Free Cognac Conspiracies by Jean-Pierre Alaux, Noël Balen

was fished out of the Charente River? They even say that…”
    Cheng’s cell phone rang. “I beg you to excuse me. I am expecting an important call.”
    The man stood up to take the call, walked into the lobby of the luxury hotel, and disappeared behind a pink marble column. When he returned, the minority shareholder of Lavoisier Cognacs didn’t seem to be at all concerned about Benjamin’s resignation. In fact, he looked jubilant. He asked Benjamin to have another glass of Champagne. The winemaker refused and quickly said good-bye, but not before Cheng could get in a parting shot.
    “Mr. Cooker, choose your sides carefully,” he said. “Think about it another day or two. In Jarnac, the waters of the Charente are murky and deep. You can’t see what’s lurking beneath the surface.”
    “Good day, Mr. Cheng, and now I have a metaphor for you. As Jean de la Fontaine put it: never sell the skin of a bear that you haven’t caught.”
    The Place Vendôme was radiant under the Parisian sky when Benjamin left the hotel. A shower had washed the pavement clean and chased the tourists away from the jewelry store windows. Benjamin felt surprisingly carefree. Tomorrow he would be back at Grangebelle, at Elisabeth’s side. In the Médoc, the grapevines would be flowering, and soon there would be the first growth. No, before that, he would drive back to Jarnac, pick up the incorrigible Virgile, and have a frank discussion with the Lavoisier woman. Maybe he would even make a detour to Samson’s Mill to see Sheila Scott and her roses. For one last good-bye.
    § § §
    The dusty dining room at Château Floyras didn’t appear to be used very often, if at all. The light from the lone crystal chandelier barely illuminated the embroidered tablecloth. Portraits on the toile-papered walls displayed the Lavoisier line like an ancient family album. All had hooked noses and thick eyebrows and wore solemn expressions. A French-Egyptian Revival-style sideboard and a Dutch wood-burning stove were the only furnishings, other than the table and chairs.
    Benjamin had been unable to refuse the invitation. The mistress of the house had insisted that he attend dinner. Naturally, Virgile was among the guests, as was a certain Maurice Fauret de Solmilhac, a braggart who, with ancestors from Périgord, had a touch of Gascony in his accent. He had a mischievous look and an obvious propensity for womanizing. Mr. Gaulejat, the special envoy, and he could have been twins, Benjamin thought. Solmilhac was a dapper man in his sixties with thick silver hair combed back and light blue eyes. He was wearing a signet ring that displayed a coat of arms and a Prince of Wales jacket with a blue silk handkerchief that matched his eyes. He was a confirmed bachelor and a longtime friend of the Lavoisier family, there for them in hard times and ready to put himself on the line to win the favors of the beautiful Marie-France. There was no doubt that he would boot the Chinese out of Jarnac for her. Moreover, his intentions were clear, as were the scowls he aimed at Virgile.
    “You are lucky, young man, to be rubbing elbows at your age with an authority on wine, the most famous one in France, no less—Europe for that matter and even the world,” he told Virgile.
    “Very lucky, indeed, sir, which, believe me, I am more aware of every day,” Virgile replied.
    Benjamin was not talkative. The duck was too dry. The potatoes were a bit too brown, and the Burgundy aligote was so-so. There was nothing at all appealing about this dinner. The conversation, meanwhile, was spiritless, despite Marie-France’s attempts to orchestrate a convivial atmosphere. Benjamin refused to do his bit, and Virgile’s pitiful attempts at conversation weren’t enough to compensate. Finally, Benjamin decided to glean something worthwhile from the forced gathering. He turned to Fauret de Solmilhac.
    “You seem to know everything about me. You’ve read my guides and drunk many of my wines. I,