Flambé in Armagnac (7 page)

9

The Estang church was too small to accommodate the crowd at Aymeric de Nadaillac’s funeral service. But Father Péchaudoux, addressing the confined assembly in coats reeking of mothballs and dried lavender, was clearly in his element, and the Mass went on and on. The priest’s voice rose to the rafters as he swept from one part of the liturgy to the next.

“Receive, oh Lord, into your kingdom your servant Aymeric, who, during his life on earth, never ceased working with determination, devotion, and selflessness for the good of the vineyards.”

Behind a dark veil, the Nadaillac widow stared at the coffin through the entire service. Looking dignified in black, her daughter and son-in-law worshipped at her right.

When the pipe organ started playing the majestic recessional hymn, the pallbearers picked up the oak coffin and began walking down the center aisle. The family followed. As the casket passed each pew, the men lifted their berets and bowed before the remains of the last of the great figures of the farmers trade union.

Once the mourners were outside the church, though, the gossip started. Everyone was speculating on Nadaillac’s successor as head of the Armagnac Promotion Committee, and there was hardly any agreement.

“The son-in-law will definitely make a run for it,” some said.

“Don’t be stupid. Old Castayrac has the election wrapped up,” others predicted.

From a distance, Benjamin watched Jean-Charles de Castayrac. He was wearing an appropriately solemn expression. But privately, Castayrac had to be gloating. With Nadaillac out of the way, his election as committee chairman was in the bag.

Benjamin stood beside Philippe and Beatrice de Bouglon at the cemetery. As was the tradition in Gascony, everyone threw a handful of earth on the coffin before making the sign of the cross. The winemaker followed suit and extended his condolences to the family at the cemetery gate. He was taken aback to see Alban de Castayrac refuse his father’s embrace. An awkward moment followed, causing a stir in the crowd. Likewise, the widow and her daughter refused to shake the baron’s hand.

Seeing this scene play out, Benjamin wondered if Castayrac realized at that exact moment that his oppositional son was, indeed, dead serious about challenging him for the chairmanship of the committee. If so, the owner of Château Blanzac didn’t show it. “My thoughts are with you,” he told the widow before moving along.

Just then, a gust of wind lifted Mrs. de Nadaillac’s veil. Benjamin wasn’t surprised to see that her eyes were clear, and no mascara was running down her cheeks.

§ § §

The next day, when Benjamin slid the large manila envelope into the mailbox outside the post office, he knew his report would send shock waves through Protection Insurance. Benjamin’s reservations were numerous, explicitly formulated, and thoroughly substantiated. Once again the winemaker from Bordeaux had demonstrated his expertise. In his detailed account, he had gone to great lengths to prove that the baron’s claim differed significantly from the Cooker & Co. inventory. Even with a five to ten percent margin of error, the damage estimate was far less than what the injured party had claimed. Benjamin wrote in his conclusions:

Jean-Charles de Castayrac has admitted that a portion of the reserves stored in his Château Blanzac wine cellar was secretly disposed of before the December 24 fire. Given that admission, I would recommend consulting the Directorate-General of Customs and Indirect Taxes. Of course, the decision to initiate such action remains with your company. It would certainly have serious consequences for your client, who now heads the Armagnac Promotion Committee.

In reference to the appraisal performed at the site, it is highly likely that the maximum loss incurred by the claimant, Mr. Castayrac, is on the order of seventy-five hundred liters, of which barely ten percent could be considered centenarian. Based on the rate approved by the joint-trade association of Armagnac, the compensation should be approximately…

Benjamin had to literally stuff the envelope into the already-full mailbox. This was just a formality, though, as he had sent it by e-mail the day before. The insurance agents were probably already reading it.

Just as he was about to walk away, the baron’s DS made a swift U-turn on the Promenade des Embarrats. Jean-Charles de Castayrac waved to the winemaker as he emerged from the car. The Blanzac owner wasn’t a humble victor. He was swaggering. The board of directors of the Armagnac Promotion Committee had wasted no time electing him chairman that very morning—by a very large majority.

Before returning to Château Prada, Benjamin decided to lose himself one more time in the walled town of proud half-timber houses and gleaming cobblestones. He was tempted to light up a Lusitania but decided against it. His mind was troubled. He didn’t acknowledge Beatrice and Philippe de Bouglon’s kids as they passed him, squabbling, on their way home from school.

Lost in thought, the winemaker quickened his pace toward what looked, in the distance, like an ancient washhouse. When he got there, he saw that it was nothing more than a concrete basin holding stagnant water. Beautiful washerwomen and their hearty peals of laughter were just a memory of times long gone. Nostalgic and perturbed, Benjamin stared at the duckweed floating gently on a thick layer of sludge.

The following day, he would leave behind the Bouglons’ hospitality and this fortified town as old as the Armagnac in its moldy wine cellars. In the end, he hadn’t been able to crack the secret of this land, where vineyards vied with oak trees for supremacy. Listless and without any appetite, he was heading toward the château by way of the Rue des Pas-Perdus and the Rue des Fossés when he spotted Virgile and Joachim hurrying toward him.

“Boss, I was taking one last look around the wine cellar at Blanzac, and I found something that looked suspicious.”

Joachim, who hadn’t even said hello, seemed to be breathing heavily. And his face looked tense.

“Too late, my boy. My report is already in the mail. Virgile, you know what I think of the baron. I don’t believe I have anything more to say about the man’s integrity.”

“I know, boss. He’s a small-time crook in your eyes. But what if he were a serious criminal?”

Benjamin was skeptical, but he would hear his assistant out. He reached for the double Corona in his coat pocket. Using his teeth, he severed the head of the cigar and lit the Havana. The nutty-smelling twenty centimeters seemed to disturb Joachim, who was wordlessly observing the scene. Virgile said nothing for a few seconds. He was familiar with this lighting ritual. The winemaker always insisted on a second puff to fully experience his cigar before he was ready to listen.

“Near the still that exploded, I found this in the ashes.”

Benjamin put on his reading glasses and studied the piece of metal that Virgile had pulled from his pocket. It was barely two inches long and looked like a tube with a melted rod on top. It bore the stamp SGDG.

“So? This is your discovery?” Benjamin said, handing the object back to his assistant. “It’s one of the valves that connect the still’s coils to the manometer. It’s used to check the vapors.”

“That’s what you think!” Virgile responded, an excited look in his eyes. “You agree, boss, that it’s made of brass?”

Benjamin looked at the object again and nodded.

“But we both know that all the components of an Armagnac still are made of copper.”

“That’s true,” Benjamin said. He wanted to hear more.

“This is actually a butane lighter—a nickel-plated brass lighter.”

“Look, sir,” Joachim said, grabbing the piece of metal. “It has a tax seal.”

“Yes, boss,” Virgile said. “From 1911 to 1945, the ‘
Ministere Finances
’ seal was required on practically all lighters. And every lighter manufacturer had to pay for the seal.”

“How do you know this?” Benjamin asked.

“My grandfather Armand,” Virgile said, clearly eager to continue his explanation. “Anyway, the government has always made money off smokers. When you buy your cigars, how much of the price do you think the Treasury Department gets?”

“Too much,” Benjamin replied tersely.

“Three quarters, boss!”

“Virgile, you seem to know a lot about this subject.”

“The drawers at my grandfather’s house in Montravel were full of lighters. When I was a kid, Grandpa would sometimes let me light up the undergrowth. We were doing slash and burn, and we didn’t even know it.”

With a twist of the wrist, Joachim unscrewed the base of the lighter. The fuel reservoir was no larger than a thimble.

“Okay,” Benjamin said. “We’ve got an old lighter here. It’s quite a leap, however, to say that this proves Castayrac is a criminal. I admire your enterprise, Virgile, but you’ll have to do more to persuade me.”

Virgile fell silent and looked at his friend, whose face still looked full of tension. Benjamin’s cigar was glowing brightly now, the wind from the west having picked up considerably.

“Well, go ahead. Tell him,” Virgile insisted.

“It’s odd,” Joachim stammered. “But I’m certain that Francisco—I mean my father—never smoked.”

“Are you sure?”

“I swear to God!” Joachim said. He was getting more agitated.

“That complicates matters,” Benjamin said, sensing the young man’s anger. He instinctively reached out and put a fatherly hand on Joachim’s shoulder.

“That bastard wanted to burn down his cellars, and he killed my dad in the process! First he fires my mom, then he kills my dad. I’ll make that son of a bitch Castayrac pay. I’ll kill him, just like he killed my father!”

Night had already fallen, and Joachim let out a howl for all the world to hear. It was the pain of a wounded and humiliated child. Alarmed dogs all around began barking, and Benjamin heard nearby shutters slam shut. Moaning, Joachim started running away. Virgile tried to catch him, but the nimble athlete disappeared under the arches of the Place Royale and slipped into the darkness.

Virgile gave Benjamin a helpless look.

“How dangerous is he, boy?”

“He’s hurt, a bit emotional, but honestly, I don’t think he’d hurt a fly.”

“Go back to the Cantarels and wait for Joachim to return. I’ll drive around and see if I can spot him.”

After an hour of searching, in vain, Benjamin took out his cell phone and called the local police to tell them about the brass lighter and the hot-headed kid. When he mentioned the name Castayrac, the desk officer informed him that a team was already at Château Blanzac.

Crossing the Place des Ormeaux, Benjamin Cooker called home to tell Elisabeth that he would have to stay even longer. He heard her sigh, and he apologized. He would make it up to her. Right now he had to be where he was. Blanzac was far from revealing all its secrets, and he was sure now that the findings in his report were null and void.

§ § §

As Benjamin drove up to Château Blanzac, he noted someone standing in a round attic window. Stiff and impassive, Valmont, the second son, was looking down on the courtyard. Indeed, it was a very odd spectacle. A procession of unmarked police cars, along with a van, was spread out on the château grounds. He parked and got out of his Mercedes.

Men in midnight-blue sweaters were quick to order Lord Castayrac to lower his voice. Certainly, this was his home, and he could boast the grandiose title of chairman of the Armagnac Promotion Committee, cry out in protest, and single-handedly represent the entire lot of regional producers, but that did not change the fact that the public prosecutor of Mont-de-Marson had issued a search warrant on behalf of the Directorate-General of Customs and Indirect Taxes.

The orchestrator of this lightning intervention, sturdy and hopelessly bald, was an educated man, and he intended to let the suspect know it.

“Lord Castayrac—since this is how you prefer to be addressed—your nobility does not put you above the law. I believe your assistance could be interpreted as a form of voluntary cooperation in our search for the truth. That’s in our mutual interest, is it not?”

The owner of Blanzac stopped resisting the inevitable. “Then go ahead, gentlemen. Search the whole place. But what exactly am I accused of?”

Meanwhile, the officers were calling to each other. “Hey, Chief!” “This too, Chief?” “Look, Captain!”

In the bustle, Benjamin had walked into the library, where he was met with gaping closet doors and heaps of ripped-open files. Bank statements and paperwork of every kind were strewn all over the floor.

Benjamin took a deep breath. This was his doing. Protection Insurance was living up to its name. The company had evidently agreed with his conclusions and suspected insurance fraud, as well as tax fraud stemming from the baron’s covert sale of his Armagnac. The lighter would add another charge with consequences that were much more serious for the ruined aristocrat: destruction of property leading to unintentional death.

Castayrac’s bathrobe, made of fine wool from the Pyrenees, was thrown over the back of the sofa. Benjamin just stood there, until he heard gravel crunching in the courtyard, car doors slamming, and engines starting. Then nothing. As he turned to leave, he saw Valmont in the doorway, silent, with tears running down his face. He wouldn’t be seeing his father again anytime soon.

Even the Bouglons’ warmth and Beatrice’s truffle omelet would not be enough to hearten Benjamin that evening.

§ § §

The next day the Saint-Justin Police Department received a second missing person’s report. Alban de Castayrac, after his crushing defeat in the race for chairman of the committee, had not been seen since the election. His wife was worried sick, and his mother-in-law was praying to Saint Rita. It was said that both of them were inconsolable. Some residents spoke of suicide; others, in greater numbers, suspected he had run off because of a love affair gone sour.

But it was Joachim Cantarel’s disappearance that worried Benjamin and Virgile. Both of them were aware of the fragile mental state of this great big fellow who fired up the crowds in the stadiums of Gascony.

Evelyne Cantarel was overcome with worry. Trying to be useful, her father started organizing a search in the surrounding woods. Joachim’s teammates were distressed, too. Cazaubon was scheduled to play the team from Hagetmau later in the week, and Joachim needed to show up. The first place in the Aquitaine league was at stake.