by Louise Penny
“What?” He went over and bent beside her chair. The email was from a D. Schneider and dated a month earlier.
It asked permission to use that one line in a campaign to help raise money for the university’s research into improving health care.
There was a return arrow.
“You replied?”
“I must have.” She went to her sent file. Sure enough, there was her reply.
No fucking way. Sincerely, Ruth Zardo.
“Well, that seems clear.” Armand straightened up. “But they did anyway.”
That might explain, he thought, why both Robinson and Madame Schneider had, despite what Robinson claimed, avoided Ruth all night. It must’ve been pretty uncomfortable when they saw her at the party.
“Professor Robinson says they came from BC specifically to see you. That they’d arranged to meet you at the party.”
“Bullshit.”
“Are you sure?”
“You think I don’t recognize bullshit?”
“I think you get a lot of requests, and it’s possible in a moment of—”
“—madness?”
“—you agreed.”
“To meet someone I’d already said no to? Why would I do that?”
“You might not have realized who they were.”
She sat back and glared at him. “When was the last time I agreed to meet anyone? Especially to talk about my poetry?”
It was a good point.
Ruth hated discussing her work, preferring that it speak for itself. She was also secretly afraid that she could never really explain what she wrote, and why, and would come across as inarticulate and in need of repair.
She held the button between two fingers, her hand stretched out as though the object stank. “What do I do about this?”
“Not to worry,” he said. “Easily handled. I can have a word with Professor Robinson and remind her of the email you sent. Can you forward it to me?”
“Yes. And tell her to donate any money she raised with my poetry to LaPorte,” said Ruth.
He smiled. “I’ll ask. If that doesn’t work, contact your lawyer.”
“I don’t have the money.”
“Don’t worry about that. It’ll be covered.” He bent down and whispered, “You can always sell some of your weeds.”
She laughed. “Not much of a market for dried Bishop’s weed these days.” Then she grew serious. “Merci, Armand.”
They both knew that in doing this for her, he could be accused of a conflict of interest. But sometimes, he knew, as his father had before him, that conflict was necessary.
CHAPTER 25
Like Isabelle before him, Armand went around to the back of the Auberge first, before heading inside.
He walked down the trail he’d been on many times with friends, cross-country skiing on winter afternoons through the quiet woods. Just the shhhhh shhhhh shhhhh of the long, narrow skis on the tracks. Rhythmic, meditative. The sun breaking through the bare branches overhead.
Shhhhh shhhhhh shhhhhh.
They’d follow the trail for several kilometers, before bending back and ending up at the bistro. Unclipping their skis and leaning them against the building, they’d go inside to sit, rosy-cheeked, by the open fire and drink hot chocolate, or scotch, or hot rum toddies. And tease each other about their huffing and puffing.
But today his heavy boots crushed the narrow tracks as he made his way to the tent. Sûreté officers were combing the woods for the murder weapon or other evidence easier to see in the daylight.
When they heard someone approach, the senior agent had turned and was about to warn the curiosity seeker away. But when he, then the others, saw who it was, they stood up and saluted.
“Bonjour,” said Gamache. “Bonne année. Anything?”
“Nothing yet, patron.”
He went into the tent. It was eerily quiet in there. He stood at the spot where Debbie Schneider had lost her life and looked around. Then he closed his eyes briefly, taking in what couldn’t be seen. Then he left and walked briskly back to the Auberge.
At the top of the stairs into the basement he paused and looked down. He saw not a well-lit, freshly painted stairwell but a crypt. In an instant he was propelled back to the first time he’d chased ghosts through the Old Hadley House right into that hellhole.
He saw the thick cobwebs, he saw the skeletons of rats who’d been poisoned and had crawled into a corner to die.
He smelled again the decay, the rot as he’d followed the beam of his flashlight deeper into the darkness. He felt the thick electrical cords dangling from the beams overhead. They brushed his head. His face. His shoulders.
And then they’d moved. And he’d realized the basement was infested with snakes.
Then came worse.
But, he told himself, that was in the past. This was a different time. A different place. And yet, as he descended, he felt the chill rising like floodwater up his ankles, to his knees. To his torso, his chest.
It reached his neck, then spilled over his head. And for a moment Armand felt he was drowning in a memory.
“Patron,” called Jean-Guy from what seemed like very far away.
Armand felt a hand on his arm.
“You took your time getting here,” said Jean-Guy, his voice light but his grip tight. “Isabelle thought you’d gone back to bed, but I defended you. Said you’d probably forgotten where we were.”
“Merci.”
They both knew this wasn’t genial kidding, it was a rescue. Thanks to Jean-Guy, the wraiths were shoved back into the walls. Back into memory. Where they belonged. He was once more in control of reality.
Though as he walked deeper into the basement, Armand could see the bumps in the rough stone wall, like the features of trapped creatures. Longing to get out. As monsters from the past always did.
* * *
The atmosphere in the bistro was muted. By now even those who hadn’t been at the party the night before were well aware of what had happened.
Gabri had decided not to wear his frilly pink apron, the one he put on just to annoy Olivier, who still wanted to pass as straight.
“In case his father ever drops by unannounced,” said Gabri. “Like he ever does.”
“Are you saying Olivier has never come out to his family?” asked Clara.
“Not in so many words.”
“And how does he explain…” She wagged her finger at Gabri.
“I’m a little afraid to ask.”
“What’s Olivier afraid of?” Myrna looked across the bistro to the handsome, perfectly groomed, slender man reorganizing the candy jars on the bar.
But the psychologist in her could guess.
Olivier was afraid of disapproval. He hated disapproval even more than he wanted approval. A vestige of childhood, Myrna knew. How horrible it must have been when the boy realized he was gay and destined for a lifetime of judgment.
At that moment, as though summoned by a promise of judgment, Ruth arrived.
She tossed a button onto the table, then sat on the sofa facing the huge fieldstone hearth with its blazing fire.
“What’s that?” Clara asked, picking it up. “Oh, I see. It’s a line from your poem ‘Alas.’” She closed her eyes and tilted her head back in an effort to remember. “Her voice, resigned, comes ragged from my throat / and in my heart her anger smolders still / amid the ashes—”
“Enough,” snapped Ruth. “We all know how it goes.”
“—of residual guilt,” Clara finished and opened her eyes. “A poem about your mother.”
Such a good way of putting it, thought Myrna, the ashes of residual guilt.
Though sometimes the ashes were in fact embers, waiting to leap back into flames. To do even more damage.
They all had it, residual guilt, though some were able to brush the ash off and move forward, while others were smothered by it. Like those poor souls caught in the eruption of Vesuvius. They had human form but were, in fact, hollow.
Myrna looked at the button. Or will it be, as always was, TOO LATE?
“That horrible woman is selling these,” said Ruth. “To raise money for her campaign.”
“Abigail Robinson?” asked Myrna.
“Amelia Earhart,” said Ruth. “We found her. She and Jimmy Hoffa are shacked up down the Old Stage Road. Yes, Abigail Robinson. Who else?”
* * *
Isabelle Lacoste put the mug of strong coffee down in front of Alphonse Tardif and introduced herself.
She’d made sure Édouard had seen his brother arrive. She’d watched as they resolutely refused to look at each other. The one walking between two Sûreté officers. The other behind bars.
Maître Lacombe was again there.
“Are you representing this Monsieur Tardif too?” asked Isabelle.
“Only until charges are laid, or not.”
Isabelle started off discussing conditions for snowmobile trekking in the Abitibi. She knew the area well and spoke knowledgeably. And apparently aimlessly.
She knew that the longer she took to get to the point, the more stressed the man in front of her would become. He was powerfully built, like his brother. But this Tardif was short and stocky and had the lined, puffy face and moist eyes of someone who drank too much.
Isabelle continued to ask him innocuous questions about trails and snow conditions, until finally Alphonse Tardif cracked.
“Look, I know why I’m here. But we didn’t mean to do anything. Not—”
“Please, Monsieur Tardif,” said Maître Lacombe.
“No, I want to talk.” No listening to the lawyer for this one, thought Isabelle.
“Were you involved in the attack on Abigail Robinson at the gymnasium two days ago?” she asked.
“Ye—no.” He sighed. “We didn’t mean for anything to happen.”
“So the gunshots were an accident?”
“They were never meant to hurt her. Just stop the talk. Maybe scare her. But not kill her. Look, Édouard’s a great shot. If he’d wanted to hit her, he would have.”
“Is that what he told you when he asked you to hide the gun?”
“Don’t answer that, Monsieur Tardif,” said his lawyer.
“They already know. I just want this over with. Yes, I hid the gun.”
“And the firecrackers?”
“And them. In the bathroom, while Édouard distracted the caretaker. That was the plan.”
“Were you supposed to be there?”
“No. Édouard told me to get far away. So I did.”
“Have you seen what happened, at the event?”
“No. There’s no internet that deep into the Abitibi. But I heard about it. No one was killed.”
“No thanks to you or your brother.” Isabelle’s phone was on the dented metal table, and now she hit play on the video.
As he watched, his breathing became labored. When the firecrackers went off, and the crowd began to panic, his brows drew together.
And then the shots.
“The stupid shit,” he snapped. “But he missed. Like we planned.”
“Barely.” Lacoste clicked off her phone.
“Someone must’ve shoved his arm.”
“Who else was involved in the plot?”
“No one.”
“Why would you do this, Monsieur Tardif?” Isabelle’s voice was soft, calm. Clearly trying to understand. “You have no record. You and your brother are hardworking, decent members of the community. Why suddenly decide to do this? Even if the plan was just to scare Professor Robinson, you must have known the shots could cause a riot. Several were in fact hurt. One man had a heart attack.”
“Oh, God, I’m so sorry. We didn’t think. Is he going to be okay?”
“We think so. No thanks to you.”
Alphonse Tardif was angry, now. Furious in fact. “What an asshole.”
“Who?”
He seemed to struggle with himself. “Me. We just wanted to scare her. That’s all.”
Alphonse Tardif gave details of exactly where he’d been the day of the shooting. Who he’d been with. The cabins they’d stopped at.
And then he was charged with being an accessory to attempted murder.
* * *
In the basement of the Inn and Spa, Armand and Jean-Guy were consulting.
“Forensics came to the same conclusion we did,” said Beauvoir. “The murder weapon was a log, cut for firewood. Agents are looking for the weapon in the woods.”
“I just had a word with them. To be honest, I doubt they’ll find it. I think it was thrown onto the bonfire. Billy Williams had doused the flames to embers, but the young man who discovered the body—”
“Jacques Brodeur,” said Beauvoir.
“—said when he threw the stick into the bonfire, there were flames. Now, the wind had picked up and it’s possible there were embers under the ash and they came back to life, but I think they were helped along.”
“By the murder weapon,” said Beauvoir.
When Isabelle arrived back a few minutes later, she told them about the interview with Alphonse Tardif.
“It all fits,” she said. “So we can at least put that to bed.”
“Yes,” said Gamache.
One less investigation, one less complication, was always good. But—
“Is something bothering you, Isabelle?”
“It just seemed a bit too easy. Alphonse Tardif didn’t have to say anything. He sure didn’t have to confess. We have no proof. If he’d just sat quietly listening to his lawyer, we’d have had to let him go.”
“Maybe he wanted to confess,” said Beauvoir. “Some do.”
“Maybe.”
“But?” said Beauvoir.
“I don’t know. It just seemed too quick, too pat. And when I showed him the video, he got really angry, like it was all a surprise.”
“It was. He wasn’t there,” said Beauvoir.
“No, he said he was angry at himself, but I think he was furious at his brother, for doing it. That’s what it seemed like to me.”
“What’re you thinking?” asked Gamache.
“Nothing really. I suppose they’re exactly what they seem. Two local guys who got caught up in something. Who didn’t think it through.”
“Do you think they meant to kill her?” asked Beauvoir.
“Well, I’ve charged him with being an accessory to attempted murder, but I’m not so sure. I wish we had a clearer video.”
“Let’s keep looking for one,” said Gamache. “In the meantime, we have an actual murder. Let’s concentrate on that.”
“So far we’ve been assuming that Abigail Robinson was the intended victim last night,” said Jean-Guy. “But I think we need to consider that maybe she wasn’t.”
“But who’d want to kill Debbie Schneider?”
“Maybe they didn’t. There is another possibility.” Beauvoir looked from one to the other. Waiting to see if they saw it. “Chancellor Roberge. She holds a senior position at the University. Someone could have a grievance against her or the University. A professor or student, or a worker who was fired.”
“But no one knew she’d be at the party,” said Lacoste.
“Exactly. This murder wasn’t premeditated, we know that. So someone there sees the Chancellor and snaps.”
“You’re saying this might have nothing to do with Professor Robinson and her studies.”
“I’m saying it’s possible,” said Jean-Guy. “But there’s another possibility. A fairly obvious one.”
Gamache nodded. He’d thought of that too. It was the most obvious solution. “Colette Roberge killed Debbie Schneider while on their walk. But why?”
Isabelle barely suppressed a smile. A few weeks earlier, she and her family had been visiting the Gamaches. She’d gone into the bookstore in Three Pines and found Myrna and Clara drinking brandy eggnog and listening to A Child’s Christmas in Wales, read by Dylan Thomas himself. He talked about the gifts he’d been given, as a boy.
�
�� And books which told me everything about the wasp, except why.
The Chief Inspector had just used exactly the same almost plaintive tone. Why?
“Why would anyone, never mind the Chancellor, want Debbie Schneider dead?” asked Gamache.
“And why now?” added Isabelle.
Why did Debbie Schneider have to die at that moment? Why not the day before, or after?
“Suppose,” said Beauvoir, thinking out loud, “suppose the killer supported what Professor Robinson was preaching. Suppose they saw that she was now more useful dead? A martyr to the cause. Isn’t that what Haniya Daoud suggested last night?”
Gamache nodded. Haniya had said that ideas could grow, flourish, fertilized by the body of a martyr. Yes, that could be it. An idea bloated by blood, made all the more potent.
“And Debbie Schneider was a mistake,” said Isabelle.
Or …
“Suppose she wasn’t a mistake?” Gamache said, leaning forward. “Suppose all this was set up by Professor Robinson? She got the idea after the attempt the day before. Suppose there was another attempt? A murder so obviously meant to be her, but tragically killing her best friend and assistant instead? Robinson would get international publicity for her campaign, without the inconvenience of having to die.”
“But does she really care that much? Would she kill her best friend?” asked Jean-Guy. “If she wanted publicity, wouldn’t she be more likely to kill the Chancellor? Remember what Myrna said last night? Abigail Robinson wants to be liked. So the last person she’d kill is the only person who genuinely likes, even loves, her.”
“True,” said Gamache, sitting back again.
“There’s something I found strange in your report, patron,” said Isabelle.
“Oh, no. What did I write? It was late. Probably a typo.”
She smiled. “Could be. You mention in passing that Debbie Schneider called the professor Abby Maria.”
“Yes.”
“It probably doesn’t mean anything, but her middle name’s Elizabeth, not Maria.”
“It was just a nickname,” said Jean-Guy. “Maybe an inside joke.”
“Like ‘numbnuts’?” said Isabelle, and saw Jean-Guy’s eyes narrow. “Your nuts aren’t actually numb.”