who came to dream in a corner of nature protected from the tribulations of the rest of the world.

Sheila Scott was late. Benjamin used the time to jot down some notes about the vintages he had tasted the night before. His old friend was in a sweat when she finally arrived. She was wearing a white linen sundress that hardly flattered her milky skin.

“Why the devil did you make me come here? It’s charming and all, but not very reassuring for a woman who’s alone.”

“What are you afraid of? A werewolf, a wild animal, or a handsome boy ready to woo you?”

Sheila stiffened and stared at the riverbank.

“Why didn’t you tell me that you have a son?”

“A certain taste for privacy, perhaps.”

“When you have a handsome kid, you don’t deny yourself the pleasure of showing him off,” Benjamin said, stretching his legs out to savor the sun’s soft rays.

“How do you know about him?” Sheila asked. Benjamin could tell she was taking umbrage.

“I think he sells his image.”

“He makes a living at it. He gets by.”

“Yes, I’m sure his looks help him get by. But something tells me that he needs more than those modeling jobs. He has an income stream or two on the side.”

“What are you insinuating?”

“I saw the kind of car he drives.”

“Benjamin, what are getting at? What exactly do you want to know?”

“For the sake of the old and intimate times we shared, I’d like to hear from your lips what I already know.”

“But I don’t owe you anything, especially not any explanations! Our paths wouldn’t have crossed again if we hadn’t had that chance meeting on the terrace of the Coq d’Or.”

“You are absolutely right. Providence, however, put us together on that terrace. Unless, of course, you arranged it all. I understand that you want to protect your son, but in a few hours, he will be taken in for questioning and possibly charged with murder.”

“Murder?”

Sheila tried to meet Benjamin’s eyes. Confronted with his hard stare, she looked away and walked over to the railing of the gazebo. Benjamin followed.

“Why did you pretend that you didn’t know the Lavoisiers?”

“You call that knowing? Everyone here knows everyone else. Marie-France is just an arrogant and conniving woman who cries crocodile tears about being eaten alive by the big-money Chinese. We know how that worked out. Well done! Claude-Henri is no better, but at least he’s never been one to go around complaining. As for the brother they buried, he was just a manic-depressive who never felt good about himself.”

“And your son consoled him as best he could.”

“Yes, I think they knew each other.”

“You might even say they were intimate.”

“What are you trying to get me to say?”

“Nothing that isn’t true,” Benjamin said, skipping a stone over the water like a bored child killing time.

“Yes, they got on well with each other. Pierre Lavoisier was a bit of an artist, a sensitive type, and Nathan liked him a lot. They enjoyed spending time together.”

“Indeed, they were very close,” Benjamin said.

“You want me to say that my son is gay? Well, you’re wrong!”

“I don’t care whether he’s gay or not. That’s his business. But he has the profile of a rather brilliant and unscrupulous young man who demanded money from his friend, lover—whatever—and damned big amounts at that, so that he could live the life his mother couldn’t provide for him. He most likely told Pierre, who was already depressed, that he would leave if he didn’t come up with the cash. Maybe the threat was always hanging over Pierre’s head.”

“That’s not true!”

“He’ll have to prove it. Not to me, but to the cops.”

“Nathan isn’t that underhanded, and he’s certainly no murderer.”

“The evidence has accumulated over the last few weeks, and the guy who started the investigation is a young man who is very charming himself. Beauty is not always the promise of happiness, contrary to what Stendhal said.”

“Spare me your stupid quotations, please!”

“If you weren’t the woman I held in my arms so long ago, I wouldn’t be here.”

“Well, go ahead. Run to the police, and tell your lies. Drag my son through the mud.”

Benjamin went back to the graffiti-covered bench and sat down. A robin landed nearby and pecked at a bread crumb left by a passerby. On the opposite bank, the towers of Château Floyras rose above the trees.

“Come and sit down.”

“Why?” Sheila asked. She pulled a tissue out of her handbag.

“Come here, I said.”

Sheila went over and sat down. She put her head on Benjamin’s shoulder, just as she had on that spring day when the hailstorm tore through the garden.

They almost looked liked lovers.

§ § §

Benjamin Cooker had arranged to meet his assistant at the train station café that night. “Take the first train. I’ll pick you up in Angoulême, because the connection for Cognac is too late.” After all the bad luck, the worst predictions regarding the future of the Lavoisier business, and the wild gossip, Benjamin planned to get to the bottom of Pierre Lavoisier’s death. Was it accidental or intentional? A bad fall, a fit of dizziness on the bank of the Charente could happen so easily. But then again, it wasn’t hard to imagine an angry or even deliberate push.

“I didn’t expect to be making another trip to Jarnac this soon,” Virgile declared as he jumped off the train.

“I do hope it will be the last,” Benjamin grumbled.

The winemaker spared his assistant no details of his argument in the gazebo with the woman who even now hoped to be his mistress. Sheila had denied that Nathan would ever lean on Pierre for extravagant sums of money, but she had confirmed their friendship. And as far as she was concerned, that was all that it was: a friendship.

“The woman knows nothing about her son. She still considers him as innocent as a choirboy,” Benjamin said.

“But maybe he’s just an unscrupulous gigolo and not a murderer. I can’t figure out his motive. Why would he eliminate the very person who was signing over one check after another?”

“You’re right, Virgile. This Nathan is the lynchpin of our mystery, but even though I’ve never met him, I don’t see how he could be completely unlikable. Knowing his mother and having read his father’s books, I have to believe that Nathan has some redeeming qualities.”

“Listen, Sheila’s son may have one or two redeeming qualities, but one thing is sure: he’s shady. He’s never around but seems to take up a lot of space.”

“You can say that again,” Benjamin mumbled.

“Are we staying at Château Yeuse?’

“Yes, why?” Benjamin asked.

“Because with your permission, I’d like to go to Samson’s Mill to have a little talk with our top model. I’d like to see what this guy who’s been lining his pockets for so long is hiding in his shorts, if you get my meaning.”

“I know you, Virgile. You’ll come to blows.”

“All brawn and no brains, my grandmother used to say.”

“I don’t think it’s very wise, Virgile.”

“In this matter, nothing is really wise. Who would think that the son of your first love…I assume you couldn’t be his father, right?”

Benjamin couldn’t help smiling. His assistant continued. “Really, this is all very complicated. Who would believe it if we told them the story? Here we are, stuck in a corner of fucking Charente, investigating a drowning that could be a murder, involved with an elite but peculiar family, and trying to extricate ourselves from a sticky situation with a woman with a passion for roses, among other things—after taking on and dropping a job commissioned by a client halfway around the world.”

Benjamin Cooker smoothed his hair and offered to buy his assistant a beer. He wanted to rein in the thoughts racing through his head.

But sitting across from each other at the laminate table, they hardly spoke. Benjamin was thinking of Sheila. He wanted to pull the thorn from her side. The rose grower’s son would surely be investigated. It was only a matter of hours. Benjamin spent several minutes advising Virgile before giving him the keys to the convertible. His main concern was not so much his treasured Mercedes, but rather the confrontation with Sheila’s son.

“Leave your cell phone on. I want to be able to reach you the whole time. Understand?”

“Okay, boss! Worst-case scenario, Nathan isn’t there, and I spend the night at the mill with our lady love,” Virgile said with a wink.

Benjamin did not appreciate his stab at humor. “No nonsense, son!” he said in parting.

§ § §

Like an elegant Venetian mirror, the water reflected the radiance of Samson’s Mill in the violet-colored night. A chorus of crickets was rising from the garden, which emanated the intoxicating fragrances of Sheila’s roses. In the distance, the church of Villars-les-Bois was like a lighthouse in a swell of grapevines.

Virgile had parked the convertible on the road from Migron to avoid arousing Sheila and Nathan’s curiosity. Through one of the windows, he could see them sitting at the table. He rang the bell, turned up the collar of his jacket, and slipped his hands into the back pockets of his jeans. He recognized Sheila’s steps and voice. “At this time of night?”

“Oh, hey, it’s you. I mean, good evening.” Nathan’s mother feigned surprise as she let Virgile in. She stumbled through an inarticulate introduction, her lips trembling.

“Nathan, this…This…is Virgile, the son of your father’s friend. You remember. I told you about him.”

With a sullen look, Nathan studied the visitor who had emerged from the darkness. Still sitting in his chair, he struck a pose. Virgile assumed he intended to look provocative, but that didn’t quite come across. A poor actor, Virgile thought. His tone was just as false.

“Styron never mentioned you or your dad,” he said.

“And for good reason,” Virgile replied. He was watching Sheila’s drawn face and tired eyes. “I am nobody’s son here. And I’m certainly not the son of some distant friend. My so-called dad is a much more intimate acquaintance of your mother’s.”

“Get out of here!”

“So Sheila didn’t tell you anything.”

“Go to hell!”

Nathan stood up. His build was more impressive than the catalog photos suggested. He easily could have been on a rugby team in Bergerac. Not as a forward, of course, but as a wing, for sure.

Sheila’s son looked threatening, but his quavering voice betrayed his anxiety.

“I think we need to talk, the two of us,” Virgile said.

“I have nothing to say to you. Get lost!”

“Stop the bullshit. I don’t know you, but I won’t beat around the bush. You’re used to that, I’m sure. You get on familiar terms real quick, don’t you?”

Nathan’s expression changed. Virgile could tell he was no longer playing the role of the belligerent child but was looking to his mother for an explanation.

“You’re going to listen to me,” Virgile insisted, “and play fair, or else you’re screwed.”

“Mom, who is this cretin? Who does he think he is?”

“Listen to him, for God’s sake,” she responded. Sheila was already crying.

“Sheila, Nathan and I need to sit down and have a talk. Can you make us some coffee? Nathan, I know you’re looking for celebrity, and in forty-eight hours, in my opinion, you’re going to be on the front page of the newspapers. At least the
Sud-Ouest
and
La Charente Libre
. But it won’t be the kind of notoriety you’re looking for.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Either you take me for a fool, or you don’t understand that you’ve been living on borrowed time. Let’s start at the beginning. I believe you were a friend, a great friend or, more likely, a boyfriend of Pierre Lavoisier.”

“That’s none of your business! My private life is—”

“Yes, I know. Your private life is your own business. But if you had feelings for Pierre, why weren’t you at his funeral?”

“I had an audition for a television commercial.”

“And your friendship wasn’t more important than a stupid commercial?”

“My work isn’t stupid.”

“To the contrary, I have high regard for what you do. I know how important it is and how busy you are. As a matter of fact, I was hoping you would tell me you were shooting a commercial in some distant country on the night that Pierre jumped—or fell—into the water, because that would remove the suspicion hanging over you.”

“What suspicion? What are you implying? Sure, Pierre was a friend. More than that. He was the person I could always talk to about anything. And I could count on him.”

“He was something of a big brother, wasn’t he? A father, too.”

“Maybe, even though I didn’t really think of him that way.”

Nathan was now himself, Virgile thought: fragile, vulnerable, obviously sensitive. He refused the cup of coffee his mother handed him and fumbled as he tried to light a cigarette.

“Could I have a cognac, please, Mom? But first, tell him. Go ahead, tell him that Pierre was my friend. Shit, tell him!” He looked at Virgile. “You’re accusing me of what—killing him?”