Flambé in Armagnac

Praise

“For me, this series is like a gift... It takes you on a journey.”

—Actor Pierre Arditi, who stars in the TV series

“Difficult to forget and oddly addictive... deserves a high mark for keeping the answers hidden and the pages turning.”

—ForeWord Reviews

“Another clever and highly entertaining mystery by an incredibly creative writing duo, never disappointing, always marvelously atypical.”

—Unshelfish

“It is full of intrigue and deceit, and it kept me turning pages and guessing. A very pleasant and enticing read, with a few epicurean suggestions.”

—Books Chatter

“This is a fun and informative take on the cozy crime mystery, French style.”

—Eurocrime

“This is is a quick, pleasant read, a good introduction to the country’s culinary charms and regional beauty.”

—Crime Fiction Lover

“You’ll travel to France to taste the complex flavors, the unraveling of a mystery, while relishing the French countryside, the gourmet dishes, and the simple pleasurable delight of this rare series.”

—5-star educator review

“A smooth, jubilatory discovery of French wine country. I love these.”

—5-star reader review

“A good vintage with tasty dialogue and a solid plot.”

—Tele-loisir

“A fine vintage.”

—Award-winning mystery writer Peter May

Flambé in Armagnac

A Winemaker Detective Mystery

Jean-Pierre Alaux

and

Noël Balen

Translated by Sally Pane

All rights reserved: no part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher.

First published in France as

Question d’eaux-de-vie...ou de mort

by Jean-Pierre Alaux and Noël Balen

World copyright ©Librairie Arthème Fayard, 2004

English translation copyright ©2015 Sally Pane

First published in English in 2015

By Le French Book, Inc., New York

www.lefrenchbook.com

Translator: Sally Pane

Translation editor: Amy Richard

Proofreader: Chris Gage

Cover designer: Jeroen ten Berge

ISBN:

Trade paperback: 9781939474414

E-book: 9781939474421

Hardback: 9781939474438

This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Inhale the scent of split oak trees our barrels are made of. They smell of damp earth and marauding herds, a sort of musky odor, from which the eau-de-vie, after four or five years in the cask, forever retains a wild perfume.

—Joseph de Pesquidoux

1

A hot-air balloon was slipping into the clouds above a herd of wild horses. A village of rustic chalets hewn from rough logs stood silently on a ridge against a blue sky. Naiads in Brazilian bikinis frolicked beneath a blue waterfall. Swans in a Japanese-style pond navigated around pastel water lilies and gleaming orange koi.

“Which calendar would you like, Mr. Cooker?” Angèle was standing on the doorstep, stamping her feet and wrapped in a blue and yellow coat bearing the postal service insignia. Benjamin Cooker studied the images, where eternal peace reigned on earth and life was so simple and innocent. He pretended to hesitate between one filled with sandy beaches and rolling surf and another featuring nostalgic side streets in Caribbean locales. He finally chose the dog calendar, with an Irish setter that looked like a younger version of his canine companion Bacchus.

Once a year, Angèle rang the doorbells on her delivery route, not for the mail, but to sell calendars. It was a holiday ritual postal service workers in France shared with street cleaners and firefighters. Benjamin always bought one from each group, occasionally wondering what the money went for. Perhaps it was for an end-of-year bonus or for widows and orphans. Of course he never asked. That wouldn’t do, not with a tradition nearly as old as the postal service itself.

Benjamin offered the woman a cup of tea, but quickly added, “Or a cup of coffee?”

“Frankly, I’d prefer that!”

“One sugar?”

“Two, if you please. And how is Mrs. Cooker?”

“Well. Very well, indeed! She’s preparing for our daughter Margaux’s impending arrival—out shopping in Bordeaux. This visit is a real treat for us. It’s not often that Margaux tears herself away from New York these days. At any rate, I do hope Mrs. Cooker doesn’t go overboard, or I may not want to open our next credit-card statement!”

“How you do go on, Mr. Cooker. You of all people know that wine is made to be drunk. It’s the same with money; it’s made to be spent. Don’t you agree?”

The renowned wine consultant and author of the bestselling
Cooker Guide
wasn’t sure he wanted to engage in a discussion that he knew he couldn’t win. So he walked over to the mantel to pick up the envelope he had prepared. Angèle was all smiles.

“Happy New Year, Mr. Cooker!” Angèle said, leaning in for good-bye cheek kisses. Two pecks, one on each side, was standard in the Bordeaux region. It was three in southeastern France and four farther north.

The winemaker was hardly a fan of such effusion. Angèle’s kisses, however, were something no healthy man could refuse. The young woman’s cheeks were pink from a morning spent in the cold, and her chestnut hair smelled of coffee.

Benjamin watched from the warmth of Grangebelle as the mail carrier’s van disappeared down the drive. The weather was cold enough to chill Champagne, and some of the elderly residents of Saint-Julien were fearfully recalling the winter of 1954, although, on average, temperatures this winter had been warmer than usual. Benjamin had decided against going to his office on the Allées de Tourny. It felt good to be at Grangebelle, quietly watching the flames in the fireplace. The scent of the burning wood mingled with the slightly bitter smell of cigar.

The winemaker poured himself another cup of tea before perusing his mail a bit wearily. Bacchus was dozing on the old Persian rug in front of the fire. This was the dog’s favorite pastime in the winter. When the temperature dropped, Benjamin had a hard time rousing him for the long walks they usually loved to take. The old dog would not budge.

In the bundle of mail, one envelope caught his attention. In black and red letters, it bore the name Protection Insurance. Cooker & Co. occasionally did work for this company, and Benjamin always wound up chastising himself for not charging more, considering the time the cases took. Judging from the impersonal form letters they always sent, they clearly didn’t know him from Adam. In all of southwest France, he was the sole wine expert whose testimony was accepted without question by the courts in Toulouse and Bordeaux. He drew deeply on his Havana and put on his reading glasses.

Protection Insurance
   Building Pierre-Paul-de-Riquet,
   C3 Quartier Compans-Caffarelli
   31026 Toulouse Cedex

Dear Sir,

Pursuant to claim No. 455/JV/40, we are pleased to appoint you to estimate the damages suffered by our client, Mr. Jean-Charles de Castayrac, as a result of an accidental fire that destroyed the wine cellar on his property, Château Blanzac in Labastide-d’Armagnac, on December 24.

Your assignment is to provide a precise determination of the Armagnac reserves stored in the claimant’s cellar preceding the fire, to assess the quality of his eau-de-vie products up until that time, to estimate Mr. Castayrac’s loss, based on the market value of the Armagnac, and to examine Mr. Castayrac’s records.

Your expert report must be sent to our company headquarters within thirty days. It is your responsibility to investigate this matter with the diligence and skill you have always exercised and for which our company is grateful.

Sincerely,
   Étienne Valéry
   Manager, Claims Investigation

Benjamin considered turning down the assignment. But then he realized that the job would be an excellent excuse to pay a visit to his old friend Philippe de Bouglon. The fact that they had not been in touch for months did not diminish their friendship. And besides, his reserves of Armagnac were running low, and it was high time to replenish the liquor cabinet at Grangebelle.

Just a month earlier, in fact, Elisabeth and he had taken a drive through Labastide, hoping to visit the Bouglons and buy some Armagnac. Unfortunately, Philippe and his wife, Beatrice, had been away on vacation, but in town they had come across Francisco, the cellar master at Château Blanzac. He apologized for not being able to accommodate them immediately, but had promised to personally deliver some of the highly regarded eau-de-vie that he planned to distill before the holidays. Elisabeth had assured Francisco that they could wait.

“I didn’t know the Blanzac cellar master was so charming,” Elisabeth had remarked, a smile on her face as she watched the man hurry off.

“Oh yes, as appealing as his Armagnac,” Benjamin had said with a bit of a grumble.

Had any of Château Blanzac’s fine Armagnac survived the fire? He’d find out. At any rate, Benjamin would catch the Bouglons at home. He decided not to call ahead. He would simply show up unannounced. After all, the Bouglons were two of the most hospitable people he knew. So the New Year was getting off to a good start. The winemaker threw another log on the fire. Bacchus just yawned and closed his eyes again. Benjamin savored another puff of his morning cigar. It was beginning to taste exquisite. What a pity the teapot was empty.

Benjamin opened the door to feel the chill on his face. The outdoor thermometer read six degrees below zero. The Gironde River and the fields of the Médoc, all speckled in white, seemed to be reaching toward the patches of pale sunshine from heaven. He did prefer the cold to the rain, but driving on ice was not his favorite sport. At any rate, Virgile, his assistant, would take the wheel.

Benjamin closed the door and headed to the phone.

“Hello, Virgile? Cooker here. Happy New Year, my boy! Let’s celebrate with a glass of Armagnac. What do you say? Meet me at Grangebelle. And bring along some warm clothes and your toothbrush.”

Benjamin quickly scribbled a note for Elisabeth telling her where he’d be and went into his bedroom to fetch his own toothbrush and an overnight bag.

2

The heavy wrought-iron gate was open at Château Prada. Virgile drove Benjamin’s convertible into the huge courtyard, and the winemaker spotted someone pushing aside the lace curtain at one of the small windows in the kitchen. He thought he recognized the profile of his friend, with his inimitable heavy moustache.

Benjamin watched as his assistant who had never been here, took in the enormous complex. The château’s elegant grandeur and perfect symmetry spoke volumes for the Bouglons’ past fortune. The outbuildings on either side of the central building attested to the agricultural enterprise of the property. Even in the midst of a glacial winter, Prada symbolized the steadfast provincial aristocracy that had never failed the king of France.

“Look at the chimney, Virgile. Our timing is impeccable!”

“How can you say that, boss, when you didn’t even have the courtesy to tell your friends we were coming?”

Benjamin hastily pulled on his Loden, as he assessed his assistant’s fatigue after two hours of driving on winding roads covered with ice. The young man looked his usual handsome, athletic self.

“It’s an old trick of country priests, Virgile. Back in the day, when clergy called on the nobles of a parish, the priest would look up at the chimneys of the best châteaus. If smoke was rising straight to the sky, he would continue on his way. But if plumes of smoke were escaping in little puffs, he didn’t hesitate to knock. He was sure to share in some perfectly prepared feast.”

“And why was that?” Virgile asked.

“Think, Virgile! Because then he knew that a simmering pot was hanging from the rack.”

“Whatever you say, boss.”

Before Benjamin could give Virgile a disapproving look, Philippe de Bouglon was on the doorstep, hands on his hips and a grin on his ruddy face, true Gascon that he was.

“Benjamin! What polar wind has brought you to us? Your reserves of Armagnac must really be running dry for you to come to Labastide in weather like this! Or did Elisabeth kick you out? Don’t tell me you’ve already had lunch, or I’ll be offended.”

Beatrice appeared behind her husband, radiant in a sky-blue turtleneck and cream-colored velvet slacks. Her eyes were bright, and her voice was deep and warm. They wished one another a happy New Year. Benjamin introduced Virgile, telling the Bouglons that he was talented in the art of blending but something of a novice when it came to Armagnac.

“You’ve come at just the right time, Benjamin,” Beatrice said.

The winemaker watched as she exchanged a look of complicity with her husband.

“Guess what’s on today’s menu,” she continued.

“Don’t tell me you’ve cooked the farmyard ducks,” Benjamin ventured.

“No, even better!”

The winemaker lifted his nose to sniff the aromas coming from the kitchen.

“Pan-seared foie gras, perhaps?”

“If you ask me, I’d say squab, in a stew, perhaps a traditional salmis,” Virgile said.

“I would be worried if I were you, Benjamin. He has a keen nose. Your charming assistant is right. He might just steal your reputation one day.”

“That will be a proud day for me,” Benjamin said.

“You did get the foie gras right, though,” Beatrice said. “I roasted the bird and reduced the drippings with Armagnac, before adding some foie gras. Now the bird’s cut up and reheating in the sauce. You’re right on time.”

“Knowing you, it’s wood pigeon. Someone’s been out hunting again. Wonderful. You know how fond I am of game birds. We haven’t had any at home since I gave up hunting and sent Bacchus into early retirement.”

Château Prada’s owner related his story of hunting the previous day in the Mézin forest bordering the Gers and Lot-et-Garonne. Philippe and his companions had spent the entire morning in their lookouts, shivering to the bone, gobbling snacks, and overindulging in Armagnac and coffee. For two years now, the migratory birds had proved to be as capricious as they were rare. It was said that their flight corridors had moved to the west for some unknown reason. Ringdoves coming from eastern countries were following the coastline along the Bay of Biscay. Other less adventurous birds were spreading out over the cornfields between Adour and Garonne. The wood pigeons Philippe had bagged belonged to the hungry breed that preferred to hold out rather than take a chance. The hunter from Labastide was quite proud of his booty: four specimens with blue-gray plumage and bloodred beaks.

“It was freezing.”

“But you were rewarded for your patience, which—you’d admit—isn’t your strongest virtue.”

“That’s a low blow, Benjamin. But I will be a gentleman and extend a heartfelt invitation to this feast, prepared by the best chef in Gascony. I should know. I married her, and I thank God for every day that I spend with her.”

“Let’s not go overboard,” Beatrice said, pushing back a lock of blond hair from her high forehead.

Philippe de Bouglon smoothed his moustache. “What about a Folle d’Armagnac as an aperitif? How does that sound? I just need to add two place settings to the table and run to the cellar so that we can honor the presence of the most famous winemaker in France. Excuse me—in Europe. I mean the world! I will be right with you, gentlemen.”

Checking the grandfather clock, Beatrice excused herself. The chef could not abandon the stew. Benjamin and Virgile took the opportunity to study the Bouglon portrait gallery. Some of Philippe’s forebears had distinguished themselves in far-off battles, and others had planted the vineyard at a time when Armagnac was shipped along the Baïse and Garonne rivers to Bordeaux. From there it was sent all over Europe.

A grand piano took up a large portion of the living room. Benjamin watched as Virgile started to slide his fingers across the ivory keys but thought better of it and stopped. Instead, he gazed out at the garden, where a few Lebanon cedars broke the monotony of the frost-covered lawn. The small living room was damp. The marble floor and fixtures, which dominated the room, reinforced the sense of cold. Virgile was visibly chilled—most likely hungry too. He had pulled up his collar. Benjamin felt the same urge, but he didn’t want to embarrass his gracious hosts. If only Philippe would hurry back with his Armagnac.

Seconds later, Philippe de Bouglon walked through the doorway, bottle in hand. The transparent Folle d’Armagnac resembled the purest vodka. A mischievous glint shone in the bright eyes of the master of the house. Benjamin, noticing his assistant rubbing his chin in bewilderment, came to his rescue.

“Virgile, did your professors at wine school skip over Folle d’Armagnac? If so, they should be hanged!”

“I have a vague memory of something. They did talk to us about Blanche d’Armagnac, I think.”

“It’s the same thing, Virgile. It’s not to be confused with folle-blanche, the grape variety.”

“Yes, now I remember. It was a fatal mistake on my part, made on a written exam. My professor treated me like an idiot. ‘You are about as qualified to work in wine as I am to give sermons at Notre Dame,’ he said.”

“Well he misread you, didn’t he?” Benjamin said, extending his glass to the flask proffered by his friend Philippe.

Philippe was grinning. Even before they sipped this Blanche d’Armagnac of his, it had the power to prompt discussion and curiosity. Wasn’t that the very characteristic of wine? The French politician and diplomat Tallyrand had said this—more pompously—some two hundred years earlier.

“It’s barely out of the still, clear, white, untouched by wood, never aged, so never sipped by angels,” Philippe explained. “If you would allow me a comparison, Benjamin, this eau-de-vie is our virgin of sorts. It’s all pureness—and finesse. Taste it! You perceive floral notes of… How shall I put it?”

“You can already smell the fruit,” Virgile began to say.

“Philippe, please don’t use the word ‘virgin’ around this skirt-chaser I have for an assistant. He’s likely to find qualities in your Armagnac that don’t exist.”

“Well, this young man must be Gascon. Are you?”

“Actually, I am, on my maternal grandmother’s side. She was from Lectoure.”

“I knew it,” Bouglon said.

By the time they were ready to eat, Benjamin was no longer chilled. The Blanche d’Armagnac had produced the desired effect, warming the mind and the body.

They dined in the kitchen, which was warmer than the dining room. Old grapevine stocks fueled the kitchen fireplace, and the thick glowing embers promised a perfectly cooked stew. The room was filled with wonderful aromas. Enchanting frost crystals had formed around the leaded windows overlooking the estate’s pollarded plane trees. The water pipes had frozen, and the faucet was no longer working, but who cared? At Prada, one was hardly inclined to drink water.

Beatrice brought out one of her vintage jars of duck foie gras, appropriately truffled. A 1989 Suduiraut Cuvée Madame, exquisitely amber in color, accompanied the feast.

Benjamin was relishing his visit with Philippe. The two happily recalled the old days when they were still bachelors. The sauterne had served to rekindle their ribald memories. Virgile, meanwhile, responded politely to the stream of questions from the mistress of Prada.

“Beatrice, I’m afraid you’re going to embarrass our friend with your interrogation,” Philippe said, turning to his wife and putting down his fork.

There was no hint of reproach in his tone. Indeed, Benjamin thought he detected a loving intimacy in his smile.

“Oh Philippe, Virgile and I have already become friends. I’ve found out a lot of things, beginning with the reason for our dear friend Benjamin’s visit to Labastide. They’re here about the fire at Château Blanzac. It’s all anybody is talking about around here.”

“Yes, it’s horrible,” Philippe responded. “You wouldn’t wish that on anyone, not even your worst enemy.”

Benjamin pierced a piece of bread with his fork and dipped it in the enticing sauce on his plate. “Would you count this Jean-Claude de Castayrac among your friends, Philippe?” he asked before bringing the fork to his mouth.

“He’s neither a friend nor an enemy, Benjamin. We know each other well. I even have a certain respect for him. But to be frank, I prefer his Armagnac to his company.”

“Can you be more specific?”

Philippe de Bouglon’s reddish moustache was beginning to glisten with the stew juices. The Château Pavie he had brought to room temperature by the fireplace had put a gleam in his gray eyes. Before Philippe could satisfy Benjamin’s curiosity, Beatrice answered for him.

“You know, everyone here looks out for himself. The producers respect each other, and sometimes we exchange samples. But basically, we see one another at the Armagnac Promotion Committee meetings and competitions at Eauze and Aire-sur-l’Adour. That’s about it. As far as the fire goes, the one to feel sorry for isn’t Castayrac. He’ll always make out okay. It’s poor Vasquez! Dying like that in the fire. It’s terrible. They say the still exploded. I hope he didn’t suffer.”

“You mean Francisco, the cellar master? That’s terrible. There was no mention of a death in the letter from the insurance company.” Benjamin was shocked. How had he missed this piece of news?

Philippe wiped his mouth with his sauce-stained napkin. He picked up the bottle of Saint-Émilion and filled his guests’ empty glasses. “One thing is certain: Francisco was the only one who made the baron’s Armagnacs. His sons had no say in the matter. Castayrac trusted his cellar master, and he did a good job. Francisco’s brandies are among the best in Bas-Armagnac.”

“Better than yours?” Virgile ventured.

Philippe was unequivocal. “To you, I can admit the truth. Yes, I am—that is, I
was—
envious of Château Blanzac’s Armagnacs. They have an elegance, a finesse. You understand, don’t you, Benjamin?”

Benjamin was distracted. He was still thinking about Francisco’s tragic death. He pulled himself together and listened to his friend. He was touched by Philippe’s candor and admiration. In truth, Benjamin had never tasted Blanzac’s brandies, although he had been looking forward to it after his unexpected encounter with Francisco a month earlier. And to think he would have to evaluate the exact worth of the château’s reserves.

“I’ve heard that his paradise was full to the roof,” Benjamin confided, referring to the warehouse where he stored his vintages. “At least that’s what he told the insurance company.”

“Old Castayrac definitely had reserves,” Philippe said, offering Benjamin the cheese platter. “These days, everyone has reserves. Unfortunately, Armagnac isn’t selling as well as we’d like. It doesn’t matter whether the Armagnac’s good or bad. We’re all stuck with barrels up to the ceiling and no one to drink what’s in them, except the angels. I just wish the angels could pay my bills.”

“Yes, but I’ve been under the impression that your Armagnac is doing well. I see it everywhere. I was in London two weeks ago, on Saint James Street, and I shared one of your brandies with an old friend.”

“Don’t kid yourself, Benjamin. I have enough in my cellar to supply the French Senate for a century. In both Cognac and Armagnac, we’ve all got problems, and our government isn’t helping.”

Beatrice had left the table and returned with a sumptuous-looking pumpkin cake that was giving off the subtle scent of cinnamon. Benjamin and Virgile clapped in unison.

“Beatrice, once again you’ve outdone yourself,” Philippe said, giving his wife a wink.

The master of the house rose to fan the hearth. He threw a worm-eaten black-oak log on the embers, and flames immediately rose from the wood.

“A good Armagnac can only be appreciated around a hearth,” Philippe said. “How about a 1983 Prada?”

Virgile nodded in agreement, but Benjamin quickly put his hand on his arm.

“No offense, Philippe, but I’d like to taste a brandy from Château Blanzac. I’m sure you have that on hand. Just to help me form an opinion.”

Benjamin detected the hint of a frown on his affable friend’s face. “I’m afraid I’m all out. I would gladly have…”

Then his wife betrayed him with her typical spontaneity. “Philippe, go look in Grandmother’s display cabinet. I think there’s a bottle that Francisco brought us. Remember it, dear? For your fiftieth birthday.”