Cognac Conspiracies
by Jean-Pierre Alaux
and Noël Balen
We are delighted to welcome authors Jean-Pierre Alaux and Noël Balen to Omnimystery News today.
Jean-Pierre and Noël's fifth mystery to feature Benjamin Cooker, the "Winemaker Detective", is Cognac Conspiracies (Le French Book; February hardcover, trade paperback, and ebook formats) and we are pleased to introduce you to it with an excerpt, the first chapter.
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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, MarieFrance'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. MarieFrance 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-devie. 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.
"My sister will see you, if you will kindly wait here," was all that he said before leaving. "Have a seat, please."
"We're not really tired," Benjamin responded as he inspected a large lithograph of Jarnac in 1830.
The winemaker, a connoisseur of antiques and an occasional historian, reached for his glasses. With great interest, he examined this panoramic view of a former chateau, which had been sacrificed for a suspension bridge spanning the Charente River. On the embankments, imposing homes reflected the good fortune of their owners. Along the river's edge, only a few trees dared to tip their boughs, lest they hinder the passage of the barges. Benjamin took a few steps back to better appreciate it and then turned his attention to a family photo. He recognized Pierre, standing proudly next to a beautiful woman with blonde hair. Seated in front of them was an elderly man — presumably the patriarch. Off to one side was another man, whom Benjamin presumed was the infamous Claude-Henri.
"Strange, very strange," Benjamin mumbled.
Virgile wasn't paying much attention. He was busy staring out the window at this Pierre, who had undressed him with his eyes, like a slave trader.
"There's something suspicious about him."
"What's that, my boy?"
"I'm saying that he's strange, too."
"Who?"
The door opened, and Marie-France entered the room. She was wearing a pink silk suit that complemented her astonishingly radiant complexion. Her wrists and neck were unadorned, but she had several extravagant diamond, sapphire, and ruby rings on her fingers. Her handshake was firm and formal. Ms. Lavoisier knew how to hold her own.
"So, gentlemen, what can I do for you?"
Benjamin shot a glance at his assistant before tactfully and a bit solemnly explaining the assignment he had been given. He confessed that he had not met his client, Shiyi Cheng, in person. "We have only exchanged correspondence," the winemaker said, hoping to gain a semblance of consideration from Lavoisier. Her pale eyes were making him uneasy. "I believe your shareholder simply wishes to know the status of the accounts."
"I don't have to tell you that there are certified public accountants for that, Mr. Cooker."
She lashed out his name, and Benjamin could almost hear a whip cracking. Then her eyes fell on Virgile. She stared not at his face, but at his body, from sternum to crotch. Benjamin could feel his assistant's embarrassment. Virgile crossed his legs and pulled himself straighter in his chair as she continued her indecent and perverse inspection.
Benjamin tried to correct himself. "Perhaps I did not make myself clear, Ms. Lavoisier. Our assignment has more to do with how we can help the company evolve. We're here to study the business. Cognac is going through difficult times. I hope, in the framework of this mission, you will consider us allies, rather than enemies."
"You can be sure, sir, that I have always chosen my allies, and I don't let anyone impose them on me. Allow me to point out that your so-called mission is in no way endorsed by the Lavoisier Cognacs Board of Directors. I could throw you out, but I have too much respect for your knowledge and skills, which I know are extensive. However, Mr. Cooker, I strongly advise you not to overstep the bounds of what you call — what was it again? — your study and what we should or should not be doing to further this proposed evolution of our company."
Benjamin refused to be deterred. He employed the persuasive — and clever — diplomacy that he was known for.
"Thank you, Ms. Lavoisier, for your valuable cooperation. We will try, my associate and I, to do nothing to hinder your work, and we will foster the best possible atmosphere for a profitable collaboration. Isn't that right, Virgile?"
Marie-France Lavoisier studied the young man with the eyes of a raptor ready to dismember its carrion. Virgile, clearly aware that he was almost in the clutches of this femme fatale, managed only a stammered response: "Ma'am, our … our … interests are mutual."
"Mutual? You're getting ahead of yourself, my boy. Allow me this familiarity, because you could be my son."
"I take that as a compliment, ma'am."
"Marie-France." The woman corrected Virgile with a sweet and poisonous smile.
Virgile thrust out his chest a bit, and one of his shirt buttons came undone. Benjamin glimpsed a bit of tanned skin and pectoral muscle. MarieFrance crossed and uncrossed her legs. Benjamin pretended that he hadn't seen a thing.
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Photo provided courtesy of
Jean-Pierre Alaux and Noël Balen
Jean-Pierre Alaux is a magazine, radio and TV journalist when he is not writing novels in southwestern France. He is the grandson of a winemaker and exhibits a real passion for wine and winemaking. For him, there is no greater common denominator than wine. He gets a sparkle in his eye when he talks about the Winemaker Detective, which he coauthors with Noël Balen. Noël lives in Paris, where he shares his time between writing, making records, and lecturing on music. He plays bass, is a music critic and has authored a number of books about musicians in addition to his novel and short-story writing.
For more information about the author, please visit their website at LeFrenchBook.com, or find them on Facebook and Twitter.
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Cognac Conspiracies
Jean-Pierre Alaux and Noël Balen
The Winemaker Detective Series
