“Screw-U,” said Reine-Marie as Commander Fontaine shot her a confused look.
“—in order to cover up their interest in the real hardware,” said Gamache. “I dismissed the screws because they weren’t magnetized. But Stephen, thanks to Plessner, had another one.”
He walked over to one of the large oil paintings and removed it.
“See here?” he pointed to the wall. “A picture hook.”
“So?” said Fontaine. “I have them hanging my pictures. What’s so strange about that?”
“Nothing,” Gamache said, replacing the work. “What is strange is that he’d use a screw to hang a tiny, inconsequential painting. Why was that? Normally, if you were going to use a screw at all, it’d be for the largest, heaviest paintings. Why use it for the tiniest? And then there was what it’s hung by.”
Reine-Marie turned the painting around. “It’s a nylon string, not a wire. And the little eye hooks are plastic.”
“Exactly. I thought it was because the painting was obviously inexpensive. But then I began to think the reason was far different. Stephen hung this painting from the most valuable thing he now owned.”
“And it was within feet of them, inches, all the time?” said Fontaine. “What would’ve happened if they’d found it?”
Armand and Reine-Marie returned to the hospital where, twelve hours later, Stephen regained consciousness.
The first thing he saw was Armand and Reine-Marie and, behind them on the wall, the peaceful little painting.
“You found it,” he rasped.
CHAPTER 45
It was dusk when they got into cars at the Montréal airport and headed south across the St. Lawrence River toward, but not quite to, the Vermont border.
Once off the autoroute, the small procession took smaller and smaller roads until finally turning onto a dirt road.
There were no signs pointing the way. The GPS showed that they’d left the known routes and were now wandering in a sort of wilderness. But they knew they weren’t lost.
Just the opposite.
At the crest of the hill, Armand stopped the car, and by mutual and unspoken consent, he and Reine-Marie got out. And helped Stephen out.
The three of them stood in the cold October evening. A light snow was falling, and they could just make out the forests and the rolling hills stretching to the horizon. While below them in the valley, as though in the palm of some great hand, was a small village.
Buttery light shone from the fieldstone, brick, and clapboard homes that surrounded the green, turned white with freshly fallen snow. The crisp night air held a hint of maple smoke, from the chimneys.
And in the very center of the village, three great pines swayed in the breeze.
Reine-Marie touched Armand’s arm and pointed.
Someone had put the lights on in their home so that their wide front verandah was illuminated.
Getting back in the car, they drove slowly around the village green, passing Monsieur Beliveau’s general store, the boulangerie, the bistro.
They could see Olivier and Gabri chatting with patrons. At the sight of their headlights Gabri turned and, nudging Olivier, they waved.
Myrna’s bookstore was dark, but there were lights in her loft above.
Roslyn and Daniel pulled up behind his parents, and Jean-Guy and Annie behind them. Together they unloaded the vehicles of luggage and children.
One by one, villagers came over to lend a hand.
Clara Morrow opened her front door, and across the green came bounding Henri. His huge satellite ears forward, his tail wagging furiously, the shepherd raced across the snow-covered grass and plowed straight into Armand, almost knocking him off his feet.
Fred came next, trotting as fast as his old legs would take him, and Gracie, frantic to reach them, brought up the rear.
Stephen, with Reine-Marie on one side and Ruth on the other steadying him, said, “A chipmunk just ran into your house.”
“That’s not a chipmunk, you senile old man,” said Ruth. “That’s a badger. My God, you look awful. Are you sure you didn’t die?”
“If I did, and you’re here, this must be Hell.”
Ruth laughed while Rosa, waddling beside them, muttered, “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”
Annie and Jean-Guy got Honoré and Idola settled while Roslyn and Daniel had the girls bathed, then changed into their flannel pajamas.
By the time the children came back down, the fire was lit, and the home was filled with the aroma of the cottage pies Gabri and Olivier had brought over.
The old pine table in the kitchen held a huge bouquet of fall flowers and foliage from Myrna. As well as her signature butter tarts.
Drinks were poured as Clara, Ruth, Myrna, Gabri, and Olivier brought everyone up to speed on the events in the village since the Gamaches had been gone.
Honoré fell asleep against Ruth, with Rosa nestled on his lap, while the girls sat with Myrna and Clara.
Gabri held Idola, gently rocking her in his arms.
“I want one,” he said quietly to Olivier.
“You are one,” said Olivier.
Claude Dussault put down their suitcases as Monique drew back the curtains and threw open a window.
Their small stone home in Saint-Paul-de-Vence hadn’t been lived in for months.
Dussault had been busy in Paris with the investigations into GHS. And answering questions into his own behavior.
Finally it was decided that he should, for the good of the Préfecture, step aside. Step down. Step back. Way back.
“Retire, Claude,” the Minister of the Interior had said. “Go plant roses. Enjoy your life.”
It was framed as a reward for decades of service. Though everyone knew it was a punishment. A consequence.
Still, neither Claude nor his wife regretted his actions. Though he did deeply regret that he couldn’t prevent the murder of Alexander Plessner or the attack on Stephen Horowitz.
“Here’s a postcard from Xavier Loiselle,” said Monique, checking the mail their housekeeper had put on the dining table. “He’s accepted the job you found him, but not the one in Paris.”
“Non?” said Claude as he opened more curtains and windows to air out the place.
Their home looked across the rolling hills of the Côte d’Azur, toward the Mediterranean, not quite visible in the distance.
“No. He’s with the Commissariat de Police in Nice. Just a few kilometers from us.”
“Huh. I wonder why.”
Monique looked at her husband and smiled. “I don’t.” She went back to the postcard. “Get this. He’s started saxophone lessons. And sounds like he’s smitten.”
“With the sax?”
Claude had opened the French doors to their stone terrasse and stepped out. He felt the sun on his face and breathed in the fresh air, scented with lemons from the grove just below them.
“With his teacher,” said Monique. “He’d like to bring her by one Sunday. Oh.”
“What is it?”
“A letter from the bank.” She ripped it open. “That’s strange.”
“What? Are they calling our mortgage? That’s all we need.”
“No.” She stepped onto the terrasse and showed him the paper. “This says the mortgage had been paid.”
Sure enough, the balance owing was zero.
“I wonder who did that?” he said.
Armand put on his coat and hat and, opening the door, he called to the dogs. And Gracie. Who might, or might not, have been a ferret. Though it didn’t matter. She was family.
The animals ran out the door, skidding slightly on the snow-covered porch.
The children had been fed and put to bed. Stories were read to them as they drifted off to sleep, snug and warm under their duvets as a cool breeze puffed out the curtains.
Daniel stood beside his daughters’ beds in the dark, and looked through the window at his father walking around the village green.
Then he put his hand in the pocket of his cardiga
n and brought out a scuffed envelope. On it, in his father’s hand, was written, For Daniel.
It was what his father had slipped him that day, years ago, on Mount Royal. Daniel, assuming it was money, and a not-very-subtle message that he couldn’t provide for his own family, hadn’t opened it.
He’d told his father he’d thrown it away, but had actually shoved it to the back of a drawer, and only found it again when they were packing up.
Now he tore it open. There was a short note inside, and something else.
Tipping the envelope up, out slid a thin silver chain, and a tiny crucifix.
Dearest Daniel. This was what your grandfather, my father, wore throughout the war. He always said it protected him. He gave it to me on my ninth birthday. The last, and most precious, gift he gave me, besides, of course, the gift of his love. He said it would keep me safe. I’ve worn it since. And now, I want you to have it.
Love, Dad
Closing his fist around it, Daniel watched as Jean-Guy sprinted across the snow to join his father. Then, after kissing his sleeping children and whispering that he loved them, Daniel went downstairs to join Stephen, who was nodding by the fire.
“What’ve you got there?” Stephen asked.
“You’re ninety-three and were run over by a truck, shouldn’t you be blind or demented by now?”
Stephen laughed. “Unfortunately for you, that truck seems to have knocked some sense into me.”
He nodded toward the chain in Daniel’s hand. And Daniel told him.
“May I see it?”
When Daniel gave it to him, Stephen gestured for Daniel to turn around. As he fixed it around Daniel’s neck, he whispered, “See this for what it is.”
“A good-luck charm?”
“The truth.”
“Mind some company?” Jean-Guy asked as he fell into step beside Armand.
“Not at all,” said Armand.
Their feet crunched on the snow and their faces tingled as large, wet flakes landed softly and melted.
“I spoke to Isabelle today,” said Jean-Guy, his words coming out in puffs. “She brought me up to speed.”
“Good.”
“I can start on Monday, if that works for you. It won’t be awkward, will it? My coming back to homicide and sharing second-in-command duties with her?”
“If she can stand you, so can I,” said Armand. He stopped and looked at Jean-Guy. “Are you sure Annie’s all right with you coming back?”
“From Paris? There was no question. This’s where we belong. This’s where we want to raise our children. Here, in Québec.”
“I meant with you coming back to the Sûreté,” Armand clarified. “To homicide.”
Jean-Guy smiled. “Do you think I’d be doing it if Annie didn’t agree? It was her idea. She said we were meant to be together. You and me. She says it’s fate.”
“Do you believe that?”
“In fate?” Jean-Guy considered, then nodded.
Though he couldn’t quite bring himself to say it out loud, his actions had spoken.
“I was thinking about the Tremblay case …”
They continued their stroll around the village green, talking about murder, while the dogs, and Gracie, romped and rolled in the fresh snow.
Annie, holding Idola, along with Roslyn and Reine-Marie, had gone over to the bistro, and were visible through the window, sitting with Clara, Myrna, and Ruth by the roaring fire.
Wedges of lemon meringue pie sat in front of each of them.
“Before you go,” said Stephen as Daniel put his coat on. “Can you help me with something?”
Stephen gripped Daniel’s hand as they walked slowly down the hall to his bedroom on the main floor. His suitcases were there, partially unpacked. Digging through one, he brought out a bulky sweater. Unwrapping it, he revealed the small watercolor.
“There, please.” Stephen pointed.
Daniel hammered a picture hook into the wall, then picked up the painting.
“No,” said Stephen, taking it from him. “I’ll hang it. You go outside.”
After Daniel left, he turned the painting around and saw Arlette’s writing.
For Armand, with love.
Bringing out a pen he carefully added two words, so that it now read, For Armand, my son, with love.
Then Stephen Horowitz hung the watercolor where he could see it first thing in the morning and at the end of the day. The end of his days.
And know that, while he’d taken the long way, he was finally home.
“Want to go in?” Jean-Guy asked as they looked through the bistro window.
“Non, I’m heading home,” said Armand. “We left Daniel alone with Stephen.”
“And his cane,” said Jean-Guy, who’d received more than one whack.
Armand watched his son-in-law join the others around the bistro fire. He could read Ruth’s lips as she greeted him: “Hello, numbnuts.”
Reine-Marie put her head back and laughed.
Armand smiled, then turned full circle.
His gaze took in the dark forests and luminous homes, the three huge pines and the soft snow falling from the sky, as though the Heavens had opened, and all the angels were joining them. Here. Here.
“Dad.”
Armand turned.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Michael took me to Paris for the first time back in 1995. I was thirty-six years old and we’d been seeing each other for five months. He was invited to give a talk on childhood leukemia to a conference in Toulouse, and asked if I’d like to go along. When I regained consciousness I said, yes, yes, yes please!
We flew out of Montréal in a snowstorm, almost missing the flight. Michael was, to be honest, a little vague on details, like departure times of planes, trains, buses. In fact, almost all appointments. This was the trip where I realized we each had strengths. Mine seemed to be actually getting us to places. His was making it fun once there.
On our first night in Paris we went to a wonderful restaurant, then for a walk. At some stage he said, “I’d like to show you something. Look at this.”
He was pointing to the trunk of a tree.
Now, I’d actually seen trees before, but I thought there must be something extraordinary about this one.
“Get up close,” he said. “Look at where I’m pointing.”
It was dark, so my nose was practically touching his finger, lucky man.
Then, slowly, slowly, his finger began moving, scraping along the bark. I was cross-eyed, following it. And then it left the tree trunk. And pointed into the air.
I followed it.
And there was the Eiffel Tower. Lit up in the night sky.
As long as I live, I will never forget that moment. Seeing the Eiffel Tower with Michael. And the dear man, knowing the magic of it for a woman who never thought she’d see Paris, made it even more magical by making it a surprise.
C. S. Lewis wrote that we can create situations in which we are happy, but we cannot create joy. It just happens.
That moment I was surprised by complete and utter joy.
A little more than a year earlier I knew that the best of life was behind me. I could not have been more wrong. In that year I’d gotten sober, met and fell in love with Michael, and was now in Paris.
We just don’t know. The key is to keep going. Joy might be just around the corner.
I’ve tried to bring that wonderment. That awe. That love of place because of the place, but also because of the memories a place holds, to this book.
That love of Paris that I discovered with Michael. And that the Gamaches have.
This is a book about love, about belonging. About family and friendship. It’s about how lives are shaped by our perceptions, by not just our memories, but how we remember things.
It’s about choices. And courage.
Michael and I returned to Paris several times after that. But since his death, I had not been back. Too chicken.
But I knew in my heart it was time. It was
time for Armand and Reine-Marie to visit Daniel and Roslyn. Annie and Jean-Guy. And the grandchildren. In Paris.
It was time for me to return.
It was time to leave the safety and security of Three Pines, and face whatever was waiting.
The first time I returned, to research All the Devils Are Here, I knew I couldn’t go alone. I asked my good friend Guy Coté if he’d come with me, guide me, show me places in Paris I’d never normally see.
Places the Gamaches would know about, but that I did not.
So we rented an apartment in the Marais, where Armand’s grandmother once lived and where they’ve inherited her home. Then I asked if Kirk and Walter, great friends of ours, would join. They did.
Then my Québec publisher, Louise Loiselle, said she was going to be in Paris at the same time. So she joined our little troupe.
Suddenly, what had been fraught with emotional turmoil felt safe. And fun. I was not alone.
I am deeply, deeply grateful to Guy. For all his research, for the lunches and coffees we had together in Knowlton in preparation. For the books and maps he bought me and that we pored over together.
And, once there, for the fun we all had, exploring that extraordinary, luminous city.
Thank you to Kirk and Walter, for coming along and making it all the more meaningful and fun. And for always being, over the years, so supportive. Michael thought of them as sons. And they reciprocated his love.
Thank you to Louise Loiselle, of Flammarion Québec, for all her help, including setting up meetings in Paris with Eric Yung, a former undercover cop in Paris and now a crime writer, and with Claude Cancès, the former head of the Police Judiciare de Paris.
Guy, Louise, and I sat in the Hôtel Lutetia, as Claude and Eric recounted stories of investigations in Paris. Of crimes. Or criminals. Of events both horrific and hilarious. Of how the Préfecture de Paris is organized.
Claude became the inspiration, though clearly fictionalized, for the Prefect of Police in the book.
Something else quite amazing happened during that first Paris research trip (I returned several times for more research). Through a mutual friend, I was introduced to Dorie Greenspan, the cookbook author and columnist for The New York Times Magazine.
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