Flambé in Armagnac Read online

  The lunch was filled with racy stories about the baron and his wife. Tales of the couple’s sexual antics—both factual and rumored—kept the four of them entertained to the last bite. La Riquette, the descendant of the famous Alvignac spring waters, wasn’t one to forgive and forget. Betrayed by her frivolous husband, she had cheerfully given the baron a taste of his own medicine. Beatrice confirmed what the baron himself had confessed to Benjamin: Alban was the fruit of an adulterous relationship between Elise de Castayrac and a wine trader from Bordeaux, a “great friend of the family.”

  “And what about Valmont?” asked Virgile.

  “As for the second son, they say he’s the son of—”

  Hearing a car pull into the château courtyard, the diners looked up. When the doorbell rang, Philippe de Bouglon wiped his moustache with the corner of his napkin as he rose from his chair to answer the doorbell. “Could we possibly have lunch in peace someday?”

  The winemaker heard an exchange of polite greetings in the Prada entryway. “Benjamin, it’s for you!” Philippe called out.

  Who would be looking for him? He gave Virgile and Beatrice an inquisitive look. Shrugging, he took another sip of his Romanée-Conti and stood up to find out who had dared to disturb such a fine meal.

  “Mr. Cooker? Delighted. Eric Canteloube, Landes public prosecutor. May I have a word with you in private? I’ll be very brief. I know your time is valuable.”

  Although he was polite enough, there was something imperious in his manner that irritated Benjamin. No doubt, this representative of the law in a silk suit was used to intimidating people.

  “The parlor is at your disposal,” Philippe said as he slipped into the kitchen.

  The prosecutor took in the room, examining the paintings and photographs attesting to the lineage of the Bouglon family, and then sat in an armchair that swallowed him. He looked like a pale and sickly wren. Benjamin wondered how a man with such a frail physique could have such an overbearing presence. Indeed, sitting in the oversized chair, a pigskin briefcase propped in his lap, he seemed quite satisfied with the power his position conferred on him.

  Philippe de Bouglon popped his head through another door, a bit like a scene from a comedy. “Can I offer you a Prada Armagnac, gentlemen?” Philippe asked.

  The prosecutor declined the offer as if it were an indecent proposal. Benjamin, on the other hand, cheerfully told his friend, “Break open your 1983. That’s a winner if ever there was one.”

  The winemaker noticed the reproving look on the prosecutor’s face. The man wasted no time as he launched into the reason for his visit. The Castayrac affair was about to be settled once and for all. He admitted that it had taken him awhile to believe that Jean-Charles de Castayrac was a criminal who had acted with premeditation. He thanked the famed winemaker for his investigation, which had implicated the baron. Benjamin was tempted to point out that it was Virgile who had discovered the evidence that conclusively refuted the accidental-fire theory. But he didn’t interrupt the prosecutor. The man was loquacious and confident. Finally, speaking in a hushed tone, the prosecutor divulged what he considered a secret.

  “Imagine, Mr. Cooker. Castayrac went so far as to accuse his own son!”

  “Which one?” Benjamin asked.

  “Alban, of course! The president of the APC.”

  The old man, according to Canteloube, harbored a profound hatred for his older son. The baron had accused Alban of masterminding the fire in order to hasten his bankruptcy and foreclosure.

  As the prosecutor spoke, he became increasingly passionate and finally leaped from his chair.

  “A bit of 1983 Prada, Mr. Canteloube? Frankly, you’re denying yourself one the best eau-de-vies in Bas-Armagnac. And offending our host!”

  “One drop, then,” the prosecutor replied, indicating with his thumb and index finger that he wanted only a little bit.

  “I agree that the son doesn’t seem to be as white as the driven snow,” Benjamin said, pouring more Armagnac in his tulip glass after serving the prosecutor.

  “He’s ambitious, I’ll gladly concede. Even an opportunist. I suspect he’s more devious than his father. But he wasn’t in Gascony on December 24th. He has an alibi, rather shameful but indisputable. We checked.”

  “Meaning?” Benjamin asked. Now he was curious.

  “On December 23rd and 24th, Alban de Castayrac was at Fauchon Paris promoting Nadaillac Armagnac. Accompanying him on this trip was his devoted colleague, who is also his mistress, a woman named Sylvaine Malric. An employee at Fauchon confirmed the presence of both of them and witnessed some very affectionate exchanges between the two.”

  The prosecutor was smiling for the first time. His coy attitude only added to the humor Benjamin found in his haughty demeanor and affected presentation. It was even more comical than the tales of Lord Castayrac’s shenanigans that Philippe and Beatrice had shared just a short time earlier.

  “You see, Mr. Cooker, it’s all clear now—”

  A knock at the double doors interrupted the prosecutor. Before Benjamin could respond, Virgile was in the room. He looked upset. “Excuse me, boss, but I’m running back to the Cantarels’ place,” he said. “Joachim’s grandfather just had a heart attack. He’s hanging on by a thread.”

  “Go on ahead, my boy. I’ll join you momentarily!”

  Virgile’s announcement put an end to the prosecutor’s narrative. The ascetic hadn’t even sampled the 1983 Prada. Benjamin concluded definitively that the man wasn’t worthy of his esteem. And therefore, his judgments were suspect.

  § § §

  When the winemaker arrived at the Cantarel home, Evelyne’s eyes were red, and she had her arms around her son. Edmond, her father, was gone. He had died in a matter of minutes—just enough time for the old woodcock hunter to ease his conscience and depart the world in peace.

  “No, it’s not possible that Castayrac set fire to his wine cellar to collect the insurance money,” Edmond had said. “He downgraded his policy a month before the fire, and he knew he was underinsured. I warned him that this was a very risky move. He said, ‘My dear Cantarel, my finances will not allow me to pay more. Let’s just hope that nothing happens.’”

  Already, the priest had appeared, and neighbors were beginning to stream through the door. Following tradition, they covered the mirrors and stopped the grandfather clock’s pendulum. They had to start preparing the body for burial right away. Edmond’s old spaniel kept scratching at the door. Sensing that the dog was already missing his master, Benjamin let him in and allowed him to settle at his feet.

  12

  In the countryside of Gascony, far from the big cities where funeral services and burials were efficient and often cookie-cutter, traditions and rites for the departed were immutable. The funeral Mass was always celebrated with incense, prayers, and holy water. Granted, the wake no longer lasted all day and all night, but friends and neighbors paid their respects at the home of the deceased. It was expected, Philippe de Bouglon said as he put his hat back on after leaving the Cantarels’ home.

  Certainly, Benjamin wasn’t at the Cantarels because it was expected. He understood that this was a grievous loss for a warm and simple family. Without Edmond, Evelyne would have had a much harder time raising Joachim. He had been a generous and attentive substitute father to the boy. Now Joachim’s teammates were beginning to shuffle in, giving their friend clumsy hugs and pats on the back.

  Edmond Cantarel’s funeral was scheduled for ten o’clock in the morning. Naturally, the entire town of Labastide would crowd into the church. Since 1967, he had insured half the residents of this community, and according to everyone, he was a good man who conducted himself with honesty and integrity. It was custom here not to speak ill of the dead. But nobody would have said anything bad about Edmond Cantarel anyway. His only enemies were the woodcocks.

  With the Cantarel house full of people, Benjamin took Virgile aside.

  “My boy, your friend is in good hands here. What do yo
u say we make another visit to Blanzac?”

  “Why’s that, boss?”

  “Castayrac could not have set fire to his reserves, the old man said. But somebody did. Let’s go see what we overlooked.”

  Château Blanzac was only a mile and a half from the village, and they traversed it quickly, as the weather was windy and wet. Benjamin recognized René Dardolive, the distiller, coming from Domaine de La Coste. He waved to him. René responded with a rather silly smile.

  When they arrived at Blanzac, Benjamin and Virgile were soaked. Athos, Porthos, and Aramis undertook to stir the sole occupant of the grounds, but no one came to the door. The courtyard was muddy, and the hood of the DS 19 was raised, making the front of the car look like a gaping mouth ready to swallow anyone who approached.

  Benjamin raised the knocker and tapped the door lightly. In vain. Evidently, Blanzac had been given over to the elements. Some of the windows were broken. Others were wide open, and their shutters were banging in the wind. Benjamin and Virgile were looking at each other and wondering what to do when they heard a thud inside the house. Virgile pushed on the door. It didn’t resist. They hurried into the vestibule, and Benjamin searched for the light switch to dispel the shadows.

  “Shit! No light!” Benjamin cursed.

  Virgile motioned to Benjamin to follow him. He clicked on his lighter to see where he was going. But before the winemaker could take even a step, he felt something jabbing his lower back. Was it the barrel of a rifle?

  “Don’t move, you looters! Don’t move, I said, or I’ll shoot you like rabbits!”

  Benjamin recognized Valmont’s voice. He tried to turn around and give an explanation, but a bullet rang out and lodged in the eye of Jean-Sébastien de Castayrac, whose mediocre and charmless portrait adorned the hallway. The painting fell from the wall and broke apart at Benjamin’s feet. The winemaker began to pick up the gilded wood frame; immediately a second salvo confirmed the young Castayrac’s resolve.

  Benjamin looked up from the portrait, and in his peripheral vision he saw a flickering light. Was it a candle? A flashlight? A lighter? A third shot exploded a demijohn, which immediately sent its eau-de-vie spreading across the floor. Realizing what Valmont planned to do next, Benjamin did an about-face and grabbed the barrel of the gun. Looking him in the eye, Benjamin disarmed the pyromaniac assailant. Virgile wasted no time and threw himself on the young Castayrac. He punched him twice, knocking Valmont unconscious.

  “You’re going at it a bit too hard, Virgile,” Benjamin said, feeling how badly out of shape he was.

  “Too hard? I didn’t intend to let myself get roasted by a lunatic! And while I’m on the subject, I’m grateful that you managed to get that gun away from him, but you were taking an awfully big chance, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Yes, I have to agree with you, Virgile,” Benjamin said, laboring to catch his breath. “Let’s not tell Elisabeth about this. In any case, Valmont de Castayrac has just signed his own indictment.”

  The unconscious man looked entirely peaceful, despite the trickle of blood running from his nose. His shoulders rose and fell with each breath. After tying him up with wire from the garage, Virgile looked for the bathroom and came back with a wet washcloth. He carefully wiped Valmont’s face. Then he carried him to a couch in the library, where he slowly came to.

  Benjamin Cooker shut all the open windows and closed the shutters over the broken ones. The wind had not abated, and the rain was causing the gutters to keen. Then he started feeding vine stalks and wood into the fireplace. They needed some warmth. As he did at Grangebelle, he placed two bundles of vine stalks and three blocks of oak on the andirons. Virgile was about to light the vines with Valmont’s lighter, a Winchester model from the nineteen forties, when Benjamin stopped him.

  “Incriminating evidence, Virgile. You would make a very poor police officer.”

  “Well, I don’t think you’ll be recruited by any SWAT team in the near future. You could use a workout or two.”

  The winemaker smiled. “A word of advice, Virgile: don’t ever change. Never take yourself too seriously.”

  Then, as if he owned the place, he walked to the other end of the library and went down the steps to the private reserve where the baron kept his oldest bottles. He rummaged around and unearthed a vial that was perfectly caramel in color. Written on the label in careful calligraphy:

  1964

  First blending made by

  Francisco Vasquez

  Cellar master at Château Blanzac

  LABASTIDE-D’ARMAGNAC

  The winemaker went into the kitchen and came back with two mismatched glasses. He poured a generous serving in each of the two goblets. Benjamin and Virgile raised their glasses and sipped.

  “I don’t know, boss,” Virgile said, giving Valmont a worried look. “I think I may have hit him too hard.”

  Benjamin walked over to their bound assailant and held his glass under his nose. A second later, Valmont opened his eyes.

  “So, young man, do you have anything to say in your defense?” Benjamin asked, using an ember to light his Cohiba.

  The last son of the long line of Gascony aristocrats looked nothing like a dangerous aggressor, but rather like a boy who was unnerved and deeply humiliated by the blood flowing through his veins. Benjamin thought it must have been the years of crying that had taken all the color from his eyes. The winemaker and Virgile fell silent and listened to his monologue, interrupted from time to time by the crackling of the oak log in the fireplace.

  “I know, Mr. Cooker, that I will never find favor in the eyes of the law. You’d have to live at Blanzac to understand what can push a person to dire measures. A father who ignores you and spends money that he doesn’t have anymore. A brother who hates you as if you were not related. Ruin, bankruptcy, disrepute. I knew Blanzac was going to be sold. The bank had already talking about repossessing. My father had threatened to commit suicide many times in front of me. So, on Christmas Eve, I decided to burn down the wine cellar. It was the only way to save Blanzac. With the money from the insurance, we could have salvaged the Castayrac honor. It was a matter of life and death, Mr. Cooker. Do you understand?”

  Benjamin remained silent. He had put down Francisco’s Armagnac to give Valmont his full attention. Virgile had stretched out on one of the library rugs and was tracing the design with his fingers.

  “Only Francisco would have known that I was the one who was setting the cellar on fire. So I closed the door and locked it, and I went into the Fatsillières Forest and threw the key into the pond, near the roadside cross. Then I watched the cellar burn. Not a long time—just until I called the fire department.”

  The oak logs were nearly consumed, and the fire was no longer warming Virgile’s back. He threw the remaining contents of his glass of Armagnac on the embers, and the hearth was momentarily engulfed in flames.

  “I didn’t hear Francisco scream. And then there was a series of explosions. Yes, I think I did hear a scream. Just one.”

  Valmont de Castayrac was no longer crying.

  Virgile looked at Benjamin, who nodded. Benjamin handed his glass of Armagnac to his assistant. Virgile swallowed it in one gulp and stood up to release his hostage from the wire that was cutting into his wrists.

  “Listen, Valmont, you need to know something: the person you killed in that fire wasn’t just your cellar master.”

  Virgile couldn’t find the words. His throat was dry, his voice lifeless. Unable to endure it any longer, Benjamin walked over to his assistant and put his hand on his shoulder. “Tell the boy. You’re the one who needs to do it.”

  So, looking straight into Valmont’s eyes, Virgile said the unspeakable.

  “He was your father.”

  His face haggard, the younger son of Elise Riquet de Lauze, wife of Lord Castayrac, didn’t raise a word of objection.

  He stared at them, his eyes blank. “I know.”

  Nobody spoke for a long while. Then Valmont explained. “Last w
eek, right before the police came to arrest father—I mean Castayrac—Joachim Cantarel showed up with a rifle, yelling that he was going to kill his father’s murderer. In a rage, Joachim had spit out his mother’s confession: she had been involved in a crazy love affair with Francisco while he was sleeping with my Elise Riquet de Lauze.”

  Valmont looked out the window. “Want to know his exact words? ‘Even though Francisco had already knocked up your whore of a mother! When your mother found out that her valiant cellar master had switched beds for a girl more in keeping with his class, that was too much humiliation. When you were born, she threw my mother out without a penny of compensation! The man you called your father your whole life—a first-class cheater and a cuckold himself a hundred times over—didn’t lift a finger. Let’s talk about the Castayrac honor!’ Those were his words.”

  If Edmond Cantarel’s rifle hadn’t jammed, Joachim would have killed his half-brother.

  Valmont stared fixedly at Virgile. He seemed to expect neither pity nor forgiveness. The steeliness of his eyes could have been interpreted as a challenge. Actually, it mirrored one of his mother’s favorite sayings: “The eyes of a Castayrac, in order to shine, must be dry.” He had been too sad for most of his life to follow that advice.

  Breaking the silence, which had become untenable, Benjamin picked up the bottle of 1964 Armagnac, pulled off the cork with his teeth, filled his glass to the top, and handed it to Francisco Vasquez’s son, who emptied it without wincing. The boy wiped his lips on the back of his sleeve and flashed a proud smile redolent of fresh nuts and candied plum.

  “Let’s get it over with, Mr. Cooker. Call the police.”

  Epilogue

  Virgile remained in Labastide-d’Armagnac. He had promised Joachim that he would be his most fervent supporter in the match against Hagetmau. He would be in the Cazaubon stands, yelling, screaming, and generally cheering on his new friend. “You’ll bring me luck,” Francisco’s son had told him this with so much emotion, Virgile wouldn’t have dreamed of letting him down.