Cognac Conspiracies by Jean-Pierre Alaux, Noël Balen

Château la Louvière, please, and a carafe of water.”
    The waiter, with his Andalusian accent and legendary talkativeness, usually engaged Benjamin in friendly conversation. The winemaker had known him since opening his offices on the Allées de Tourny. But today Benjamin was anxious and moody. Of course, this was not keeping him from fully appreciating the 1994 Louvière, with its herbaceous nose and fullness in the mouth. Benjamin slapped the thick liquid on his palate. Maybe his salvation would come from what was at the bottom of his glass, rather than what was in the papers.
    Benjamin’s fleeting optimism vanished when Virgile arrived on the veranda. His assistant flashed his usually irresistible smile. Benjamin, however, hadn’t forgotten the troubling questions concerning his assistant’s behavior.
    “Have you had lunch yet?”
    “No, boss, I’ve just left the lab. Three of our clients in Graves are fighting an invasion of dead-arm. We might have to use the radical method. Damned fungus!”
    The waiter had already set Virgile’s place.
    “Tell me, Virgile, I don’t usually meddle in your private life, but how is it going with your women in Charente?”
    “What do you mean, boss?”
    Much to his own surprise, Benjamin felt himself losing his proverbial British calm. “Can’t you contain yourself, boy?”
    “Mr. Cooker, I’m sorry, but I’m not following you. Okay, I dabbled in the cognac a little but found it a bit strong for my taste, and that was that.”
    “So tell me, Virgile, how is Sheila these days? I hear you paid Samson’s Mill a visit. Strange—you didn’t tell me you were going.”
    Virgile didn’t miss a beat. “Oh, don’t tell me you think I was up to something.”
    Benjamin glared at him, cleared his throat, and said in a perfectly neutral voice, “Beware of Delilah.”
    “Sir, please don’t give it a second thought. Yes, I do have a weakness for older women, but she’s not my type. And I don’t think I’d get past her son, anyway. He’s not keen on the idea of her having any boyfriends.”
    “Her son?”
    “Your friend didn’t bother to tell you that she had a grown son, Nathan. His father is none other than her old companion.”
    “Styron? The writer?”
    “Yes, Styron. But I didn’t know he was a writer.”
    “You obviously don’t read a lot of fiction, Virgile. And speaking of fiction, you’re saying that there’s nothing between you and Sheila Scott?”
    “Sir—with all due respect—you and I have shared an almost lifelong interest in wine, but we have not shared the same woman.”
    Benjamin looked at him without flinching and sighed. “All that is moot at this point. Sheila and I were lovers a lifetime ago. We’re no more than friends now, and that’s the way I want it.” He wiped a dribble of wine off the bottle. It had been threatening to run onto the label, with its handsome château reflected in the water.
    Virgile watched. “‘Sooner or later, all the pleasures of youth come back to haunt us,’ my grandfather always said.”
    Was this Virgile’s clumsy attempt to philosophize? If so, Benjamin didn’t want any part of it. “As I said, Virgile, that’s all in the past. Next topic.”
    “Let me point out that you’re the one who brought it up.”
    “That’s true. Forgive me. How old is her son?”
    “Mid-thirties. He’s a frustrated actor who models for catalogs. Not too interesting in my book.”
    Before laying into a slice of clafoutis, Virgile told Benjamin about Nathan’s affair with Pierre.
    “In any case, we may be going back to Jarnac soon, my boy.”
    “Yes, I saw in the paper that the Chinese are upping their stake. That Fauret de Solmilhac is just a windbag if you ask me. So Marie-France is going to lose control of the company, isn’t she?”
    “I wouldn’t be so sure,” Benjamin said, smiling enigmatically.
    When the waiter brought the bill, Virgile grabbed it and took out his credit card.
    “Oh, come on, you don’t