Cognac Conspiracies (5 page)

6

“I will fight until my last breath! Do you hear me, Mr. Cooker?”

“I hope so, and you can be sure, Ms. Lavoisier, that I will be at your side,” Benjamin responded. He could see that Marie-France did not fully grasp his intentions.

The winemaker caught Virgile’s smile. He also saw that Ms. Lavoisier was watching closely and most likely assessing the dynamic between him and his assistant. No doubt about it, she was a mature, self-possessed, and shrewd woman, quick to get back on her feet.

“Which means?” Marie-France asked.

“I have decided to give up this assignment entrusted to me by your minor shareholder,” Benjamin said, slipping his Havana cigar into a groove of the green porcelain ashtray bearing the message “Settle for nothing but Lavoisier cognac.”

“May I at least know the conclusions of your report?” she asked as she hastily signed the correspondence that her secretary was giving her, piece by piece.

“There will be no conclusions,” Benjamin responded.

“I understand you are not a man to give up easily.”

“This decision is a precedent in my career, but please don’t ask me to explain myself.”

“I don’t mean to pry. I would simply like to apologize for your initial reception. You understand, at Lavoisier Cognacs, we are not in the habit of opening our books. Or our hearts, for that matter.”

She threw out her chest and in doing so showed some cleavage. Benjamin imagined that underneath her dress, there was a black silk bustier pushing up her bosom. The woman’s dark gaze fell on Virgile.

“My brother’s death is pulling me further into the lion’s den each day, but I haven’t had my last word. I have friends in high places.”

“You’re going to need them, madam. You won’t be surprised when I say that you will need both financial and moral support. You and your brother were very close, weren’t you?” The winemaker had heard the rumors about Marie-France and her brother, but he knew this proud woman well enough to understand that she wouldn’t respond to innuendo.

“Pierre was more than a brother,” she said. “I could tell that the takeover threat was consuming him. He had become a different person. He was nervous, fearful, almost paranoid.”

Marie-France picked up her pack of cigarettes and offered one to Virgile, never taking her eyes off him.

“Maybe later,” Virgile said. He was looking self-conscious. Then, in the same breath, he blurted out, “Your brother did not commit suicide.”

“How can you be so certain?” Marie-France asked. “I am full of doubt myself.”

“I believe I was the last person to speak to Pierre before his death. Your brother was working on new ideas for the business. I was witness to his last blends. What marvels! There was fire in his eyes. No sign of depression. Pierre—I am calling him that because he asked me to—was incapable of killing himself. He loved life too much. Of course, he was affected by your other brother’s sale of his shares, but Pierre had faith in you. He knew you were capable of preserving the Lavoisier honor. No, even the thought of suicide was against his nature.”

“What are you getting at?” the heiress said, crushing her cigarette in the ashtray where Benjamin’s cigar was slowly smoldering.

“I take it you are rejecting the accident theory?” Benjamin hastened to clarify.

“I have a hard time imagining Pierre falling into the river without managing to reach the bank,” Marie-France said.

“Which means that you are convinced, just as we are, that your brother did not die a natural death,” the winemaker summed up, looking at his assistant. He noticed that Virgile’s shirttail was coming out of his jeans. The lapse annoyed him.

“Was anyone angry with your brother?” Virgile asked. “Did he keep company with any shady characters?”

“Shady? No, not at all,” Marie-France said.

“If you don’t mind, I’ll take that cigarette,” Virgile said.

“Oh, yes, of course.”

“What I am asking is this: Who might have benefited from your brother’s death?”

“I…I have no idea,” Marie-France answered.

“Well, I have an idea,” Virgile said. Now he seemed assured, almost impertinent.

“I can’t think of anyone,” Marie-France insisted. After a long silence she added, “Apart from the Asians, maybe, but that would be jumping to conclusions. Unless it has something to do with your recent decision to resign, Mr. Cooker.”

“Integrity and ethics drove my decision to resign, madam, and I made up my mind before your brother’s death. I waited to tell you about it until this morning.”

“I admit I don’t understand much anymore,” Marie-France said just as she noticed that her pen was leaking. Her fingertips were turning black with ink, and color was rising in her cheeks.

“With all due respect, boss, there are two opposing theories if we start from the premise that Pierre Lavoisier’s death is advantageous to a third party,” Virgile said. “The crime could have been ordered by the Chinese, but one could also imagine that your older brother, Ms. Lavoisier, with the price he negotiated for his shares, might have had an interest in eliminating someone who held a little over thirty-three percent of the company.”

“Young man, I will not allow you to accuse my brother!” Marie-France responded angrily as she searched for something to wipe her hand with. She motioned to her secretary to fetch a towel. “Obviously, Claude-Henri is at the root of all our troubles, but he’s not a murderer.”

Benjamin reached for his cigar, brought it to his lips, and took a deep puff before carefully putting it down again.

“Ms. Lavoisier, there are many people who were surprised, actually shocked, by your older brother’s absence at Pierre’s funeral. You must admit that his silence does not argue in his favor.”

“Claude was not there because he did not know about Pierre’s death. I can’t tell you where he’s hiding. I haven’t heard from him since he left Jarnac. Not a phone call! Not a letter! I moved heaven and earth to find him. I published Pierre’s death notice in
Le Figaro
and
Le Monde
. In vain. Up until the morning of the funeral, I hoped that he would find out, that he’d show up.”

Marie-France was holding herself together. She was not a woman prone to tears. Again, she scrutinized Virgile. Was she jealous of his young assistant who had become so close to Pierre in the last hours of his life? Or was she coming on to him? Or was it both?

“When you left that night, what did he say to you, Mr. Lanssien? Did he seem anxious or preoccupied?”

Virgile was fiddling with the cigarette, which he hadn’t lit. Benjamin knew that he hated blond tobacco.

“He was clearly happy when I left. He spent more than an hour showing me his herbarium and giving me a lecture on scents. I never could have...”

Virgile’s cell phone rang inside his leather jacket. He stopped talking to take the call.

“Hello. Yes, Jacqueline, I will tell him right away. Okay, I will let him know.”

Virgile turned to Benjamin. He was grinning. “Once again, boss, you turned off your cell phone, and the prime minister’s office is trying to get hold of you! I just spoke to Jacqueline. She says it’s very important. You need to call her right away.”

Benjamin reached for his Lusitania and excused himself. He left Marie-France’s office. Obviously, this business would require a certain amount of confidentiality.

§ § §

Virgile found himself alone with Pierre Lavoisier’s sister. He walked over to the window, where he could survey the entire winery. The branches of a crepe myrtle were tapping against the glass. Marie-France followed him.

“May I ask you a personal question?” she said. “You spoke a lot with my brother in those last hours. He may have told you certain things, things that men talk about between themselves.”

“I will answer if I can.”

“Was there a woman in Pierre’s life?”

“Yes,” Virgile answered without hesitation. “And you know the answer. The woman was you.”

§ § §

When Benjamin reappeared in the office, he noted that the conversation between his assistant and the director of Lavoisier Cognacs had taken on a decidedly more intimate tone.

“Virgile, I need to talk to you in private,” he said. Benjamin left the office again, with Virgile on his heels.

“Our business is taking a turn that I do not care for, Virgile. I have a meeting at five thirty today in the Jarnac cemetery, at the tomb of you know who, with an envoy of the prime minister, a certain Antoine de Gaulejat. It concerns the family business. Obviously, this woman—who has her eyes on you—enjoys some protection. Here’s a bit of advice: don’t get too close, or you might get stung!”

“You’re giving me that advice, sir? Which of us has been visiting a certain person’s garden lately?”

“How do you know that, you rascal?”

“Cognac is a small town, sir.”

“Don’t get any ideas, Virgile. I’m a married man. Understand?” Benjamin gave his assistant a comradely pat on the back, as he did whenever a complicit agreement needed no words.

When the two men returned to the office, the heiress had slipped away, leaving a card that read: “We all have our secrets, M.F.”

7

In the dying light of day, an army of wind- and rain-battered crosses rose up amid rows of forgotten tombs. The same Charente stone that had been used for these grave markers and tombs had gone into the most beautiful wine cellars in Saintonge. On this afternoon, the west wind hadn’t diminished the warmth of the sun or the heady springtime scents. Benjamin stepped up his pace. He knew he was late.

The thickset stranger was standing at the entrance of the Grand-Maisons cemetery, under the shelter where the deceased occupants of the various plots were listed on a map. The emissary didn’t appear to be interested in the map or its fastidious directory of plots. He was wearing a dark green coat, a matching scarf, and a broad-brimmed black fedora. As Benjamin drew closer, he saw him checking his watch—his time was undoubtedly precious—and pushing his tortoiseshell glasses up his aquiline nose.

When the man spotted Benjamin, he started walking toward him. The winemaker noticed that he had a slight limp. His age was indeterminate, and his complexion was sallow. He approached Benjamin with the unctuous smile of public servants who had spent a long time in the Government Accountability Office or the Council of State before joining the minister’s personal staff. There was cunning in his bright eyes and charm, too. When they greeted, Benjamin noted the smooth tone of his voice. It was the voice of someone who wasn’t one to give orders, but instead, one who persuaded others, mostly on behalf of high-level and nebulous interests.

The two men started walking along the paths snaking through the cemetery, which took them on a sort of pilgrimage from one section to another. They meandered among the recently interred and then turned left to venture closer to the chapels and mausoleums that stood testament to the fortunes of those who had died long ago. The gates were rusty, and the inscriptions were covered with lichen. The virgins of Lourdes and cherubs wore vexed expressions, but here the dead were cloaked in antiquated dignity, which Benjamin deemed fitting. As they walked, the emissary punctuated his remarks with “Isn’t that so,” and Benjamin responded with nods.

They slowed down, and the man spoke in an even lower voice. “The government is following this situation closely and looks unfavorably on any Chinese takeover of the Lavoisier business. The finance minister has been charged with handling the matter, and the prime minister has given instructions to prevent any transaction that might not go in the direction of…”

“I knew Ms. Lavoisier had influence,” Benjamin said. He felt his blood pressure rising. Marie-France had said she had friends, but he never suspected that she had friends who were this important. He searched his pockets for a Havana and then thought better of it. Smoking a cigar in this place would be sacrilege. He controlled the urge and instead nervously rubbed his fingers together.

“It’s less about the interests of the person who brings us together and more about what her cognacs represent,” the emissary said as he narrowed his eyes. “Her cognacs are intrinsically French and part of our heritage.” Benjamin detected a cunning tone in his voice.

“Don’t be offended if I don’t believe you,” the winemaker responded.

“That’s your prerogative,” the emissary said just as curtly.

The man stopped in front of a chapel guarded by two Florentine cypress trees. The one on the left was taller than its counterpart. “You see, Mr. Cooker, the health of this conifer symbolizes the valiant ideas upheld by the man buried here in 1996.”

“That, Mr. Gaulejat, depends on whose side you are on. You see, this taller cypress is to our left, but you must agree that it is to the right of François Mitterand, the deceased president you mean to honor.”

The prime minister’s emissary smiled and lowered his head as if to pay his respects.

“Come, Mr. Cooker, you’ve been hired by the Chinese to organize in a perfectly orthodox manner what amounts to a takeover bid. Is that not so?”

“My assignment was of a different nature—”

“Why are you talking about it in the past tense? Have you ended your relationship?”

“In a way.”

“I understand that the methods employed by your clients might shock you, Mr. Cooker.”

“What are you getting at?”

“The death of Ms. Lavoisier’s brother is a bit surprising, is it not?”

“I have questions regarding his death, just as everyone else does.”

“You are not a man who would deny the obvious. I believe you owe your fame to your ability to clearly express your convictions regarding grand and petit crus. In fact, that’s your business, is it not? Surely you know that this affair is turning to vinegar. That’s characteristic of bad wine, isn’t it?”

Taciturn now, Benjamin Cooker made an about-face and went to sit on a stone bench flanked by two chapels, where gaudy silk flowers filled the vases. The man followed, extending his bum leg as he sat down and wearily untying his scarf. Benjamin couldn’t avoid smelling the man’s rank breath.

The winemaker observed this man with a coolness inherited from his father, which some people mistook for arrogance.

“Mr. Gaulejat, if you are so certain, you must be privy to information that I don’t have. To tell the truth, we are not in the same business. I don’t intend to interfere with your business. I would hope you feel the same way.”

“Far be it from me to offend you!”

“You are not offending me. But if I had any idea that I’d become embroiled in such mysterious conspiracies over work a Chinese company hired me to perform, I would have thought twice.”

“You already have thought twice, since you tell me that you’re dropping this assignment.”

“For my own reasons.”

“I am not interested in your reasons. I am sure they are good. But it is up to you to discourage Mr. Cheng’s attempts. Lavoisier is a French product and must remain so. I don’t have much else to say to you.”

The emissary rose from the bench. He grimaced. His leg was obviously hurting.

“My dear friend, tell your Chinese representatives that the French government does not appreciate the elimination of Pierre Lavoisier,” the man said. “Any persistence on their part will result in an official investigation, which would inevitably have unpleasant consequences. Really, Mr. Cooker, you are a smart man. Your decision proves it. We only ask you to use your powers of persuasion.”

Smiling, the prime minister’s emissary was tipping his fedora when Benjamin spoke up. “Mr. Gaulejat, how do you know Claude-Henri did not kill his brother?”

“The same way you do, Mr. Cooker. Family loyalties run deep.”

The man took his leave. His foot scraped the gravel path as he walked away, which made Benjamin think of Talleyrand, the crafty eighteenth-century diplomat. Then his silhouette disappeared between two gravestones. A few minutes later, the gate of the Grands-Maisons cemetery groaned in the setting sun.

Benjamin walked over to the chapel with the two cypress trees, which were responding to the wind’s commands. A couple with a child in tow stopped between the graves of General Pierre Quantin and politician-dramatist Ludovic Vitet. The woman turned to her husband. “See that? No one even decorates their graves anymore!”

When her husband did not reply, she persisted. “The French have a short memory.”

Benjamin decided it was finally time to light his Cohiba. At this hour of the day, who cared about good manners? But the wind had picked up, and his lighter wasn’t working. He ducked into a tiny alcove in the chapel. The smell of mildew made him sneeze.

Now sheltered from the wind, the winemaker succeeded in getting a flame. It illuminated two dates: 1916 and 1996. He lit his Havana with the pleasure of a pyromaniac. The cigar emitted strange odors of humus and undergrowth. If it had been a month earlier and dark already, it would have looked like a will-o’-the-wisp. Benjamin left the chapel and strolled through the cemetery until a public employee brandishing a bunch of keys shouted, “We’re closing, mister!”

§ § §

Pierre Lavoisier had lived in the Château Floyras’s old greenhouse. Fifteen years earlier he had transformed the building, which was overflowing with light, into a Baroque cabinet of curios. Red velvet drapes kept the ravaging rays of the sun from fading the rugs and paintings in his carefully managed disorder. Despite the clutter, the space smelled clean and fresh, because Pierre had planted lemon trees in oversized wooden crates, which he put here and there throughout the greenhouse. From his makeshift home, Pierre could see the waters of the Charente flowing at the back of the garden, between the alders and willow trees.

The cushions and sofas were meant to welcome visitors. But this amateur painter, part-time antiquarian, occasional gardener, and most assuredly collector of emotions and curiosities never entertained anyone. According to Marie-France, Pierre shut himself up for days and nights in his solitary retreat, lighting chandeliers and candelabras whose smoke blackened the ceilings. Shortly before his death, he had set aside his painting and reading and had spent practically all of his time sniffing—sniffing and inhaling scents from his albums of dried plants and his collection of vials. He had been on a quest to awaken what he called “the lost scents.”

The very day of his death, he had shown Virgile his great herbarium and explained the dozens of plants and their faded odors: fireweed, evening primrose, great burnet, stitchwort, mignonette, delphinium, and Adonis, whose flower had lost its purple color but still had a lingering scent of brown sugar.

Virgile had participated fully, plunging his nose into the pages, where Latin names were mixed with contemporary terms. “Smell this! Yes, you are right. It smells like aniseed. But it also has a faint scent of grilled almonds, don’t you think?”

And then Pierre would bend over another dried flower and compare the preserved scent with the aroma in one of the vials. “It’s a rare smell that you find in certain wines from the Rhône Valley, near Condrieu.”

Pierre’s gestures were fresh in Virgile’s mind, and he remembered how his voice took on a more serious tone whenever he was perplexed by an indefinable bouquet. He seemed to be still there, in his greenhouse, about to emerge from behind the antique Japanese screen or the purple drape surrounding his four-poster bed.

Why had Marie-France brought him to the greenhouse? “Come,” she had said simply, as if she didn’t have the courage to face her brother’s fanciful world alone. “Pierre was different—”

Virgile felt awkward, at a loss for words, but he tried hard not to lose his composure in Pierre’s sumptuous mess. His ran his finger over a geode, and then he weighed it in his hand.

“You know, Pierre never allowed me to come here,” Marie-France said. “He cultivated the art of secrecy.”

“Yet you assured Mr. Cooker that you had searched his desk to make sure he hadn’t changed his will or written a letter before—”

“I lied.”

“Why?”

“Probably because I didn’t want to face reality.”

“What reality?”

“We were so close, my brother and I, but at odds in our ambitions and passions. We only talked about things we had in common. Apart from that—”

Marie-France picked up a brass candlesnuffer and started digging out the blackened wax.

“Apart from that, silence was the best course,” she said.

Flanked by a Moroccan brass lamp and a huge philodendron, Pierre’s mahogany roll-top desk sat in a corner of the greenhouse. Above the desk was an enamel sign. “Cognac Lavoisier: Of course you deserve it!” The desk was embellished with a marble slab on which Pierre had arranged various navigational instruments, all shiny and certainly in perfect working condition. There was a large sextant, a small boat compass with an alidade, a telescope, a bronze ship’s bell, and miniature Levasseur and Delagrave maps. The mail slots held old letters and postcards. A green leather blotter gave a final touch of elegance to this desk, swept clear of all paperwork. Virgile presumed that Pierre kept his papers in the desk drawers, all three of which were locked. Life in this little corner of his greenhouse world was in perfect order: tidy, arranged, shiny.

“If your brother wanted to take his life, he would have explained why in a letter, and he would have left it in clear view on his desk—under this geode, for example. You can be sure of that.”

“You’re right.” Marie-France sighed as she dropped into a club chair. She poked her fingernail in the cigarette burns on the armrests. Her agitation seemed somewhat pathetic to Virgile.

“So you haven’t tried to find out anything by going through his personal things?”

“No, all I did was open his last bank statement.”

“And?”

“It’s strange. Pierre was overdrawn. That wasn’t like him. He was writing a lot of checks.”

“His passion for antiques, maybe?” Virgile asked.

“Maybe.” She gazed at all the furniture, the paintings, and the knickknacks patiently accumulated since childhood. Virgile wondered if she knew the significance of the objects that filled this greenhouse, or were they just things to her?

“Who might have been angry with your brother?”

“I don’t know, unless it was—”

“Yes, I know, the Chinese investors. But it’s too easy to make them the villains in this.”

The Lavoisier Cognacs heiress had succeeded in working her fingernail through one of the burn marks. Now she was ripping the leather and digging into the cotton and horsehair padding beneath it.

“You say your brother had drained his bank account. Do you know where his money was going?”

Marie-France was quiet. She seemed to be staring at the Charente River shimmering in the distance. A shaft of light from the door, which had been left ajar, was making its way into the greenhouse.

Virgile started to inspect the desk more closely, and he motioned to Marie-France to join him.

“No, please, search it yourself, Mr. Lanssien. I can’t bring myself to do it.”

She extracted her fingers from the interior of the armrests, and the smell of old cigarettes wafted through the room. She got up and found the key to the drawers.

Meticulously and almost deferentially, Benjamin Cooker’s assistant opened each of the three drawers. The first contained an album of black-and-white photos, some negatives in an envelope labeled “Martin Lamour,” and art photos and portraits taken in Saintes, along with a few sketches of a rather handsome man. The second drawer held an old address book and an insurance policy listing all the furnishings and valuable objects in the greenhouse. The third drawer contained bank statements from Crédit Agricole Charente Périgord in carefully annotated folders. A dozen checkbook registers accounted for all of Pierre Lavoisier’s expenses. For the most part, and especially for the oldest ones, nothing was missing: dates, names of recipients, purpose of the expenditures, or exact amounts. The registers went back more than five years.