Cognac Conspiracies (4 page)

“Who said that?” Virgile asked. There was an almost teasing tone in the question.

“King Francis I,” Benjamin replied smugly.

“Wrong!” Virgile responded, clearly proud of catching his mentor in a mistake. “Henry IV! Pierre quoted that line this afternoon. He’s a bit of a historian, too.”

“He’s a bit of a lot of things, that Pierre Lavoisier. And you accept everything he tells you at face value? Where’s your discernment, Virgile?”

“Sir, you have a lot of preconceptions about the Lavoisiers. I think we are not going to agree on anything tonight. We should just call it a night.”

Benjamin’s feathers were ruffled, and this only exacerbated his gloomy mood. “You’re absolutely right, Virgile,” he said. Benjamin pulled away from the railing and disappeared into the darkness, leaving the crunch of gravel as his only good night.

4

Toward Royan, a storm was racing across the hills at the speed of a galloping horse. Clouds bursting with moisture were heaped on the horizon. Benjamin thought they might even be full of hail as he sped along the road. Luxuriant flowering vines greeted him at every bend, and his 280 SL skidded when he negotiated a turn too abruptly or was distracted by a bell tower. He stopped in Villars-les-Bois to admire the tympanum and eight-centuries-old leopards of the beautiful Romanesque church. He said a prayer and took a walk through the grassy cemetery. After checking the oil in his convertible, Benjamin started toward Migron at a more deliberate speed. He wasn’t in a hurry to get to his destination.

Benjamin realized that he should have declined the invitation, but he had allowed his reunion with Sheila to take his mind off his work. He knew now that he had to drop the assignment, and in a matter of hours, he would be done with it.

On his way out of Cognac, Benjamin had bought some pastries and asked the salesgirl to package them nicely. For a fleeting moment, he had considered taking roses, but thought better of it and had stolen away from the florist’s shop like a villain.

Benjamin stopped for directions just a few miles from Samson’s Mill.

“It’s not far away, my good fellow,” an old man with rheumy eyes and drunken breath told him. “It’s on the right, just as you leave town, after the sign for Burie.”

An old wooden gate covered with exuberant trumpet vines marked the entrance to Sheila’s place. Benjamin took the long dirt road sheltered by hazelnut trees. He crossed one bridge and then another before coming to a halt in front of a fortress of impenetrable rosebushes bustling with bees. He could barely make out the roof and blue shutters of the structure perched atop a trickle of water that could hardly be called a stream.

Samson’s Mill gave off the aroma of old England. It reminded Benjamin of Drayton Gardens in the south of London, where, as a child, he would visit one of his father’s old aunts. She was as ugly as a scarecrow, but her mansion and garden were blanketed with honeysuckle, wisteria, and white iceberg roses that were tinged with pink in the last hot days of summer. Their charm made him forget about the aunt’s looks, and the fragrances overpowered her smell of cat pee.

Everywhere Benjamin looked, there was a profusion of plants. The gazebos, porticos, and pergolas were laden with them.

Sheila, in a straw hat and oversized boots, emerged from behind a vine-covered trellis. She was also wearing a T-shirt that read, “Without music life would be a mistake.” The woman apparently didn’t bother to wear a bra while she was gardening, because Benjamin could make out the two rosebuds of her proud breasts. Time had not diminished them in the least.

“Oh, Ben! Here you are, finally.”

Sheila dropped her pruning shears and rushed over to greet her old friend. She planted her lips on both of Benjamin’s cheeks. He felt a bit ridiculous with his
baba au rhum
in hand. And her warm welcome wasn’t exactly soothing his qualms about being there.

“The weather is unbearably oppressive,” she said. “Go ahead, take off your coat. Let me show you my kingdom. Oh, I can feel some raindrops already. The storm will relieve some of this humidity, but I hope it doesn’t destroy my rosebushes.”

Sheila took Benjamin by the arm and led him along the paths of her rose garden. She pointed out each of her treasures, some of which were just starting to bloom. Here was an Arethusa, a rose from China with apricot-colored double flowers. Over there was an Archduke Joseph, a tea rose, and farther on was a Baron de Gossard, a hybrid with beautiful purple flowers verging on violet.

“My garden’s magnificent until the last days of autumn,” she said.

Benjamin was impressed with her knowledge. She was even able to give the Latin name of each specimen.

“And this one here?” Benjamin pointed to a tall shrub whose leaves were trembling in the west wind.

“That bush? That’s the Belle de Crécy. A Gallic rosebush that produces extremely fragrant flowers.”

Samson’s mistress did not let go of Benjamin’s arm as she pulled him deeper and deeper into her garden. They came to a Japanese bridge. They leaned over the railing like two reckless kids and spotted a school of fish in the clear water. Benjamin’s head spun with all the information on pruning roses, protecting them from predatory insects, and supporting them with stakes.

“Here is the pearl of my garden,” Sheila said, pulling him closer. “It’s a rarity in the West. It’s the
Rosa yakushimanense
, a rambling Chinese rosebush.”

“I just can’t get away from them,” Benjamin muttered.

“What did you say?”

“Nothing, really. I’m doing some work for a Chinese client.”

At the moment, the winemaker didn’t want to talk about his work. “Tell me, does your
rosa-yaku
-whatever tend to prick when you get too close?”

“Yes, it has lots of sneaky thorns,” Sheila said.

“Oh, I know the type!”

It was beginning to rain harder. Benjamin and Sheila took shelter under a cherry tree. The rain soon became a downpour, pummeling the garden tables and plants.

“As hard as it’s coming down, we won’t get the brunt of the storm,” Sheila said. “It’s heading for Angoulême.” The Cognac transplant sounded quite sure of her prediction.

“I put myself in the hands of Samson’s prophetess!” Benjamin said. Still, he looked for lightning before edging farther under the limbs of the tree. The last thing he needed was to get struck by a thunderbolt in his old flame’s garden. Sheila wiped the wet hair off her face. The shape of her breasts was even more pronounced under the wet cotton T-shirt.

“We should make a dash for the house,” Benjamin suggested after a brief silence.

“No, let’s stay here. Don’t you find it exciting, lightning and all?”

Sheila let out a deep laugh, which Benjamin didn’t quite understand. He was at a loss to respond. Years earlier, beneath the glass roof of the Beaux-Arts school on the Quai Malaquais, she had made the first move, stunning him with a languorous kiss so unlike the pecks he had experienced to that point in his young life. He had closed his eyes and surrendered.

Lightning struck not very far away, near Villars-les-Bois. Benjamin wondered if it had hit the bell tower of the Romanesque church. The thunder that followed sent the rose gardener into Benjamin’s arms. He could feel Sheila Scott’s hot breath through his pinstriped shirt.

“Sheila, do you have any Grand Yunnan? I could use some tea.”

The Englishwoman pulled away from the chest where she had sought refuge. She picked up her straw hat, which had fallen to the ground, nimbly pushed her hair back in place, straightened her T-shirt, and ignored Benjamin as they made their way past the sodden rose bushes.

Once inside the house, Sheila slid a battered kettle onto the burner of the old gas stove. She was no longer the effervescent hostess. Her movements looked weary.

“Poor Ben, I only have green tea.”

Standing in the doorway, Benjamin watched the storm trail off over the hills of Rouillac. “That will be fine,” he said.

§ § §

“Mr. Cooker, sorry to bother you, but I haven’t heard from you, and you’ve left me with no instructions. You promised to stop by the Lavoisiers’s this afternoon. Things aren’t so comfortable here. I persuaded the brother to put his cards on the table. His sister doesn’t know it, but he showed me the books, and you know balance sheets are not my thing. I’m at a loss. Please get back to me.”

Benjamin smiled when he listened to the three rambling messages a nervous Virgile had left on his phone, which all said more or less the same thing. Apparently, the more information, secrets, and clues Virgile obtained, the more panicky he felt. But tomorrow, all this would be irrelevant. Benjamin would be calling Shiyi Cheng in the evening to announce his resignation. He would reimburse him to the last dime for the initial fee he had collected. Benjamin would say he was leaving for personal reasons and would give no more explanation than that. His mind was made up.

Virgile would undoubtedly be disappointed. Just when the secret world of eau-de-vie was opening up to him, Benjamin was hijacking the friendship he had established with the most famous nose in Cognac. This injustice would infuriate him. Benjamin was prepared for a frosty reception at dinner.

When the winemaker attempted to reach his assistant, the “no service” message appeared on the screen of his cell phone. Could the storm have disrupted this too?

Benjamin hurriedly left Samson’s Mill, loudly revving the six cylinders of his convertible and ignoring the puddles along the hazelnut-tree-lined drive. Just as he neared the end of a drive a shiny Renault turned in. Curious, he slowed down and watched. The car stopped at the house, and a sloppily dressed man who looked to be in his thirties climbed out. With designer luggage in tow, he started walking toward the front door.

Benjamin shrugged. Sheila’s business was not his. He sped up again, heading toward Cognac. On the ring road that bypassed the city, the 280 SL veered right. Jarnac was only a cannon shot away. The sun reemerged and spread its honeyed rays over the rain-drenched vines in a way that made nature seem unreal. Benjamin thought of Sheila’s rosebuds and played recklessly with the accelerator until he saw flashing blue lights in the rearview mirror. He pulled over, braked, and returned to reality. Elisabeth would never forgive him.

§ § §

“Who’s that old dude in the sports car?” the man asked Sheila, who was smoothing her hair.

“Back so soon, Nathan? Oh, he’s one of your father’s best friends. I don’t think you ever met him. He is vacationing in Royan, and he surprised me with a visit. I hadn’t seen him in such a long time. I hardly recognized him.”

“I don’t like his looks.”

“He’s quite respectable.”

“I said I don’t like his looks. He had no right inviting himself here.”

“It was just a friendly visit.”

“I hope so.”

Only then did Nathan kiss his mother.

“What’s the matter? You’re crying.”

“It’s amazing how much you resemble your father.”

§ § §

The evening did not unfold as Benjamin had imagined. Points on his license, a stiff fine, and an awkward rendezvous with a former lover—all this had disturbed the winemaker so much, he had forgotten to call his client. Virgile’s boundless admiration for the youngest member of the Lavoisier family couldn’t draw Benjamin out of his foul mood. Even the 1989 Saint-Julien Chasse-Spleen, not only impeccable but also served at the perfect temperature by Maria, the Yeuse sommelière, had no effect. Decidedly, Charente was not where he wanted to be. Tomorrow, he would put an end to this audit, at the risk of incurring the wrath of the East. But he would win back the esteem of Marie-France, and, above all, he would be able to get back to Grangebelle and his wife’s affections.

After the meal, Benjamin retreated to the eau-de-vie library. He hoped a Magnum 46 cigar with an oily cap would bring him out of his ineffable funk. At one thirty in the morning, he said good night to the watchman and stumbled back to his room. Hiccupping, the renowned wine expert and author looked in the bathroom mirror. Staring back was a glassy-eyed man with disheveled hair and smudges on his shirt.

§ § §

A fog hung over the Charente landscape without settling on the sentry-like poplars. The scent of freshly cut fennel was rising from the earth as Benjamin and Virgile headed toward Château Floyras. Virgile rolled his window down. Benjamin followed suit and inhaled the vegetation. The fresh air was sobering him up, and he would have taken the top down, but he knew it would bother his assistant.

Coming into Jarnac, the Mercedes rushed down the Rue Maurice Laporte Bisquit to the Rue Chabannes. Benjamin quickly braked when he spotted two fire trucks and an ambulance blocking the narrow road. At the corner of the Rue des Moulins, men in wet suits were making their way back to their truck with disappointment written on their faces. The battle was over. Firefighters in blue uniforms trailed behind. Four paramedics were tending to the limp body of a man lying in his own vomit on a gurney.

Benjamin was tempted to get out of the convertible to see what had happened. It was clear that the man was dead. Virgile grabbed his sleeve to stop him.

“Don’t move, sir. I have a bad feeling.”

Benjamin obeyed but was taken aback when Virgile climbed out of the car himself and walked over to a police officer standing next to the paramedics and the gurney.

Virgile seemed to lose his balance and sought a wall for support. Benjamin got out of the car and rushed to his assistant.

“Do you know him?” he heard the officer ask Virgile.

“Yes, it’s Pierre Lavoisier. I recognized the Cartier Tank watch on his wrist.”

“Come away now,” Benjamin said, putting his arm around Virgile to hold him up. “You shouldn’t be looking at this.”

The storms of the previous day had swollen the Charente River, and the water mills were making a thunderous noise—a stark contrast to the stunned silence in the car.

5

Benjamin and Virgile had retreated to the Château Yeuse as the small world of Cognac took in the news. Virgile had made it clear that he intended to stay for the funeral, and Benjamin didn’t feel right about leaving him on his own. Besides, he knew he should attend the service too. In record time—a demonstration of the Lavoisier family’s standing in the town, Benjamin thought—Pierre Lavoisier’s death was ruled an accident, and the service was scheduled.

Benjamin and Virgile took seats at the back of the church. The winemaker, who, unlike his assistant, was in the habit of attending church, found the service as boring as the clear-glass windows. The light was much too harsh. He surveyed the mourners. Two envoys sent by Shiyi Cheng all the way from Hong Kong were trying to follow the liturgy, without much luck. The bigwigs of Cognac were in the front pews. Although he couldn’t get a good view, he could imagine their gloating faces and read their minds: Didn’t the arrogant Lavoisier family deserve to be neglected by God, just a little?

The mourners sitting with Virgile and Benjamin at the back of the church weren’t dressed as well as those in the front pews. These people were the ordinary inhabitants of the winemaking world. For decades, many of them, residents of Grande and Petite Champagne, had delivered their grapes to the Lavoisiers. They were certainly wondering if their contracts would be honored, as the future of the business appeared to be in jeopardy.

Benjamin was surprised to see Sheila Scott in the church. She smiled, and once again, he took note of her alluring turquoise-blue eyes. Black, however, did not become this English beauty with porcelain skin. Next to her was a rather elegant-looking man with graying temples and a Legion of Honor pin on his lapel. He had to be some sort of government official or the head of an agricultural cooperative. He looked vaguely familiar. Perhaps he was a former minister, but Benjamin didn’t hold politicians in particularly high esteem. At regular intervals the smug-looking man gave the rose grower a lustful look. Benjamin swore he saw her batting her eyelashes at the man, whoever he was. The younger man Benjamin had seen driving up to Sheila’s house earlier in the week wasn’t in any of the pews.

At the end of the service, six employees of Lavoisier Cognacs picked up the heavy coffin and carried it down the long nave and into the tepid May sunlight.

Walking a few steps behind the oak coffin, Marie-France looked stunning in her sober black suit. Outside, the light breeze that tossed her blonde hair sent ripples over the waters of the nearby Charente.

§ § §

The beams of bright light cast by the blood-red moon did not reach the bed, and Marie-France couldn’t muster the strength to drag herself to the sofa to offer her body to the orb’s embrace. She was exhausted, and her bones ached. The day had been grueling. All those aggrieved faces. The procession of deceitful acquaintances saying the same thing: “I’m so sorry” and “We all loved him so much.” The limp, sweaty palms and the hugging, so common in mourning, with the inevitable whiffs of eau de cologne. The whole hypocritical ritual had left her undone.

Pierre Lavoisier’s funeral Mass had filled the Saint-Pierre church with a crowd that spilled into the square. The entire cognac world had come together to view the event. Who would have missed it? After all, this was more than the funeral for a key member of one of the region’s most illustrious families. What the people here were witnessing was quite possibly the death of Lavoisier Cognacs. The Chinese would certainly jump in and pay top dollar for the shares the renegade brother would inherit—the one who had fled to God knows where with God knows whom. Claude-Henri hadn’t even bothered to show up for his brother’s funeral. His absence, noted in hushed voices, spoke volumes. And how! The siblings had to hate one another not to reconcile when death swooped down and snatched one of their own. The Lavoisiers had failed to keep up appearances in this tradition-steeped land. Who could imagine a worse downfall?

Left with no one to rely on, Marie-France had made the arrangements by herself. She had orchestrated the funeral, chosen the hymns, ordered the family vault opened, written the obituary for
La Charente Libre
newspaper, and found the suit that Pierre would wear in the coffin. No one could rule out the possibility of suicide, not even Marie-France, who knew how vulnerable her kid brother was.

She had risen to the occasion. The funeral was beautiful and sumptuous. The priest praised the deceased, extolled his extraordinary sense of smell and “unwavering faith in the eau-de-vie of Charente,” and commended him heartily to God and the saints. A limousine drove the rose-covered coffin to the Grand-Maisons cemetery, where the old Lavoisier vault shared the earth with the Lorrain and Mitterrand families.

Dying in May—how fitting, the insomniac thought as she poured herself some water from the small carafe on her night table. She drank a few sips and put the glass down next to a framed photograph of three children standing behind an enormous fish: a thirty-pound carp! Pierre had to be seven in this black-and-white photo. Claude-Henri was brandishing the carp from the end of his fishing pole. He looked like a triumphant pirate. At his right, the little girl with blonde curls was admiring her strong and handsome big brother. The three of them weren’t far from the area where their grandfather’s boat had allegedly gone down with the gold coins stashed below deck.

The heiress of Lavoisier Cognacs was dripping with fever. No, tonight she would not abandon herself to the bizarre blood moon that always sent peasants into turmoil. Everything people had said from time immemorial about this moon was nothing but rubbish. Marie-France knew it was not the scarlet rays of the moon that scorched the plants. Her grandfather had explained it to her.

“Things are both simpler and more complicated than that,” he had said. “The light from the moon heats the atmosphere and evaporates the moisture that traps heat. This creates a risk of frost, even if the thermometer does not go below freezing. Do you understand?”

Marie-France had nodded, although she had not really grasped her grandfather’s explanation.

In the photo, Pierre was wearing Bermuda shorts. His arms were stubbornly folded in front of his puny, shirtless chest, and his face was all dark eyes and sulking lips. The fish on display was repugnant to him. Pierre Lavoisier had always had an aversion to hunting and fishing. The idea of killing had been unbearable to him.

So how could he have had the courage to kill himself? Perhaps it was an accident, after all. But Pierre was a formidable swimmer. No one in Jarnac could do a better crawl stroke. And since childhood, Pierre had known the treacherous nature of the Charente—its deceitful currents, deadly whirlpools, and menacing embankments. No. Unless he had suffered a dizzy spell.

Certainly, the autopsy had revealed a minor contusion on his left temple, but nothing that would suggest a crime. Pierre Lavoisier had died of cold-water shock sometime after dinner, although there was no explanation of how or why he was in the water. The inquiry assigned to the Jarnac Police Department by the prosecutor from Angoulême had noted the unfortunate absence of any eyewitness or trauma on the victim’s body, “except the hematoma on the skull’s temporal cavity.” Several Jarnac inhabitants had come forward to claim that the youngest Lavoisier had some reasons to take his life. But there was no hard evidence to support this.

Marie-France pulled the folds of her white robe around her tanned throat. She got up and went to the window. Under the red moon, the garden, with its willow-tree border, and the countryside beyond were a play of shadows and light. She threw open the window and wearily lit a cigarette. A cool breeze rushed into the room and slipped under her soft robe. Marie-France began to shiver. Other than the soft wind, there were no sounds at all—no bats swooshing in the air, no frogs or crickets in the grass. The night was perfectly silent.

A splash from the river broke the stillness. It sounded like a sack of cement being thrown into the water. Marie-France was unfazed and took another drag of her cigarette. The carp were dancing. Could it be mating season? She contemplated Little Pierre for a long moment and finally surrendered to the sofa. The red moon enveloped her until the weariness and cold sent her back to her bed. In three hours it would be day.