Cognac Conspiracies by Jean-Pierre Alaux, Noël Balen Page B

a cup of tea?”
    “I’m afraid I don’t have time,” Benjamin Cooker said firmly. “I’d rather meet in Jarnac, if that’s okay. On the island in the public gardens.”
    “That sounds a little like a romantic rendezvous,” Sheila said. “Have you been in the gazebo?”
    “The gazebo will do just fine,” the winemaker said a little conspiratorially.
    The Englishwoman giggled and promised to be there at five o’clock, no earlier.
    The gazebo wasn’t the ornate, nostalgic type seen on many town squares, but rather a modern little building with benches where people could sit and watch the impetuous or languid waters of the Charente, depending on the season.
    Carved on the benches were obscenities, along with hearts with initials. At night, the gazebo was the scene of surreptitious meetings, furtive embraces, forbidden affairs, and sighs and groans barely masked by the splash of fish and the rustling of bats. With the river as the only witness and a forest of shrubs as a screen, it was a perfect setting for illicit lovemaking.
    During the day, however, there were only runners in jogging outfits, occasional fishermen, and lonely souls who came to dream in a corner of nature protected from the tribulations of the rest of the world.
    Sheila Scott was late. Benjamin used the time to jot down some notes about the vintages he had tasted the night before. His old friend was in a sweat when she finally arrived. She was wearing a white linen sundress that hardly flattered her milky skin.
    “Why the devil did you make me come here? It’s charming and all, but not very reassuring for a woman who’s alone.”
    “What are you afraid of? A werewolf, a wild animal, or a handsome boy ready to woo you?”
    Sheila stiffened and stared at the riverbank.
    “Why didn’t you tell me that you have a son?”
    “A certain taste for privacy, perhaps.”
    “When you have a handsome kid, you don’t deny yourself the pleasure of showing him off,” Benjamin said, stretching his legs out to savor the sun’s soft rays.
    “How do you know about him?” Sheila asked. Benjamin could tell she was taking umbrage.
    “I think he sells his image.”
    “He makes a living at it. He gets by.”
    “Yes, I’m sure his looks help him get by. But something tells me that he needs more than those modeling jobs. He has an income stream or two on the side.”
    “What are you insinuating?”
    “I saw the kind of car he drives.”
    “Benjamin, what are getting at? What exactly do you want to know?”
    “For the sake of the old and intimate times we shared, I’d like to hear from your lips what I already know.”
    “But I don’t owe you anything, especially not any explanations! Our paths wouldn’t have crossed again if we hadn’t had that chance meeting on the terrace of the Coq d’Or.”
    “You are absolutely right. Providence, however, put us together on that terrace. Unless, of course, you arranged it all. I understand that you want to protect your son, but in a few hours, he will be taken in for questioning and possibly charged with murder.”
    “Murder?”
    Sheila tried to meet Benjamin’s eyes. Confronted with his hard stare, she looked away and walked over to the railing of the gazebo. Benjamin followed.
    “Why did you pretend that you didn’t know the Lavoisiers?”
    “You call that knowing? Everyone here knows everyone else. Marie-France is just an arrogant and conniving woman who cries crocodile tears about being eaten alive by the big-money Chinese. We know how that worked out. Well done! Claude-Henri is no better, but at least he’s never been one to go around complaining. As for the brother they buried, he was just a manic-depressive who never felt good about himself.”
    “And your son consoled him as best he could.”
    “Yes, I think they knew each other.”
    “You might even say they were intimate.”
    “What are you trying to get me to say?”
    “Nothing that isn’t true,” Benjamin said, skipping a stone over