Cognac Conspiracies

  Praise for

  Cognac Conspiracies

  “A delightful, frequently tongue-in-cheek excursion through the mysteries and politics of cognac production.

  —Live Journal

  There is much to this enjoyable read.”

  —Librarian review

  “A good story from an ongoing enjoyable series.”

  —Netgalley review

  “So evocative of France, you can visit it in an afternoon without leaving home.”

  —Reader review

  “The Winemaker Detective series is a new obsession.”

  —Marienela

  “The descriptions of cognac and cigar scents and flavors drew me in as if I, too, were a connoisseur.”

  —Librarian review

  “You deserve something different with rich flavors and aromas – You deserve this page turner.”

  —Reader review

  Praise for

  The Winemaker Detective

  Twenty-two books

  A hit television series

  “The perfect mystery to read with a glass of vino in hand.”

  —Shelf Awareness starred review

  “Will whet appetites of fans of both Iron Chef and Murder, She Wrote.”

  —Booklist

  “Unusually adept at description, the authors manage to paint everything... The journey through its pages is not to be rushed.”

  —ForeWord Reviews

  “I love good mysteries. I love good wine. So imagine my joy at finding a great mystery about wine, and winemaking, and the whole culture of that fascinating world. And then I find it’s the first of a series. I can see myself enjoying many a bottle of wine while enjoying the adventures of Benjamin Cooker in this terrific new series.”

  —William Martin, New York Times bestselling author

  “An excellent mystery series in which you eat, drink and discuss wine as much as you do murders.”

  —Le Nouvel Observateur

  “A series that is both delectable for connoisseurs of wine and an initiation for those not in the know.”

  —Le Figaro

  “Perfect for people who might like a little treachery with their evening glass of Bordeaux, a little history and tradition with their Merlot.”

  —AustCrime

  “A wonderful translation...wonderful descriptions of the art, architecture, history and landscape of the Bordeaux region... The shoes are John Lobb, the cigars are Cuban, and the wine is ‘classic.’ As is this book.”

  —Rantin’, Ravin’ and Reading

  “Combines a fairly simple mystery with the rich feel of the French winemaking industry. The descriptions of the wine and the food are mouth-

  watering!”

  —The Butler Did It

  “An enjoyable, quick read with the potential for developing into a really unique series.”

  —Rachel Coterill Book Reviews

  Cognac Conspiracies

  A Winemaker Detective Mystery

  Jean-Pierre Alaux

  and

  Noël Balen

  Translated by Sally Pane

  All rights reserved: no part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher.

  First published in France as

  Le dernier coup de Jarnac

  by Jean-Pierre Alaux and Noël Balen

  World copyright ©Librairie Arthème Fayard, 2004

  English translation copyright ©2015 Sally Pane

  First published in English in 2015

  By Le French Book, Inc., New York

  www.lefrenchbook.com

  Translator: Sally Pane

  Translation editor: Amy Richard

  Proofreader: Chris Gage

  Cover designer: Jeroen ten Berge

  ISBN:

  Trade paperback: 9781939474322

  E-book: 9781939474339

  Hardback: 9781939474346

  “Droll Advice,” Selected Poems, Paul Verlaine, translated by C.F. MacIntyre, University of California Press, 1948

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Drink to forget!

  Cognac is one

  with her apron set

  to fetch you the moon

  Paul Verlaine

  1

  With almost childlike excitement, Marie-France awaited the luminous nights when the moon carved out eerie shapes and spilled its warm light on the lush Charente landscape.

  Following a cherished ritual, she would open the bedroom window wide and dreamily let her white muslin robe slip off her body and drift to the parquet floor. Then she would recline on the old sofa, which was loosely draped with Indian fabric, and for hours, sometimes the entire night, she would offer her nude body to the moonlight.

  Regardless of the season, Marie-France Lavoisier was faithful to this sensuous moon-bath rite.

  “It’s an extraordinary way to renew yourself,” she would explain to the incredulous lovers she abandoned in her bed on those nights.

  She had taken up this practice years earlier, during a trip to Africa—Togo, to be precise—where a tribal chief had enchanted her with his lectures on the enormous and unknown powers of the Earth’s satellite. Since then, this tenacious daughter of wine merchants from the Charente region had sworn by the sacred cycles of the moon. She was quiet and reflective during one phase, dynamic, potent, and even opportunistic the next.

  Triumphantly entering her fifties, “the Lavoisier woman”—many in Cognac called her that—was still single, but so constantly pursued, she never doubted her beauty or her powers of seduction. The moon’s influence, to be sure. Or at least that’s what she told herself when she stood before the mirror.

  She had pale blue eyes, porcelain-white teeth, delicate lips, and an alluring gaze, along with thick golden hair. When enticing a lover, she would run her long bejeweled fingers through her locks to play up this feature. Marie-France Lavoisier was convinced that she was a femme fatale and hated anyone who resisted her charms. She had one liaison after another, both one-night stands and longer affairs, with men from various social milieus. She was especially attracted to those who could benefit her cognac business, which had fallen on hard times in the vagaries of an unstable economy. Some even maintained that Marie-France Lavoisier, head of the eponymous company, had been the mistress of an important dignitary before the man became intimately familiar with the luxury of the presidential palace. At any rate, such was the gossip, undoubtedly fanned by jealous minds who resented beauty that was a touch too insolent and manipulative.

  Certainly, Marie-France still had a glowing complexion, but the future of cognac in general and the family business in particular was less promising these days. The firm’s problems had intensified after her father’s death, when the estate was distributed, and Claude-Henri, Marie-France’s older brother, had sold his shares to a group of Chinese investors. Neither Marie-France nor her younger brother—who was called “Little Pierre” even though he was in his forties—had the means to buy them back.

  Claude-Henri, a good-for-nothing who was consumed by visions of grandeur, thirsty for money, and pathologically proud, had gotten it into his head to expand his wealth in Canada. Stubborn like the rest of the Lavoisier family and armed with his inheritance, he had abandoned his sister and brother one damp winter morning. Decked out like a groom, he had come downstairs as the coffee was brewing to say his parsimonious farewell. He barely uttered a word, scrutinized Marie-France in her dressing gown, and smiled before awkwardly kissing his sister and brother and promising to send news very soon.

  “It’s the kiss of Judas,” Little
Pierre had said, his eyes brimming with tears. Then he took refuge in the yard that ran all the way to the Charente River and cried his heart out for the rest of the morning.

  Marie-France, on the other hand, had gone straight to her father’s office, where all decisions pertaining to Lavoisier Cognacs were made. An insipid watercolor of the patriarch overlooked a morass of paperwork piled around an opaline lamp and over an old Creys inkwell. The heiress slipped her hand under the papers and searched for the letter opener. Finding the ridiculous dagger, she fondled it for a few minutes before deciding to open the day’s mail: an order from an important London restaurant that had been a faithful client of Lavoisier Cognacs for two generations, a check for a paltry amount, a customs circular, two or three advertisements, a utility bill, the latest issue of Connaissance des arts—that would be for Pierre—and two letters from Hong Kong. Marie-France could guess the contents and already dreaded them. She quickly and angrily slid the blade under the fold of the envelope and pulled out the correspondence.

  The letter was from a Shiyi Cheng. It politely but firmly informed her that he was now a Lavoisier Cognacs board member. He was requesting a shareholders meeting within the month to provide the “Lavoisier company with the tools necessary to place it quickly among the most distinguished in the Asian market.” The final paragraph stated that the Chinese investment group had hired the firm Cooker & Co. of Bordeaux to audit the business in order to “maximize the potential of Lavoisier Cognacs in a fiercely competitive environment.” Cheng ended with best wishes and a pledge of his “full attention.”

  The second letter was from the same barrel. It was addressed to Pierre Lavoisier, Château de Floyras, Rue des Chabannes, 16200 Jarnac.

  Marie-France looked at it for some time, then grabbed the vintage lighter that her revered father had used for his big Cuban cigars. It looked like a flintlock pistol. She pulled the lighter’s trigger a few times before picking up the envelope and allowing the blue flame to reduce the superficially courteous wishes of the invading party to ashes.

  What a mess Claude-Henri had gotten them into! Why hadn’t she slapped him when he murmured, all gussied up in his three-piece suit, “At any rate, I’m a third wheel here.” Then he had left through the servants’ door that opened onto a mossy stairway to the yard. His footsteps had dissolved under the crunch of gravel. The gate had groaned, and a car had taken off at full speed. Had a taxi been awaiting him? Claude-Henri had left his ’57 Cadillac Eldorado Brougham in the old stables. If he returned one day, she would make him pay dearly for this betrayal. How could they be related?

  Marie-France collected herself after this surge of anger. She would fight tooth and nail. In any event, she and Pierre held the majority of the shares. The vultures didn’t intimidate her. A Lavoisier did not give in to epistolary demands. She had connections, after all, and knew how to use them when push came to shove.

  The heiress wiped away the tears in the corners of her eyes and straightened the lapis lazuli necklace nestled against the peach-colored flesh of her throat. She ran her fingers through her hair and rushed into the rain-soaked garden.

  “Pierre? Pierre? Where are you?”

  Marie-France headed to the banks of the Charente. The cherry trees were in bloom, their sweet breath announcing a spring that was late in coming. But scheming gusts of wind were scattering thousands of white petals on the lawn. Her younger brother took great pride in keeping the grass more beautiful than a golf course. As Marie-France ran, the rain began to freeze. It became sleet, making the Charente waters shiver. Marie-France hadn’t bothered to put on a sweater.

  “Pierre? Answer me!”

  There was no one on the dock. For years, this was where they had come to drown their sorrows, disappointments, and broken hearts. The pier had been used solely for that purpose ever since their grandfather and his boat had been carried off in the floods of 1966. Marie-France’s father had told them that their grandpapa’s decayed body was still underwater a hundred yards downstream, and a chest filled with gold coins was below deck. But the body and the boat were never found, not even during summer scorchers, when the river could be forded and children from the surrounding area would come to swim naked under the alders. Marie-France and Pierre had dreamed of recovering the treasure buried at the bottom of the river. Claude-Henri, however, never believed the story. As far as he was concerned, it was poppycock.

  “Pierre? I know you’re here.”

  Marie-France approached the boathouse. That was what they called this rotting shed used to store the fish traps, oars, reels, and rods of the last three generations. The Lavoisier family had not fished in ages, but the poles and nets were still there, tangled together and waiting for another flood to carry them off. She found her weeping brother on an old wicker bench. “Things will never be the same again,” Little Pierre said. She took him by the hand the way she had on stormy nights when they were children. She nestled her head in the hollow of his shoulder. His shirt emanated the fragrance of Roger & Gallet cologne. Little Pierre was a man who wore only one scent: vetiver. She promised that she would always be by his side and that no harm could come to them, because they loved each other. She kissed him on his left cheek and sensed his pleasure. For a long while, they silently studied the needles of sleet piercing the river.

  The water calmed, the wind turned east, and the storm veered toward Angeac. On the opposite bank, the acacias stopped shivering. Marie-France was snuggled beside her brother. She was united with Pierre and dreaming about the lost fortune in Grandpapa’s old sunken boat.

  Finally, she got up and took her disheveled brother by the hand. She led him into the wine warehouse, which smelled deliciously of eau-de-vie. This place was paradise, not unlike a holy chapel, where the family’s oldest cognacs were piously stored like sacred relics. Between fits of laughter, they took in the sweet scent of prunes. It made their heads spin. Never before had the brother and sister been so united, so tenderly complicit.

  In the weeks that followed, Claude-Henri was forgotten. Had he ever existed?

  § § §

  A mere two hours earlier, internationally respected wine expert Benjamin Cooker had kissed his wife good-bye, swung by his offices on the Allées de Tourny in Bordeaux to pick up his assistant, Virgile Lanssien, and steered his Mercedes 280 SL toward the N10 highway. His destination was Jarnac, haut lieu of cognac production since the eighteen hundreds and birthplace of former French President François Mitterand.

  When they arrived at the Château Floyras gate, however, no one came out to greet them. A woman’s voice on the intercom informed them that they could park in the lot behind the wine warehouse. “The château is private property, and Miss Lavoisier is not seeing anyone at this time.” Benjamin had not expected an overly warm reception, but to be so summarily dismissed surprised him.

  Virgile was clearly annoyed. “Boss, who do they think we are: bulls in a china shop?”

  “Thank goodness they didn’t set the dogs on us,” Benjamin grumbled as he parked his convertible in the shade of an ash tree with large drooping limbs.

  “I have the feeling, sir, that the only bows we’ll be getting here will be from the trees!”

  “That sums it up pretty well, my boy. I am expecting the worst. That way, I won’t be disappointed.”

  Virgile jumped out of the car, his shirt wrinkled and his hair disheveled. The trip had been rather long, and his boss’s driving was far from smooth.

  “Don’t forget your jacket. And fix your getup. Straighten the collar and button the shirt. A little decorum, please! You’ll need to use your charm to reassure the mistress of the house.”

  Virgile smoothed his hair and straightened his shirt. His slipped on his jacket, even though he was already feeling too warm. The early May weather tempted him to take off a layer or two, whereas Benjamin was ever faithful to his Loden, his oxford shirts, and, on this morning, his fedora, which gave him the air of an aging dandy.

  “Always very fashionable, boss,”
his assistant said, looking him over.

  “‘The boor covers himself, the rich man or the fool adorns himself, and the gentleman gets dressed.’ Consider yourself counseled!”

  “Those are not your words, Mr. Cooker.”

  “That’s right. Honoré de Balzac.”

  “Ah, yes, the guy who became disillusioned.”

  “You never cease to surprise me, Virgile.”

  They found their way to the office, which was dominated by a tall wooden staircase that smelled of polish and ambrosia. On the walls, old advertisements extolled the merits of Lavoisier Cognacs with slogans reminiscent of Radio Paris during the Vichy regime. The yellowed posters read “Lavoisier Cognac? Like velvet on the throat!” and “There is nothing more distinguished than Lavoisier Cognac!”

  “Cheesy,” Virgile whispered, and Benjamin put a finger to his lips. They heard footsteps coming down the stairs. An elegant-looking man appeared in a tweed vest, bottle-green corduroy slacks, and a cashmere sweater. He was holding a golden-colored flask.

  “Pierre Lavoisier. Mr. Cooker, I presume?”

  Benjamin shook his hand and said, “This is my associate, Virgile Lanssien.”

  The man, who appeared to be in his forties, adjusted his gold-rimmed glasses and gave the winemaker’s assistant a thorough look-over before moving his lips almost imperceptibly. It was difficult to tell whether he was smiling or brooding.

  “Beauty is the promise of happiness, is it not?”

  “That’s exactly what Stendhal said,” replied Benjamin, always confident of his literary knowledge.

  Pierre Lavoisier began to tremble ever so slightly, and sweat beads formed on his forehead. So, Benjamin thought, he didn’t know how to play this game. Arrogance was not his métier, much less pedantry.