Flambé in Armagnac by Jean-Pierre Alaux, Noël Balen Read Free Book Online Page A

hobby.”
    At that moment, Benjamin Cooker realized that he would never own the Castayracs’ navy-blue DS. “Drop it, Dad!” his daughter Margaux would have told him. “Not even in your dreams!”
    Oddly, the disappointment whetted his appetite. He asked Virgile to take a break and join him for a Gascon lunch at Pépita’s, whose foie gras ravioli was said to be excellent.
    “Your 280 SL isn’t bad, either,” said Valmont, who had walked out with them to Benjamin’s Mercedes.
    Surprised by the remark, the winemaker was quick to respond. “I assure you, young man, it’s not for sale!”
    Valmont de Castayrac was just as quick to reply. “And neither is the DS-19.” Having already given Virgile his handkerchief, Valmont pulled a wadded tissue from his pocket and wiped his dripping nose.
    Put in his place and feeling glum, Benjamin felt for his keys and handed them to his assistant, who declined the offer.
    “If it’s okay with you, boss, with my hand and all, I’d prefer that you take the wheel.”
    “Oh, of course, Virgile.”
    As they passed through the estate’s rusty gate, Benjamin glimpsed the silhouette in the rearview mirror of the true and only caretaker of Château Blanzac. The younger and crafty Castayrac could read minds. It would be wise to be careful around him.

6
    “I am very sorry, but we’re full,” the restaurant owner said, looking exhausted but acting gracious nevertheless.
    The dining room was filled with boisterous voices and the clatter of knives and forks. The conversation at the long table dominating the room was free-flowing. The faces of the diners were flushed from all the alcohol, and they had unbuttoned their shirt collars—the better to enjoy this midday feast. Busy servers filled their glasses as quickly as the men emptied them.
    Benjamin Cooker instantly recognized Jean-Charles de Castayrac, who ignored him. At the head of the table, a distinguished-looking man with a white mane and aquiline nose appeared to be orchestrating the proceedings. He had a medal of honor pin in his lapel. Probably the agricultural merit award, Benjamin surmised. With his salt-and-pepper goatee, he resembled a musketeer, a highly regarded figure in these parts. Benjamin guessed that he was Aymeric de Nadaillac, father-in-law of Alban de Castayrac. The description Philippe would give him that same night would confirm his hunch.
    “Try your luck at Au Trou Gascon. It’s a mile from here,” the woman suggested. By the looks of her apron, Benjamin imagined that she officiated in the kitchen, as well as the dining room.
    Leaving the inn, Virgile teased Benjamin. “I guess we won’t be enjoying any foie gras ravioli today.”
    “Maybe that’s not such a bad thing,” Benjamin muttered. “We are here to work, after all.”
    “We won’t be getting the inside scoop on the Armagnac committee either. You know, boss, my mom taught me not to eavesdrop.”
    Benjamin didn’t deign to respond. Virgile turned away and started peeling off the bandage Valmont had wrapped around his hand. Patience had never been one of Virgile’s virtues.
    “Just let it alone for now, Virgile,” Benjamin said. “We haven’t finished our work at the château, and I don’t want you getting that hand infected.”
    Fortunately, Au Trou Gascon more than satisfied their appetites. The waitress was plump and eager to please. “How is it?” she asked time and again. “Do you need anything else?” This finally exasperated the winemaker, who just wanted to enjoy his meal.
    Virgile grinned, hardly looking up from his guinea fowl with wild mushrooms. After a few minutes of silence, he gave Benjamin his assessment of the Castayrac cellar. In his eyes, the only tangible elements were the barrel hoops. With four to a cask, it was easy to estimate the number the baron’s paradise had housed, assuming they were all full. As for the demijohns, he had managed to locate nineteen bottle necks. At best, twenty demijohns, swaddled in