Flambé in Armagnac by Jean-Pierre Alaux, Noël Balen Page B

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.
    “The parlor is at your disposal,” Philippe said as he slipped into the kitchen.
    The prosecutor took in the room, examining the paintings and photographs attesting to the lineage of the Bouglon family, and then sat in an armchair that swallowed him. He looked like a pale and sickly wren. Benjamin wondered how a man with such a frail physique could have such an overbearing presence. Indeed, sitting in the oversized chair, a pigskin briefcase propped in his lap, he seemed quite satisfied with the power his position conferred on him.
    Philippe de Bouglon popped his head through another door, a bit like a scene from a comedy. “Can I offer you a Prada Armagnac, gentlemen?” Philippe asked.
    The prosecutor declined the offer as if it were an indecent proposal. Benjamin, on the other hand, cheerfully told his friend, “Break open your 1983. That’s a winner if ever there was one.”
    The winemaker noticed the reproving look on the prosecutor’s face. The man wasted no time as he launched into the reason for his visit. The Castayrac affair was about to be settled once and for all. He admitted that it had taken him awhile to believe that Jean-Charles de Castayrac was a criminal who had acted with premeditation. He thanked the famed winemaker for his investigation, which had implicated the baron. Benjamin was tempted to point out that it was Virgile who had discovered the evidence that conclusively refuted the