by Louise Penny
The cold was forgotten as ooohs and aaahs filled the air. The crowd pointed and exclaimed. Pinwheels spun and skyrockets twisted and dragon’s eggs appeared overhead, lighting up their faces and the village of Three Pines below.
Sparklers were handed out to the kids. Félix showed Honoré how to dip the tip into the bonfire until a fountain of tiny stars burst from the end. Then he showed him how to write his name in the night. Soon all the kids were doing it.
“Little monkeys,” said Vincent Gilbert, coming up beside Armand and Reine-Marie, just as the display was ending. Gilbert was the only one smart enough to have put on a coat.
When all the fireworks were exhausted, they ran back inside to the fireplace, shivering and laughing.
Another year done. Another begun.
Billy Williams, left outside to tamp down the fire, smiled as he shoveled snow onto the flames and relived those moments to midnight. He’d positioned himself next to Myrna.
“… deux, un! Bonne année!!”
He’d turned to her and asked above the cheers and laughter, “May I?”
When she’d nodded, he’d leaned in and kissed her, lightly, briefly. On the lips.
He’d felt her hand on his arm. Not to stop him, but to keep him there. And he’d kissed her again. Kissed her longer.
Now he paused, leaning on the shovel. Reliving that moment, so long longed for. Then a glow caught his eye as the bonfire leaped to life.
Another gust had revived it, he thought, as he thrust the shovel into a drift.
A few minutes later, just as he was about to go back inside, Billy noticed a commotion. He looked off to his right, into the darkness. One of the teens had stumbled out of the woods and was calling to his friends.
They’d be sixteen, seventeen years old, Billy guessed. He knew them all. Seen them grow up. Not yet of drinking age, he knew, but that didn’t stop them. Just as it hadn’t stopped him when he’d been their age. He still couldn’t smell cider without feeling sick.
Smiling, he threw one last load of snow onto the fire and heard the dying embers hiss at him. Now there were more shouts. Something in the tone made Billy pause. He stepped further into the darkness.
Then, out of the woods, first one, then another and another stumbled. Their eyes, caught in the light from the living room windows, were wide, wild.
Billy Williams dropped the shovel and moved forward.
* * *
Tired and happy, Armand and Reine-Marie were just about to head down the hallway to their coats when Armand stopped.
Turned.
And looked back.
CHAPTER 20
Armand slid to a halt and dropped to his knees beside the body facedown in the snow.
He was about to grab the coat and turn them over, when he drew back.
Jean-Guy fell to his knees on the other side of the body and also reached out.
“Don’t.”
With his bare hand Gamache carefully burrowed under the person’s scarf, to feel for a pulse he knew he wouldn’t find. Then he looked up, and across the body, at Beauvoir.
When the alarm had gone up, Armand’s heart had recoiled. Hearing the terror in the cries, he’d immediately thought some teenager had been found passed out drunk and frozen to death in some snowdrift.
He’d rushed out so quickly he’d left his coat and boots behind. Others had also started for the doors, but Jean-Guy had headed them off with a curt “We’ll let you know.”
The temperature had plummeted, and the wind was picking up, moaning through the trees, lifting the top layer of snow and swirling it about.
Armand tapped Jean-Guy’s arm and pointed. “Be careful.”
Beauvoir looked at the ground beside him and saw dark marks in the white snow, by the dead woman’s head.
It was a woman. And she was dead. That much was obvious. As was one more thing.
The dark marks were blood. Her head had been bludgeoned. This was no case of hypothermia. No sad accident.
Bringing out his phone, Beauvoir switched on the light and the video, recording, capturing the scene. It went beyond standard procedure. The weather was closing in. Even now, fingers of snow were drifting across the body, as though some great hand had reached up out of the earth and was trying to drag her down.
With every passing moment evidence was being lost. Even now, the bloodstains were being buried.
“Go back inside,” Gamache shouted, having to raise his voice over the now howling wind. “Parents will be worried. Just say there’s been an accident, and we’re tending to it. They need to stay in the Auberge. No one leaves.”
“Right.” Jean-Guy was on his feet, running for the Inn.
“And bring our coats,” Gamache shouted after him.
Drawing his shoulders in, and praying Beauvoir had heard, Gamache hunched over, trying to protect his core. He knew it didn’t take long for frostbite, then hypothermia, to take hold. Bringing out his phone, and pressing video, he continued to record while placing two calls. First to the coroner, then the officer on duty at Sûreté headquarters. In homicide. Through chattering teeth, he told him to send the Scene of Crime unit.
As he spoke, he moved so that he acted as a windbreak, protecting the body. Protecting whatever evidence he could before the elements swallowed it all up.
The body was that of a grown woman, not a teen. That much was clear, though her face was completely buried. Her neck was cold, near frozen, to the touch. She felt like marble, as though a statue had toppled off the path.
Her arms were at her sides. She’d made no attempt to break her fall.
Unconscious as she fell, he thought as he leaned closer to the wound on the back of her head, or already dead. Even with his flashlight, he couldn’t see much except the dark stain on her dark tuque. And the drops of blood still visible on the snow.
Gamache looked at his watch. It was seventeen minutes past twelve. She’d been dead, he figured, at least twenty minutes.
A gust hit him, then moved on, taking his breath and much of his body heat with it.
His face was growing numb, and his bare hands shook as he slowly, slowly moved his camera over the scene, recording and describing what he saw. Though he suspected the words were next to unintelligible as his lips and cheeks froze. A shiver, more a shudder, passed through him just as he heard a crunch on the snow behind him.
“Patron.”
He felt the parka being draped over his shoulders and strong arms lifting him to his feet. He was trembling now. As Beauvoir helped him into the thick coat, he could feel the relief immediately. The wind and cold had stopped ripping into his flesh. Winter was being chased out of his bones.
He made a noise he thought would be a slight moan of relief but came out sounding more like a squeal. It would, almost certainly, be played in open court one day. But he was beyond caring.
Beauvoir shoved a knitted tuque down over Armand’s ears, then said, “Here. Give me your hands.”
Gamache did as he was told. Beauvoir put insulated gloves on each hand, already warmed by pocket heaters. “Better?”
Gamache nodded as Beauvoir knelt to help him on with his boots.
“Non, non, I can do that,” protested Armand, but Jean-Guy was already doing it, providing his shoulder for Gamache to lean on.
Within a minute the world had gone from bitter, biting, ferocious cold to blessed warmth.
“Merci,” he mumbled, through still numb lips.
Together, they looked down at the woman at their feet. Though they hadn’t said anything, neither investigator was in much doubt who this was.
All his instincts, all his humanity, screamed at Gamache to turn Abigail Robinson over. There was something grotesque about leaving her facedown like that in the deep snow. But she was beyond saving or caring. And the best they could do for her now was to find out who’d done this to her.
“The Scene of Crime team and coroner are on the way,” he told Beauvoir.
It had begun to snow. Not big, gent
le flakes of a flurry. These were tiny, vicious barbs. Searching for flesh. Invading any opening in their clothing.
The area around the body had been trampled. Not by them. They’d been careful, though they couldn’t, of course, avoid making some prints.
The young men and women who’d rushed to the body when it was discovered had, unintentionally, obscured any prints that could be evidence.
They were a hundred yards into the forest along a trail normally used for cross-country skiing. Gamache could easily make out the crisp parallel lines of the skis. Though closer to the body, they’d been trampled. And even those boot prints were being quickly filled in by the blowing snow.
The light from their phones created a world of strange, ghastly shapes in the woods that shifted as their beams moved.
“No weapon,” said Beauvoir. “How long ago did this happen?”
He’d barely touched the body, so he didn’t know.
“Dead just before midnight, I’d say,” said Gamache.
“While we were distracted by the countdown?” He heard Gamache hum agreement.
Beauvoir looked behind him. The attack had occurred within sight of the Auberge. He could see the Christmas tree, bright and cheerful, through the living room windows. He could see Annie and the others sitting quietly around the fireplace.
The party was over.
* * *
Dr. Harris stood up and indicated to the head of the unit that they could turn the body over.
They were in the Scene of Crime tent, erected around the body to protect evidence and privacy.
Sharon Harris stepped back and stood between Chief Inspector Gamache and Inspector Beauvoir, two Sûreté officers she knew well from previous investigations.
She’d arrived still dressed, under her long winter coat, in her party clothes.
“Bonne année,” she’d mumbled to Gamache as he greeted her.
Industrial lights had been installed as the homicide unit swung into their routine.
Thermoses of coffee were stuck upright in the snow for the agents unfortunate enough to be on call when the call was made.
Wind and snow beat against the sides of the tent, and the agents had to raise their voices to be heard above the buffeting. There was little talking anyway, beyond what needed to be said. Gamache had instilled in each of them that the site of every murder was to be treated as near sacred.
He understood perfectly well that joking was a way to deal with the trauma and stress. But there were better, more effective tools for coping.
To help them deal with the horrors of their job, Chief Inspector Gamache had brought a counselor into the homicide department and made it clear that he himself went to those private sessions once a month, sometimes more.
And slowly, slowly, most of the other officers did too.
Now he watched as the stiff body of Abigail Robinson was turned over.
He stared. Then looked at Jean-Guy. Who was also staring.
“Just a moment, please.” Gamache stepped forward and bent over the body, then looked up at Jean-Guy Beauvoir. Both men were surprised.
But not, perhaps, as surprised as Debbie Schneider.
Dr. Harris completed her initial examination of the body, then Beauvoir pointed toward the entrance of the tent.
“Must we?” asked Dr. Harris.
Still, she followed them outside, steeling herself against the elements.
Though they were ready for it, the wind and snow still yanked their breath away. The cold roared down their throats, burning their lungs. For a moment they couldn’t breathe, then all three coughed as their bodies fought back, trying to expel the icy air.
“Merde, Armand,” Dr. Harris gasped. “You sure know how to pick ’em.”
“Not my choice,” he rasped.
They were huddled together, as snow devils, tornados of flakes, swirled around them.
“What can you tell us?” Gamache’s words turned to vapor, which froze to the stubble on his face.
They were beginning to look like members of Scott’s Antarctic expedition. And that hadn’t ended well.
“Can we go inside?” Dr. Harris called above the wind. “It’s too cold out here to talk.”
Beauvoir motioned one of the agents over. “Come with us. You’ll need to take notes.”
“Inside, sir?” she said. It was, at that moment, better than winning Loto-Québec.
“Yes, inside,” said Inspector Beauvoir, and if he could have smiled, he would have.
* * *
Standing on what had, just hours earlier, been a stage for the Fable de La Fontaine, Gamache, Beauvoir, and Dr. Harris looked at the anxious faces.
Everyone, except the sleeping children, had stood up and turned to them.
Armand felt the trickle as snow melted down his burning cheeks and the back of his neck. Beside him, Dr. Harris took in the crowd, noting the children, many in animal costumes, asleep on sofas, chairs, and the carpet in front of the fire. It looked like a tableau vivant. Until one woman moved.
Abigail Robinson stepped forward, turning for a brief moment toward the door. Expecting one more person to walk through it. Hoping …
“What’s happened? Where’s Debbie?”
Colette Roberge whispered, “Abby.”
But Abigail wasn’t listening. She crossed the room, and grabbed Armand’s arm.
“Where is she?”
“I want to speak to you,” he said, gently. “First, though, I need to say a few words to everyone here. Then we can talk. Privately.”
“No, now. I need to know.” Her voice was rising.
He placed his hand over hers. “In a moment. Please.”
He nodded to Colette, who came forward and led Abigail a few steps away. Beauvoir had a quiet word with Dominique and Marc, then indicated to Colette that they should follow Dominique down the hall.
Abigail now looked disoriented. Uncertain what to do. She looked around. For guidance. For Debbie.
“Go with them,” Beauvoir said quietly to an agent. “Record anything they say and do.”
Abigail allowed herself to be led down the hall, past the eyes of parents hugging their children, protecting them from the sight of such intense sorrow.
Ruth held Rosa’s head gently in the hollow of her shoulder, shaped especially, it seemed, for a sensitive duck.
Once they’d left, Armand stood beside the fireplace. At eye level with his friends, neighbors, family. Intensely aware of the children, including his own grandchildren, now awake and watching. Listening.
Armand Gamache was also very aware that he might be in the company of the person who’d done this. He scanned the faces, looking into the eyes of Haniya Daoud. Vincent Gilbert.
Stephen.
Not that long ago his godfather had joked that elderly people made perfect murderers.
“Life in prison isn’t much of a threat, or deterrent.” Stephen had laughed. But Armand knew him well enough to know he also meant it.
To protect Idola, and all the Idolas unborn, would this elderly man kill?
And Armand knew the answer. Stephen Horowitz might very well be the most dangerous person in the room. Kind, generous, brilliant. Ruthless, determined, and skilled. And with nothing to lose.
But kill Debbie Schneider? A woman, as far as Armand knew, he’d never met. Why?
Why would any of them kill her?
The answer was clear. They hadn’t. The murderer had killed Abigail Robinson, or thought they had.
He cleared his throat, still raw from the icy cold, and described in words that would not scare children, but that adults would understand, that someone had died and they needed to find out why.
“I’m sorry, but you won’t be allowed to go home just yet. We’ll need to speak with each of you. We’ll start with parents of the youngest children and work our way up. I hope it won’t take too long.”
He thanked them for their understanding. Before he could leave, Reine-Marie approached him.
“Do you m
ind if I take Ruth and Stephen home? Then I’ll come back.”
Armand looked over at them. Both looked worn, drained. He nodded. “Good idea. I’ll speak with them tomorrow.”
Beauvoir had had a word with Annie, and then joined Gamache and Dr. Harris in the foyer. “I was just outside. The agents assigned to protect Professor Robinson followed them here and stayed in the car. They didn’t see anyone approach or leave the Inn.”
“Professor Robinson?” Gamache asked.
“In the library with Chancellor Roberge.”
“Bon.” Gamache drew them further aside and turned to the coroner. “Tell us what you found.”
“Barring any surprises during the autopsy, I can tell you that death was due to blunt force trauma. I’d say one catastrophic blow to the back of her head, driving skull shards into her brain. It looks like death was immediate. There wasn’t much bleeding. Two more blows were struck after she’d fallen, pushing her face deeper into the snow. I’m assuming you haven’t found the weapon.”
“Not yet,” Beauvoir confirmed. “Any ideas?”
“I’d look for a log,” said the coroner. “There were traces of bark and dirt on the tuque, and the shape of the wound corresponds to firewood.”
She made a wedge with her hands.
“Oh,” said Gamache. It came out as a sort of grunt.
He was afraid of that.
“What?” asked Dr. Harris.
But Jean-Guy knew. He’d immediately thought the same thing. Both men looked through the living room and past the French doors.
“There was a bonfire,” said Gamache. “I think our murder weapon’s gone up in smoke.”
“Time of death?” Beauvoir asked the coroner.
“In this cold, it’s hard to say, but I’d guess an hour and a half, two hours.”
They checked the time. It was three minutes after two in the morning.
“So around midnight?” asked Beauvoir.
“Roughly, yes. Armand, the woman who was so upset, that was Abigail Robinson, wasn’t it? She’s the professor who was shot at yesterday. I saw her in the news.”
“Yes. The dead woman was her best friend.”
“Tough few days for her.”