by Louise Penny
“Oui. When he hit that rut,” said Jean-Guy, trying to be patient.
“I’ve investigated enough accidents, Jean-Guy, to know that this does not look like one.”
“But it does, patron, to everyone but you.”
It was said gently, but firmly. Gamache took off his glasses and looked at Beauvoir.
“Do you think I want it to be more than an accident?” he asked.
“No. But I think sometimes our imaginations can run away with us. A combination of grief and exhaustion and guilt.”
“Guilt?”
“Okay, maybe not guilt, but I think you felt a responsibility toward the boy. You liked him and he looked up to you. And then this happens.”
Beauvoir gestured toward the photographs. “I understand, patron. You want to do something and can’t.”
“So I make it murder?”
“So you question,” said Jean-Guy, trying now to diffuse an unexpectedly tense situation. “That’s all. But the findings are pretty clear.”
“This is too preliminary.” Gamache closed the file and pushed it away. “They’ve jumped to an obvious conclusion because it’s easy. They need to investigate further.”
“Why?” asked Jean-Guy.
“Because I need to be sure. They need to be sure.”
“No, I mean, let’s assume for a moment this wasn’t an accident. He was a kid. He wasn’t violated. He wasn’t tortured. Thank God. Why would someone kill him?”
“I don’t know.”
Gamache did not look at the pile of dirty pages on the table by the back door where they’d sat since he’d dug them up. But he felt them there. Felt John Fleming squatting there, listening, watching.
“Sometimes there’s a clear motive, sometimes it’s just bad luck,” he said. “The murderer has a plan of his own and the victim is chosen at random.”
“You think a serial killer murdered Laurent?” asked Jean-Guy, incredulous now. “A regular murderer isn’t enough?”
“Enough?” Gamache glared at the younger man. “What do you mean by that?”
His voice, explosive at first, had dropped to a dangerous whisper, and then he recovered himself.
“I’m sorry, Jean-Guy. I know you’re trying to help. I’m not making this up. I have no idea why anyone would murder Laurent. All I’m saying is that I’m not sure it was simply an accident. It might have been a hit-and-run. But there’s something off.”
Gamache reopened the dossier. At the list of items found in Laurent’s pocket. A small stone with a line of pyrite through it. Fool’s gold. A chocolate bar. Broken. There were pine cone shards and dirt and a dog biscuit.
Then Gamache looked at the report on the boy’s hands. They were scratched, dirty. The coroner found pine resin and bits of plant matter under his nails. No flesh. No blood.
No fight. If Laurent was murdered, he didn’t have a chance to defend himself. Gamache was relieved by this at least. It spoke of a boy doing boy things in the last hours, minutes, of his life. Not fighting for that life, but apparently enjoying it. Right up until the end.
Gamache raised his brown eyes to Jean-Guy.
“Would you look into it?”
“Of course, patron. I’ll come back down for the funeral and try to have some definite answers by then.”
Beauvoir thought about where to start. But there wasn’t much to think about. When a child dies, where do you look first?
“You said his father wouldn’t look at the boy, at his body. Is it possible…?”
Gamache considered for a moment. Remembering the weathered, beaten face of Al Lepage. His back turned to his dead son and wailing wife. “It’s possible.”
“But?”
“If he killed Laurent in a fit of rage he might try to hide it, but it would be simpler, I think. He’d bury the boy somewhere. Or take the body into the woods and leave it there. Let nature do the rest. If it was murder, then someone put some thought and effort into making it look like an accident.”
“People do, of course,” said Jean-Guy. “The best way to get away with murder is to make sure no one knows it’s murder.”
They’d wandered into the kitchen and were pouring coffees. They sat at the pine table, hands cupped around the mugs.
Beauvoir missed this. The hours and hours with Chief Inspector Gamache. Poring over evidence, talking with suspects. Talking about suspects. Comparing notes. Sitting across from each other in diners and cars and crappy hotel rooms. Picking apart a case.
And now, sitting at the kitchen table in Three Pines, Inspector Beauvoir wondered if he was humoring the Chief by agreeing to investigate a case that almost certainly only existed in Gamache’s imagination. Or maybe he was humoring himself.
“If it was murder, why not just bury him in the forest?” asked Jean-Guy. “It would be almost impossible to find him. And as you said, the wolves and bears…”
Gamache nodded.
He looked across at Jean-Guy, the younger man’s brows furrowed, thinking. Following a line of reason. How often, Gamache wondered, in small fishing villages, in farmers’ fields, in snowed-in cabins in the wilderness, had the two of them struggled through the intricacies of a case? Trying to find a murderer, who was desperately trying to hide?
He missed this.
Was that why he was doing it? Had he turned a little boy’s tragic death into murder, for his own selfish reasons? Had he bullied Jean-Guy into seeing what didn’t exist? Because he was bored? Because he missed being the great Chief Inspector Gamache?
Because he missed the applause?
Still, Jean-Guy had asked a good question. If someone had in fact murdered Laurent, why not just hide the body in the deep, dark forest? Why go through the “accident” charade?
There was only one answer to that.
“Because he wanted Laurent to be found,” said Jean-Guy, before Gamache could say it. “If Laurent remained missing we’d keep looking for him. We’d turn the area upside-down.”
“And we might find something the murderer didn’t want us to find,” said Gamache.
“But what?” Jean-Guy asked.
“What?” Gamache repeated.
An hour later Reine-Marie returned from visiting Clara to find the two of them in the kitchen, staring into space.
She knew what that meant.
* * *
Laurent Lepage’s funeral was held two days later.
The rain had stopped, the skies had cleared and the day shone bright and unexpectedly warm for September.
The minister, who did not appear to know the Lepages, did his best. He spoke of Laurent’s kindness, his gentleness, his innocence.
“Who exactly are we burying?” Gabri whispered, as they got down once again to pray.
Laurent’s father was invited to the front by the minister. Al walked up, dressed in an ill-fitting black suit, his hair pulled back tightly, his beard combed. He held a guitar and sat on a chair set out for him.
The guitar rested on his lap, ready. But Al just sat there, staring at the mourners. Unable to move. And then, helped by Evie, he returned to his seat in the front pew.
The interment, in the cemetery above Three Pines, was private. Just Evelyn and Alan Lepage, the minister and the people from the funeral home.
In the church basement, Laurent’s teachers, classmates, neighborhood children picked at food brought by the villagers.
“Can I speak with you, patron?” asked Jean-Guy.
“What is it?” asked Armand when he and Jean-Guy had stepped a few paces from the group.
“We’ve gone over it and over it. There’s no evidence it was anything other than an accident.”
Beauvoir studied the large man in front of him, trying to read his face. Was there relief there? Yes. But there was also something else.
“You’re still troubled,” said Jean-Guy. “I can show you our findings.”
“No need,” said Gamache. “Merci. I appreciate it.”
“But do you believe it?”
“You’re not going to report an alien invasion now, are you?”
“Well, now that you mention it…”
Gamache tilted his head toward the buffet and Beauvoir smiled.
Ruth was pouring something from a flask into her waxed cup of punch.
“Merci, Jean-Guy. I appreciate what you’ve done.”
“Thank Lacoste. She approved it and even put a team on it. The boy died in an accident, patron. He fell off his bike.”
Once again Gamache nodded. They walked back to the others, passing Antoinette and Brian on the way.
Brian said hello, but Antoinette turned away.
“Still mad, I see,” said Jean-Guy.
“And it’s only getting worse.”
“What’re you two talking about?” asked Reine-Marie, as Armand and Jean-Guy rejoined her.
“Antoinette,” said Jean-Guy.
“She looked at me with loathing,” said Myrna.
“Me too,” said Gabri, walking over with a plate filled with apple pie while Olivier’s was stacked with quinoa, cilantro, and apple salad.
“Play not going well?” asked Jean-Guy.
“Once they found out who wrote it, most of the other actors also quit,” said Gabri. “I think Antoinette was genuinely surprised.”
Myrna was looking at Antoinette and shaking her head. “She really doesn’t seem to understand why anyone would be upset.”
“So the play’s canceled?” asked Jean-Guy.
“No,” said Clara. “That’s the weird thing. She refuses to cancel it. I think Brian is now playing all the parts. She just can’t accept reality.”
“Seems to be going around,” said Armand.
“You mean Laurent?” asked Olivier. “Now there was someone whose understanding of reality was fluid.”
“Remember when he claimed there was a dinosaur in the pond?” said Gabri, laughing.
“He almost had you convinced,” said Olivier.
“Or the time he saw the three pines walking around?” asked Myrna.
“They walk all the time,” said Ruth, shoving in between Gabri and Olivier.
“Fueled by gin,” said Clara. “Funny how that works.”
“Speaking of which, there’s no gin. Someone must’ve drunk it all. Get some more,” she said to Myrna.
“Get your own—”
“Church,” Clara interrupted Myrna.
“We’re at a child’s funeral,” Olivier said to Ruth. “There is no alcohol.”
“If there ever was an occasion to drink, this is it,” said Ruth.
She was holding Rosa in much the same way Evelyn Lepage had held Laurent. To her chest. Protectively.
“He was a strange little kid,” said Ruth. “I liked him.”
And there was Laurent Lepage’s real eulogy. Stories of his stories. Of the funny little kid with the stick, causing havoc. Creating chaos and monsters and aliens and guns and bombs and walking trees.
That was the boy they were burying.
“How many times did we look out at the village green and see Laurent hiding behind the bench, firing his ‘rifle’ at invaders,” asked Clara as they left the church and wandered down the dirt road into the village.
“Lobbing pine cones like they were grenades,” said Gabri.
“Bambambam.” Olivier held an imaginary machine gun and made the sounds they’d heard as Laurent engaged the enemy.
Clara tossed an imaginary grenade. “Brrrrccch.” As it exploded.
“He was always prepared to defend the village,” said Reine-Marie.
“He was,” said Olivier.
Gamache remembered the pine cone seeds found in Laurent’s pocket. He’d been on a mission to save the world. Armed to the teeth. When he died.
“I actually thought his death was no accident,” Armand confided to Myrna as the others walked ahead, across the village green. “I thought it might be murder.”
Myrna stopped and looked at him.
“Really? Why?”
They sat on the bench in the afternoon sun.
“I’m wondering the same thing. Is it possible I’ve been around murder so long I see it when it doesn’t exist?”
“Creating monsters,” said Myrna. “Like Laurent.”
“Yes. Jean-Guy thinks part of me wanted it to be murder. To amuse myself.”
“I’m sure he didn’t put it that way.”
“No. It’s how I’m putting it.”
“And how are you answering that question?”
“I suppose there might be some truth in it. Not that I’m bored, and certainly not that homicide amuses me. It revolts me. But…”
“Go on.”
“Thérèse Brunel was down last week and offered me the job of Superintendent overseeing the Serious Crimes and Homicide divisions.”
Myrna raised her brows. “And?”
“The truth is, I’ve never felt so at peace, so at home as I do here. I don’t feel any need to go back. But I feel as though I should.”
Myrna laughed. “I know what you mean. When I quit my job as a psychologist, I felt guilty. This isn’t our parents’ generation, Armand. Now people have many chapters to their lives. When I stopped being a therapist I asked myself one question. What do I really want to do? Not for my friends, not for my family. Not for perfect strangers. But for me. Finally. It was my turn, my time. And this is yours, Armand. Yours and Reine-Marie’s. What do you really want?”
He heard the thump of pine cones falling and stopped himself from turning to look for the funny little kid who’d thrown the “grenades.” Kaaa-pruuuchh.
Then another one fell. And another. It was as though the three huge pines were tapping the earth. Asking it to admit Laurent. The magical kid who’d made them walk.
Armand closed his eyes and smelled fresh-cut grass and felt the sun on his upturned face.
What do I want? Gamache asked himself.
He heard, on the breeze, the first thin notes. From Neil Young’s Harvest. Armand looked up to the small cemetery on the crest of the hill. Outlined against the clear blue afternoon sky was a large man with a guitar in his arms.
And down the hill the words drifted … and there’s so much more.
CHAPTER 7
“There you are,” said Olivier, as he and Gabri sat down at the Gamaches’ table in the bistro. “We’ve been looking for you.”
“You can’t have been looking hard,” said Reine-Marie. “Where else would we be?”
“Home?” said Gabri.
“This isn’t our home?” Gamache whispered to Reine-Marie.
“Yes it is, mon beau,” she patted her husband’s leg reassuringly.
They were still in their clothes from the funeral, Reine-Marie in a navy blue dress and Armand in a dark gray suit, white shirt and tie. Tailored and classic.
They were not yet ready to remove the clothes, as though to do that was to remove their grief and leave Laurent behind.
Olivier and Gabri must have felt the same way. They too were still in their dark suits and ties.
Olivier waved to one of his servers and a couple of beers and a bowl of mixed nuts appeared.
Gabri and Olivier sipped their beers and stared at each other, goading each other on.
“Was there a reason you were looking for us?” Armand finally asked.
“You go,” said Gabri.
“No, you go,” said Olivier.
“It was your idea,” said Gabri.
“Please, one of you tell us,” said Armand, looking from one to the other. He was not really in the mood for twenty questions.
“It’s a small thing,” said Olivier.
“Hardly worth mentioning,” said Gabri. “We were just wondering.”
Gamache opened his eyes wide, inviting something more precise.
“It’s the stick,” said Olivier at last.
“Laurent’s stick,” said Gabri.
They stared at Gamache, but when he stared back blankly, Olivier took the plunge.
“At the reception when we were talking about Laurent we all remembered him with that stick of his.”
“His rifle,” said Reine-Marie.
“His rifle, his sword, his wand,” said Olivier. “How many times did we see him roaring down the hill on his bike into Three Pines holding that stick out in front of him like a knight in battle?”
“He was a menace,” said Gabri with a smile, remembering the fearless, fearsome boy tilting at God knew what, determined to save the village and the villagers.
The Gamaches stared at Olivier and Gabri, expecting more.
“He never went anywhere without it,” said Gabri. “We just thought maybe Al and Evie would want it back.”
“Oh, right,” said Armand. “That’s probably true.”
He wished he’d thought of that but was glad the guys had.
“The police must’ve picked it up,” said Olivier. “Do you know when they’ll release it? Can we get it back now?”
Armand opened his mouth to say that he imagined all of Laurent’s possessions would have been returned already. But then he stopped himself. And thought, searching his memory of the Sûreté report. It said nothing about a stick, but then even had the investigators seen it on the ground they probably wouldn’t have picked it up. It would look like any other tree limb.
But he also searched his own memory of the scene.
The hill, the gravel, the long grass, the bike with the helmet still tied to the handlebars. He scanned his memory but there was no stick. No limb. Just a gully and grass and a keening mother and cold child.
He got up. “The police didn’t find it. We need to go back there and look. Why don’t we all change and meet back here?”
Twenty minutes later they got out of the Gamaches’ car wearing slacks, sweaters, jackets and rubber boots. The four of them slid down the small embankment and started looking.
But Laurent’s stick wasn’t there.
Not in the gully. Not on the verge of the dirt road. It wasn’t in the tall grass, or the circle of flattened grass, or along the edge of the forest.
Armand walked up to the top of the hill and stood there, imagining Laurent hurtling down it on his bike. He retraced Laurent’s final moments.
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