Cognac Conspiracies Read Free

wishes to know the status of the accounts.”
    “I don’t have to tell you that there are certified public accountants for that, Mr. Cooker.”
    She lashed out his name, and Benjamin could almost hear a whip cracking. Then her eyes fell on Virgile. She stared not at his face, but at his body, from sternum to crotch. Benjamin could feel his assistant’s embarrassment. Virgile crossed his legs and pulled himself straighter in his chair as she continued her indecent and perverse inspection.
    Benjamin tried to correct himself. “Perhaps I did not make myself clear, Ms. Lavoisier. Our assignment has more to do with how we can help the company evolve. We’re here to study the business. Cognac is going through difficult times. I hope, in the framework of this mission, you will consider us allies, rather than enemies.”
    “You can be sure, sir, that I have always chosen my allies, and I don’t let anyone impose them on me. Allow me to point out that your so-called mission is in no way endorsed by the Lavoisier Cognacs Board of Directors. I could throw you out, but I have too much respect for your knowledge and skills, which I know are extensive. However, Mr. Cooker, I strongly advise you not to overstep the bounds of what you call—what was it again?—your study and what we should or should not be doing to further this proposed evolution of our company.”
    Benjamin refused to be deterred. He employed the persuasive—and clever—diplomacy that he was known for.
    “Thank you, Ms. Lavoisier, for your valuable cooperation. We will try, my associate and I, to do nothing to hinder your work, and we will foster the best possible atmosphere for a profitable collaboration. Isn’t that right, Virgile?”
    Marie-France Lavoisier studied the young man with the eyes of a raptor ready to dismember its carrion. Virgile, clearly aware that he was almost in the clutches of this femme fatale, managed only a stammered response: “Ma’am, our…our…interests are mutual.”
    “Mutual? You’re getting ahead of yourself, my boy. Allow me this familiarity, because you could be my son.”
    “I take that as a compliment, ma’am.”
    “Marie-France.” The woman corrected Virgile with a sweet and poisonous smile.
    Virgile thrust out his chest a bit, and one of his shirt buttons came undone. Benjamin glimpsed a bit of tanned skin and pectoral muscle. Marie-France crossed and uncrossed her legs. Benjamin pretended that he hadn’t seen a thing.

2
    The pendulum of the old grandfather clock had a golden hue, not from the copper it was made of but from the reflection of the liquids in the large and small bottles lining the white shelves. The bottles were carefully labeled, ranked by vintages and crus: Grande Champagne, Petite Champagne, Borderies, Fins Bois.
    The ticktock of the timepiece cut through the heavy silence. The sole guardian of this depository of cognacs considered it calming. A large oak table dominated the space, and spread across it was a black canvas registry. In long, broad columns, it recorded the many and varied blends. It was always in the same purple ink and careful handwriting, with capital letters dancing on the upstroke. This was Pierre’s private territory, “his sacristy,” as he called it with some affectation. Here, he could make reverential music with his eau-de-vie and cruets. He knew the score of every cognac and possessed an exceptional nose, which made him an authority in all of Charente and well beyond.
    It was not quite noon when he heard someone enter the sanctuary without warning. Pierre was a man who practiced his religion in privacy. He couldn’t tolerate being watched as he experimented with and sampled his brandy.
    “Who gave you permission to enter the sacristy?” the youngest member of the Lavoisier family grumbled, turning to see Benjamin Cooker.
    “No one, to tell the truth,” Benjamin said. Pierre heard the apologetic tone, but that didn’t matter. He didn’t want him there.
    “Let me