Flambé in Armagnac (8 page)

That night, a noise in the attic awakened Virgile. He held his breath. Had birds gotten in through a hole in the chimney? Then he heard other noises. Footsteps, muffled conversation, someone carefully shutting the attic door. Between the rumpled sheets, Virgile sensed heavy breathing in the hallway, near the stairs. He slipped out of his bed and quietly cracked his door. He watched as two shadows slipped down the stairs. The front door opened.

Now Virgile sprang into action—but not to shoo the pair out of the house. He wanted to make sure the second figure didn’t get away. It was Joachim. Even in the dark, Virgile could see his emotional exhaustion. Virgile grabbed Joachim before he could take another step and dragged him to his bedroom. He ordered his friend to be quiet and lie down. No talking, just sleep.

Virgile wrapped himself in a quilt and collapsed in a tattered armchair, trying to wedge himself between the least uncomfortable springs. He was not reassured until he heard the rugby player fall into a deep slumber. Virgile thought of Constance. Nothing shy about her! He had wondered if birds were nesting in the attic. And they were, all right. Lovebirds!

The aroma of Arabica coffee soon wrested him from his restless dozing.

Evelyne Cantarel burst into tears when she learned that her son was home. She hugged Virgile as if he were a godsend and told her story. Yes, she had loved Francisco. And yes, she had lured him away from La Riquette. She had no regrets. Francisco was a free spirit and they had never married, but he was the only man she had ever loved.

“Tell me, Mrs. Cantarel,” Virgile asked when she had finished her disclosures. “Do you believe the baron started the fire in his wine cellar?”

“I don’t know,” she responded, staring at her cup of café au lait.

“Do you hold him responsible for Francisco’s death?”

“Who knows? The baron could have been responsible. But maybe he wasn’t. I believe in fate, Mr. Virgile. This might sound horrible, but maybe Francisco’s death was just meant to be. Do you really think it was a criminal act?”

“I’m not the only one to think so, Mrs. Cantarel. Joachim is convinced, too.”

“Castayrac is certainly a swindler, and he sold his Armagnac under the table, but I don’t think he would burn down his own cellar to collect the insurance, even if he was broke. People around here also say that he had to take out a mortgage on the house. Do you believe that, Mr. Virgile?”

“Who might have wanted to start the fire, if not him?” Virgile pressed.

“Who knows? Maybe it was Alban,” the woman ventured in a conspiratorial tone. “That father and son hate each other so much.”

They heard footsteps on the stairs. It was Evelyne’s father, rosy-cheeked and clear-eyed. He had dreamed that his grandson had come home.

“You’re right, Papa! Joachim is sleeping like a baby in Mr. Virgile’s room.”

“What an idiot! And here I rounded up all the hunters in town to comb the woods.”

“Stop carrying on like that. You’ll make your blood pressure go up.”

“But good God, where was he hiding?”

Virgile put on his most innocent face to absolve his friend. “In a deep thicket perfect for emptying a cartridge belt!”

Old Cantarel showed his missing teeth in a peal of laughter that rang through the house. On this morning, no one drinking the smooth Arabica coffee in the Cantarel kitchen would be reproaching Joachim.

10

After breakfast, Virgile showed up at Château Prada, looking for Benjamin. Beatrice Bouglon told Virgile that the news of the baron’s arrest had spread through Labastide like wildfire. People all over town were expressing mixed feelings about the whole sad affair. Few were shedding tears for the baron, but some were feeling sad for Evelyne Cantarel. She had never married Francisco, but she had certainly lost the love of her life, and everyone knew it.

“Benjamin’s off at the market,” she concluded.

“If you see him, tell him I’m with Joachim,” Virgile said before leaving with a little skip in his step.

§ § §

An even row of corpses, most of them covered in white, lined the shelves. Shopping bags at the ready, women in berets and woolen shawls lifted the cloth coverings to inspect the fowl, making sure there were no cuts or bruises. Plumpness was a priority, as well as an ample liver. Destined to be dismembered and cooked, the limp-necked ducks and geese practically implored the prospective buyers to put an end to their humiliating ordeal.

Despite the bitter cold, the Eauze market was teeming with noisy wildlife of the human kind. The morning meat market brought together people from all over the region. Benjamin was fond of this atmosphere of mysterious transactions, knowing smiles, euros quickly tucked into pockets, and handshake deals. It reminded him of the truffle markets in Lalbenque and Richerenches, gourmet pilgrimage sites. He loved to go to Lalbenque with Elisabeth. He wouldn’t miss this tasty spectacle for anything in the world. It was more like horse trading than shopping.

In this bustling milieu, Benjamin came upon Alban de Castayrac, accompanied by his wife. So he had turned up. The Nadaillac son-in-law was strutting as if nothing had happened. His father was behind bars, and the APC had convened again that very morning to elect him chairman of the organization. There he was, shaking hands like a politician, plotting in a hushed tone with some of them, and gesturing dramatically with others. Alban de Castayrac knew how to work a crowd. Benjamin overhead snippets of his conversation, which ranged from the market value of Armagnac to promised assistance from Brussels, which would curb the endemic crisis in the eau-de-vie trade. Jean-Charles de Castayrac’s arrest and the resignation he was forced to submit a few hours thereafter had been quite convenient for Alban. Seeing him hold forth in this market, where he even slipped in some words in the local dialect, one couldn’t help but wonder if the son had dealt his father’s deathblow.

Alban de Castayrac walked toward the winemaker. Benjamin knew it was more for the sake of courtesy than honest conversation.

“Still with us, Mr. Cooker? You must be very fond of Gascony!”

“You are fortunate, young man, to live in a part of the country that does not readily reveal itself. A person has to travel through it, sniff it, and tame it, in fact, to unlock all its mysteries. And heaven knows, everything is mysterious here. Don’t you agree? Oh, by the way, congratulations on your election.”

Alban took his wife by the elbow and melted into the crowd. Benjamin Cooker felt a little mischievous as he ambled toward a vendor selling hot chestnuts. Benjamin imagined that the man’s face was just a bit anxious now and his handshake a tad weak.

The winemaker moved along, a warm paper cone in his hands. Seeing the ducks, he poked two or three with firm skin before settling on a fat specimen. The vendor, an old wizened woman, assured him that the liver weighed at least two pounds. Benjamin was trusting enough to take her word for it.

He decided to return to Médoc that morning. Virgile would stay on, but he missed Elisabeth, who had graciously put up with his prolonged absence. When he got there, he would light up the fireplace and slow-cook the duck in one of the large copper pots hanging above the sideboard in the kitchen. He’d do the work, and Elisabeth could just enjoy the warmth of the fire. The ensuing meal would be devilishly caloric, and a little heavy on the salt, but what could be more flavorful than confit? At the Cookers, a Crozes-Hermitage, a Madiran, a Cahors, or an excellent Gaillac would transform this gluttonous meal into a feast fit for a king.

§ § §

That very evening, Joachim, quicker and more agile than ever, attended rugby practice. He made two conversions and scored a fantastic goal. Virgile, however, was not permitted on the field. The Cazaubon coach had not appreciated his outrageous lie and intended to make him pay for it.

The people of Gascony weren’t the type to forget. Virgile would have to make note of that, but he thought the coach was overdoing it and grumbled over not being able to play. His friend tried to console him at the Café de la Poste with a Maison Gélas vintage Armagnac. A few words from Constance would have lifted his spirits, but she only had eyes for her hero of the night. The first place in the Aquitaine championship was within reach. The Hagetmau players would be weak in the knees and shaking with fear. As proud as an Andalusian and as obstinate as a Castilian, Joachim was ready to take all bets. But his apparent enthusiasm could not conceal all the unanswered questions coming to light with the sudden fall of Castayrac Armagnac.

Francisco: so meticulous. There was no way in the world that he could have caused that fire. He had distilled at Blanzac year after year for more than a half-century. What about the lighter that no investigator had taken the trouble to examine, somehow assuming it was an archaic part of the Armagnac still? And how could this wise cellar master have been in the dark about his employer’s multiple and repeated crimes of deception? All that eau-de-vie spirited away in order to pay off the carefree baron’s gambling debts. Surely Francisco knew about it. His silence was as valuable as his blendings!

“Castayrac figured he could reduce the place to ashes and start all over again, like that bird that rises from the ashes,” Joachim said.

“The phoenix,” Virgile replied as they drove along the road from Cazaubon to Labastide. “The baron had to be desperate to do something so extreme.” No sooner had he said this than a figure sprang up from the side of the road and leaped in front of the car. Joachim swerved just in time to miss him.

“Who was that nut?” Virgile shouted.

“Was he trying to get himself killed? Shit, the rush of adrenalin! Are you sure we didn’t hit him?”

“Stop, Joachim. We’d better check.”

The car came to a stop in the middle of nowhere. The beams from the headlights illuminated a stand of mossy oak trees and old bracken. The two athletes ran to the spot where they had seen the stranger. A nimble and graceful shadow finally rose up and quickly vanished into the fog-suffused woods.

“Forget about it, Joachim. He’s a poacher. Look, he’s running away like a rabbit.”

“No, no,” Joachim answered. “It’s the Castayrac son Valmont. I’m sure of it. I’d bet my life on it.”

“Come on, Joachim, you’re seeing Castayracs all over the place!”

“No, Virgile. He has the eyes of a wolf. I’d recognize him anywhere.”

“What’s he doing around here at this hour?”

“I’m telling you, the whole family is crazy.”

Once again, Virgile had trouble sleeping. To get at the truth, he had to figure out how to be as shrewd as his boss. Everything in Labastide, it seemed, was disturbing.

11

Virgile came through the gate at Château Prada just as the first glimmers of dawn were spilling over the countryside. Philippe de Bouglon, the only one awake at this hour, asked Virgile why he was up and about. Yes, he was a diligent and hard worker, but everyone needed a little sleep. Philippe had the bonhomie of people of the land who knew there was no need to rush in the winter. But he was unable to persuade the young assistant to go back to the Cantarels and get in another hour of sleep. So he offered Virgile some coffee. If he was going to be awake, he might as well be fully awake.

“I’m going to Blanzac,” Virgile said after quickly downing the coffee. “I’ll be back in an hour or two.”

Virgile needed to satisfy his curiosity once and for all. Benjamin had often called him stubborn, and on that point the winemaker was entirely correct. Virgile didn’t intend to let anything get in his way. He took off for Blanzac territory.

Only Athos and Aramis came to lick his hand. Porthos simply urinated copiously on the rear tire of the car he had borrowed from Joachim. He had an air of distrust punctuated by a licking of the chops. Virgile figured it was best to keep the dog at arm’s length.

Virgile rapped on the door, but no human came to interrupt the dead silence of the place. Blanzac seemed abandoned. The winter cold reinforced this impression of rust, seeping humidity, and snuffed-out nature. In the courtyard strewn with dead leaves, ceramic pots had broken in the icy weather. The lingering odor of wet ashes irritated Virgile’s throat, as if the fire were still smoldering within the collapsed walls, where the charred staves and beams lay tangled in a heap of ghostlike blackness. Completing this macabre impression, an ashen mist shrouded the copper of the disembodied still. In Virgile’s eyes, the property had never looked so sinister.

“Valmont? Valmont?” Virgile called out.

No answer. The countryside was without a sound.

Failing to get a response from the mansion, Virgile decided to have another look at the cellar. He had explored every square inch. He knew each bit of rubble, having exhumed, examined, evaluated, and quantified all of it. The explosion and resulting fire had spared nothing. Each strip of alcohol-soaked wood had been licked by the flames, roasted, and destroyed.

But once again he wandered into the rubble, kicking the muddy scraps of iron and wood as he poked through it. A thick lock was all that remained of the cellar door. He glanced at it—and looked again. Why on earth was the bolt engaged? Then it struck him. The cellar had been locked—from the outside! Francisco had never had a chance to escape. Joachim was right. His father had been murdered.

Virgile called his employer.

“Boss, sorry to disturb you, but you’ve got to hightail it back here. My apologies to Mrs. Cooker.”

“What is it, son?”

“You’ll see when you get here. And you’d better call the cops. I’m going to warm up at Prada. Call me when you get near. I’ll meet you at Château Blanzac.”

§ § §

As Benjamin got ready to leave Grangebelle, Elisabeth handed him cracklings for the Bouglons. She had carefully packaged the greasy treat in a small terrine covered with aluminum foil. Philippe and Beatrice were aware that Elisabeth’s maiden name was Darrozière, a name redolent of the Gascony countryside and slow-cooked food. They would certainly appreciate this gift, even if it was as common as Armagnac in their region.

The winemaker had to return to Labastide-d’Armagnac anyway to collect Virgile, who had stayed behind. He was just leaving a little earlier than planned. The investigation for Protection Insurance was wrapped up, and Benjamin’s conclusions had evidently unleashed the wrath of the law and the tax authorities. Nevertheless, Castayrac’s precipitous fall troubled him, and he couldn’t dismiss his doubts. Virgile, on the other hand, had no misgivings about the baron’s culpability. Especially in light of his new friendship with Joachim, nothing would change his mind. Even that opportunist Alban found favor in his eyes.

§ § §

An hour and twenty-eight minutes later, the winemaker arrived at Château Blanzac with two reluctant-looking officers.

Benjamin turned to Virgile. “Well, what do you have to show us, Virgile?”

The assistant handed over his evidence. Benjamin examined it for a few moments and then gave it to the police officers. “It appears, gentlemen, that the cellar was locked from the outside.”

From the beginning, the police—and just about everyone else in the region—had theorized that Francisco Vasquez’s death was accidental.

“Considering Mr. Castayrac’s reputation…” one of the officers stammered.

His fellow officer looked at Virgile and then at Benjamin.

“Mr. Cooker, will you authorize us to take credit for this crucial discovery by your invaluable colleague?”

“You need to ask him yourself. It isn’t my decision to make,” Benjamin grumbled.

Virgile shrugged. Although he felt like saying more, “yeah” was his only response.

The two officers walked over to their van, carefully took off their shoes, and pulled on khaki waders, which made them look ridiculous. They started searching for new clues in the charred debris.

With little to do, Benjamin tugged at Virgile’s coat sleeve. “Come with me, Virgile. I can’t resist stealing another look at the black Citroën DS hibernating at the back of the garage. I know you appreciate vintage cars too. After all, you have one yourself.”

The Citroën was covered in canvas. Only the shiny hubcaps were visible. Virgile could tell that the winemaker’s desire to slip into this sleek 1957 car—aerodynamic before its time—was irresistible. Benjamin started to lift the cover. Not one second later, a beady-eyed Valmont de Castayrac emerged from the shadows.

“I believe I already told you, Mr. Cooker. This car is absolutely not for sale!”

Instantly, Virgile recognized the supple and robust figure, which the night before had appeared ready to throw himself under the car.

§ § §

Benjamin slipped into the back of the public hearing room, hoping not to be noticed. Jean-Charles de Castayrac kept proclaiming his innocence and denouncing the plot against him. Brought before the prosecutor, he cited his entire family tree, the war records of his ancestors, and his tireless battle to promote Armagnac throughout the world as evidence of his good character. But the Landes public prosecutor remained implacable. The baron’s forebears and efforts on behalf of Armagnac—which weren’t selfless, because he benefitted from them—did not make him a man of virtue. Indeed, Castayrac had admitted his bankruptcy, his chronic inability to manage his property, and his weakness for gambling, society life, and beautiful women. He also admitted to the staggering amount of money he had taken from his in-laws before his wife’s death to cover his abysmal losses from a deal gone bad.

“They were already so rich, sir, with their Alvignac spring water!” Castayrac had shouted.

To which the prosecutor responded, “You were just as rich from your own waters: eau-de vie!”

But the cavalier and frivolous behavior of the cynical baron wasn’t what mattered most to the public servant. The baron had cheated the tax authorities, carried out insurance fraud, and, even more important, committed arson. His own cellar master had died in that fire.

“Does it take courage or heartlessness to set fire to one’s own property?” the infuriated prosecutor had asked.

“But I am utterly incapable of that, sir.”

“Incapable of love, yes. That I believe. You knowingly locked Francisco Valdez, the unfortunate man who had been faithful to your family for almost a half century, in your wine cellar before reducing it to ashes.”

“I did nothing of the sort.”

“Everyone knows that you had defaulted on your mortgage, and Crédit Agricole was planning to sell your estate at auction. Only the insurance payout could save you from disgrace.”

“I admit I was in a bad situation, but good heavens, I never could have committed such an act!”

“Can you provide the slightest alibi to suggest that on December 24th you were not at Blanzac?”

The baron was quiet for a long time, as if he had run out of arguments.

“None,” he finally said, running a weary hand through his hair. “Forgive me, sir, I don’t feel very well.”

“And for the very good and sole reason that I have put my finger where it hurts. Blanzac was going to be sold, and you were angry with your older son, the only one who could have helped you.”

“Alban? You must be kidding! Him, help me? He never stopped humiliating me or prowling like a vulture around Blanzac to the point of trying to dispossess me. As recently as last week, he was my fiercest rival for the chairmanship of the APC! No, if you have to point the finger at someone, sir, you should be looking at him.”

“I knew you were capable of many things,” the prosecutor insisted, adjusting his glasses. “But with you, the worst is always yet to come. Incriminating your own son to clear your name! No one’s buying it. You’re providing enough rope to hang yourself. What interest would your offspring have had, no matter how ungrateful he was, to set your wine cellar ablaze? He’s not the one who stood to collect the fat check from the insurance company. And why would he have done away with Francisco, as well? I believe the relationship between your cellar master and Alban was quite friendly.”

“I cannot answer that question, sir. For all I know, his father-in-law was conspiring with the bank to buy the estate, and he planned to hand it over to Alban. Nadaillac would have gained control of one of his biggest competitors, and Alban would have been his own boss. My son never had many scruples.”

“And neither do you, it appears.”

With his head in his hands, Jean-Charles de Castayrac seemed to be trying to drown out the relentless accusations of the prosecutor. The light from the man’s desk lamp illuminated the baron’s signet ring. One could make out perfectly the Castayrac coat of arms: two unicorns and two matching trefoils.

“I believe we’ll leave it at that for today,” the prosecutor said, placing his pen in the white porcelain inkwell from another era.

The guards posted behind the suspect put their caps back on and got ready to leave. The hearing was over.

“When you feel the pangs of remorse, Mr. Castayrac, let me know. We’ll save time that way. As uncomfortable as Château Blanzac may be, it’s still warmer than our jails.”

“Actually, I find your cell sufficiently comfortable, sir,” the aristocrat answered, throwing his shoulders back.

“Lock him up until further notice,” the prosecutor grumbled.

“Very well, sir,” the first guard responded, taking the baron by the arm and leading him away. Benjamin noted that the prosecutor looked like an anachronism. His silk pinstriped suit looked like it was made by an eighty-year-old tailor. His bearing was pompous, and his voice was high-pitched.

§ § §

Back in his office, the prosecutor rose from his chair, walked over to the old cast-iron radiator, and warmed his hands while watching the van haul the fallen baron off to the old jail. Then he walked back to his Empire-style desk, picked up his telephone, and called the chief of police in Saint-Justin.

“Magistrate Canteloube here. I need you to do something for me. Pick up Alban Castayrac and bring him in. Right away.”

§ § §

“With a father like that, I understand why Alban took off,” Virgile told Benjamin during their lunch at Prada. “He would have married anyone to get away from Blanzac. It just happens that he made out rather well by marrying a Nadaillac.”

“It seems to be a theme in the Castayrac family,” Benjamin said. “The baron himself profited quite handsomely from his marriage.”

Philippe and Beatrice de Bouglon were watching this exchange in silence. But after a few sips of a Henri Leroy Romanée-Conti, unearthed from the dark vaults of the Prada cellar, they added their own views. Philippe sided with Benjamin, who was having second thoughts about the whole matter, while Beatrice shared Virgile’s opinion.

“There’ve always been rumors about the old man,” Beatrice said. “Remember that underage girl? And the shadowy deals he’s made—the people he’s cheated. I wouldn’t trust him for a minute.”

“Beatrice, honey, hardly any of that stuff has ever been proved. It’s talk. That’s all.”

“As far as I’m concerned, where there’s smoke, there’s fire!”

“In this particular case, my dear Bea, you couldn’t be more right!” Benjamin burst into a hearty laugh, followed by Virgile and then Philippe de Bouglon, whose handsome musketeer moustache was glistening with duck-crackling grease.

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.