by Louise Penny
“Curiosity,” he said. “You?”
“Well, I didn’t know he was dead.”
“But you did know it was strange. So why did you come?”
“Same. Curiosity. What’s the worst that could happen?”
It was, even Myrna recognized, a fairly stupid thing to say.
“If we start hearing organ music, Armand, we run. Right?”
He laughed. He, of course, knew the worst that could happen. He’d knelt beside it hundreds of times.
Myrna tipped her head back to stare at the roof, sagging under the weight of months of snow. She saw the cracked and missing windows and blinked as snowflakes, large and gentle and relentless, landed on her face and fell into her eyes.
“It’s not really dangerous, is it?” she asked.
“I doubt it.”
“Doubt?” Her eyes widened slightly. “There is a chance?”
“I think the only danger will come from the building itself.” He nodded to the slumping roof and sloping walls, “and not from whoever is inside.”
They’d walked over, and now he put his foot on the first step and it broke. He raised his brows at her, and she smiled.
“I think that’s more the amount of croissants than amount wood rot,” she said, and he laughed.
“I agree.”
He paused for a moment, looking at the steps, then the house.
“You’re not sure if it’s dangerous, are you?” she said. “Either the house or whoever’s inside.”
“Non,” he admitted. “I’m not sure. Would you prefer to wait out here?”
Yes, she thought.
“No,” she said, and followed him in.
* * *
“Maître Mercier.” The man introduced himself, walking forward, his hand extended.
“Bonjour,” said Gamache, who’d gone in first. “Armand Gamache.”
He swiftly took in his surroundings, beginning with the man.
Short, slight, white. In his mid-forties.
Alive.
The electricity had been turned off in the house and with it the heat, leaving the air cold and stale. Like a walk-in freezer.
The notary had kept his coat on, and Armand could see it was smudged with dirt. Though Armand’s was too. It was near impossible to get into and out of a vehicle in a Québec winter without getting smeared by dirt and salt.
But Maître Mercier’s coat wasn’t just dirty, it was stained. And worn.
There was an air of neglect about him. The man, like his clothing, appeared threadbare. But there was also a dignity there, bordering on haughtiness.
“Myrna Landers,” said Myrna, stepping forward and offering her hand.
Maître Mercier took it but dropped it quickly. More a touch than a handshake.
Gamache noticed that Myrna’s attitude had changed slightly. No longer fearful, she looked at their host with what appeared to be pity.
There were some creatures who naturally evoked that reaction. Not given armor, or a poison bite, or the ability to fly or even run, what they had was equally powerful.
The ability to look so helpless, so pathetic, that they could not possibly be a threat. Some even adopted them. Protected them. Nurtured them. Took them in.
And almost always regretted it.
It was far too early to tell if Maître Mercier was just such a creature, but he did have that immediate effect, even on someone as experienced and astute as Myrna Landers.
Even on himself, Gamache realized. He could feel his defenses lowering in the presence of this sad little man.
Though they did not drop completely.
Gamache took off his tuque and, smoothing his graying hair, he looked around.
The outside door opened directly into the kitchen, as they often did in farmhouses. It looked unchanged since the sixties. Maybe even fifties. The cabinets were made of plywood painted a cheery blue the color of cornflowers, the counters of chipped yellow laminate and the floors of scuffed linoleum.
Anything of value had been taken. The appliances were gone, the walls were stripped clean except for a mint-green clock above the sink, that had long since stopped.
For a moment he imagined the room as it might once have been. Shiny, not new but clean and cared for. People moving about, preparing a Thanksgiving or Christmas dinner. Children chasing one another around like wild colts, with parents trying to tame them. Then giving up.
He noticed lines on the doorjamb. Marking heights. Before time had stopped.
Yes, he thought, this room, this home, was happy once. Cheerful once.
He looked again at their host. The notary who did and did not exist. Had this been his home? Had he been happy, cheerful, once? If so, there was no sign of it. It had all been stripped away.
Maître Mercier motioned to the kitchen table, inviting them to sit. Which they did.
“Before we begin, I’d like you to sign this.”
Mercier pushed a piece of paper toward Gamache.
Armand leaned back in his chair, away from the paper. “Before we begin,” he said, “I’d like to know who you are and why we’re here.”
“So would I,” said Myrna.
“In due course,” said Mercier.
It was such a strange thing to say, both as a formal and dated turn of phrase and in its complete dismissal of their request. A not-unreasonable request either, from people who didn’t have to be there.
Mercier looked and sounded like a character from Dickens. And not the hero. Gamache wondered if Myrna felt the same way.
The notary placed a pen on the paper and nodded to Gamache, who did not pick it up.
“Listen,” said Myrna, laying a large hand on Mercier’s and feeling him spasm. “Dear.” Her voice was calm, warm, clear. “You tell us now or I’m leaving. And I’m assuming you don’t want that.”
Gamache pushed the paper back across the table toward the notary.
Myrna patted Mercier’s hand, and Mercier stared back at her.
“Now,” she said. “How did you rise from the dead?”
Mercier looked at her like she was the crazy one, then his eyes shifted, and both Gamache and Myrna turned to follow his gaze out the window.
Another vehicle had pulled up. A pickup truck. And out hopped a young man, his mitts falling into the snow. But he swiftly stooped and picked them up.
Armand caught Myrna’s eye.
The newest arrival wore a long red-and-white-striped hat. So long that it tapered to a pom-pommed tail that trailed down his back and dragged in the snow as he stepped away from his truck.
Noticing this, the young man lifted the end of the tuque and wrapped it once around his neck like a scarf before tossing it over his shoulder in a move so rakish that Myrna found herself smiling.
Whoever this was, he was as vibrant as their dead host was desiccated.
Dr. Seuss meets Charles Dickens.
The Cat in the Hat was about to enter Bleak House.
There was a knock on the door, then he walked in. Looking around, his eyes fell on Gamache, who’d gotten to his feet.
“Allô, bonjour,” said the cheerful young man. “Monsieur Mercier?”
He put out his hand. Gamache took it.
“Non. Armand Gamache.”
They shook hands. The newcomer’s hand was callused, strong. His grip was firm and friendly. A confident handshake without being forced.
“Benedict Pouliot. Salut. Hope I’m not late. Traffic over the bridge was awful.”
“This is Maître Mercier,” said Armand, stepping aside to reveal the notary.
“Hello, sir,” said the young man, shaking the notary’s hand.
“And I’m Myrna Landers,” said Myrna, shaking his hand and smiling, Armand thought, just a little too broadly.
Though it was hard not to smile at the handsome young man. Not that he was laughable. But he was affable and almost completely without affectation. His eyes were thoughtful and bright.
Benedict took off his hat and smoothed his
blond hair, which was cut in a fashion Myrna had never seen before and hoped never to see again. It was buzz-cut short on the top then, at his ears, it became long. Very long.
“So,” he said, rubbing his hands together in anticipation and perhaps because it was so cold. “Where do we begin?”
They all looked at Mercier, who continued to stare at Benedict.
“It’s the haircut, isn’t it?” said the young man. “My girlfriend did it. She’s taking a stylist course, and the final exam is to create a new cut. What do you think?”
He ran his hands through it as the others remained silent.
“Looks great,” said Myrna, confirming for Armand that love, or infatuation, was indeed blind.
“Did she also make your hat?” Armand asked, pointing to what was now a large red-and-white lump of wet wool at the end of the table.
“Yes. Final marks in her design class. Do you like it?”
Armand gave what he hoped might be a noncommittal grunt.
“You sent the letter, didn’t you, sir?” Benedict said to Mercier. “Now, do you want to show me around first, or should we look at plans? Is this your house?” he asked Armand and Myrna. “To be honest, I’m not sure it can be saved. It’s in pretty rough shape.”
Gamache and Myrna looked at each other and realized what he was saying.
“We’re not together,” said Myrna, laughing. “Like you, we were invited here by Maître Mercier.”
She brought out her letter, as did Armand, and they placed them on the table.
Benedict bent over, then straightened up. “I’m confused. I thought I was here to bid on a job.”
He put his own letter on the table. It was, except for his name and address, identical to the other two.
“What do you do?” Myrna asked, and Benedict handed her one of his cards.
It was bloodred and diamond-shaped, with something unreadable embossed.
“Your girlfriend?” asked Myrna.
“Yes. Her business class.”
“Final marks?”
“Oui.”
Myrna handed it to Gamache, who had to put on his reading glasses and tip the card toward the window to have any hope of reading the bumps.
“‘Benedict Pouliot. Builder,’” he read out loud, then turned it over. “There’s no phone number or email.”
“No. Marks were deducted. So am I here to bid on a job?”
“No,” said Mercier. “Sit.”
Benedict sat.
More like a puppy than a cat, really, thought Gamache as he took the seat next to Benedict.
“Then why am I here?” Benedict asked.
“We want to know too,” said Myrna, ripping her eyes off Benedict and directing them back to the notary.
CHAPTER 3
“State your name, please.”
“You know my name, Marie,” said Jean-Guy. “We’ve worked together for years.”
“Please, sir,” she said, her voice pleasant but firm.
Jean-Guy stared at her, then at the two other officers assembled in the boardroom.
“Jean-Guy Beauvoir.”
“Rank?”
He gave her a filthy look now, but she just held his stare.
“Acting Head of Homicide for the Sûreté du Québec.”
“Merci.”
The inspector gazed at the laptop in front of her, then back at him.
“This isn’t about you, you’ll be happy to hear.” She smiled, but he did not. “Your suspension was lifted several months ago. But we still have serious questions about the decisions and actions of Monsieur Gamache.”
“Chief Superintendent Gamache,” said Beauvoir. “And how can you still have questions? You’ve asked, and he’s answered, every possible question. You must’ve cleared him by now? It’s been almost six months. Come on. Enough.”
Again he looked at who he thought were his colleagues. Then back at her. His gaze becoming less hostile and more baffled.
“What is this?”
Jean-Guy had been in many such interviews and had felt confident he could control the situation, knowing they were all on the same side. But as they stared at him from the other side of the table, he realized his mistake.
He’d entered the room expecting this would just be a formality. A last interview before, like him, the Chief was exonerated and returned to work.
The atmosphere had indeed been convivial, almost jovial. At first.
Beauvoir was sure they’d tell him that a sternly worded statement was being drafted, explaining that a rigorous investigation had been held. It would lament the fact that the covert Sûreté operation in the summer had ended with such bloodshed.
But it would, ultimately, voice support for the unconventional and bold decisions taken by Chief Superintendent Gamache. And unwavering support for the Sûreté team involved in what turned out to be a wildly successful action. A commendation would be given to Isabelle Lacoste, the head of homicide, whose actions had saved so many lives but who’d paid so high a price.
It would end there.
Chief Superintendent Gamache would go back to work, and all would return to normal.
Though the fact an investigation that had begun in the summer was still going on in the depth of the Québec winter was disconcerting.
“You were second-in-command to your father-in-law when decisions were taken leading to the action we’re investigating?” the inspector asked.
“I was with Chief Superintendent Gamache, yes. You know that.”
“Oui. Your father-in-law.”
“My boss.”
“Yes. The person responsible for what happened. We all know that, Chief Inspector, but thank you for clarifying.”
The others nodded. Sympathetically. Understanding the delicate position Beauvoir found himself in.
They were, Beauvoir realized with some surprise, inviting him to distance himself from Gamache.
It would be easier to distance himself from his hands and feet. His position was not at all delicate. It was, in fact, firm. He stood with Gamache.
But he was beginning to get a sick feeling deep in his gut.
“Neither of us is guilty, mon vieux,” Gamache had said months earlier, when the inevitable investigation had begun. “You know that. These are just questions that need to be asked after what happened. There’s nothing to worry about.”
Not guilty, his father-in-law had said. What he didn’t say was that they were innocent. Which, of course, they were not.
Jean-Guy Beauvoir had been cleared and had accepted the post as acting head of homicide.
But Chief Superintendent Gamache remained on suspension. Though Beauvoir had been confident that was about to end.
“One last meeting,” he’d said to his wife that morning as they fed their son, “and your father will be cleared.”
“Uh-huh,” said Annie.
“What?”
He knew his wife well. Despite the fact she was a lawyer, a less cynical person would be hard to find. And yet he could tell there was doubt there.
“It’s taken so long. I’m just worried it’s become political. They need a scapegoat. Dad let a ton of opioids through his hands. Drugs he could’ve stopped. Someone has to be blamed.”
“But he’s got most of it back. And he had no choice. Really.” He stood up and kissed her. “And it wasn’t quite a ton.”
A clump of oatmeal Honoré had flung hit Jean-Guy’s cheek, then dropped onto the top of Annie’s head.
Picking the glop out of her hair, Jean-Guy looked at it, then put it into his mouth.
“You’d have made a great gorilla,” said Annie.
Jean-Guy started searching her scalp, aping a gorilla grooming its mate, while Annie laughed and Honoré flung more oatmeal.
Jean-Guy supposed he knew that Annie would never be the most beautiful woman in any room. A stranger wouldn’t look at her twice.
But if one did, he might discover something it had taken Jean-Guy many years and one failed marriage to
see. How very beautiful happiness was. And Annie Gamache radiated happiness.
She would always be, he knew with certainty, not just the most intelligent person in the any room but also the most beautiful. And if anyone didn’t see it, it was their loss.
He unbuckled Honoré and walked to the door with him in his arms.
“Have fun today,” he said, kissing both of them.
“Just a moment,” said Annie.
She took off Jean-Guy’s bib, wiped his face, and said, “Be careful. I think this might be a two-holer.”
“Deep merde?” Jean-Guy shook his head. “Non. This’s the last of it. I think they just have to make it clear that there was a thorough investigation. And there was. But believe me, after looking at the facts, they’ll be thanking your father for what he did. They’ll understand that he faced a shitty choice and did what had to be done.”
“Please, no swearing in front of the kid. You’d hate his first word to be ‘shit,’” she said. “I agree with you. Dad had no choice. But they might not see it that way.”
“Then they’re blind.”
“Then they’re human,” said Annie, taking Honoré. “And humans need a place to hide. I think they’re hiding behind him. And preparing to shove Dad to the predators.”
Beauvoir walked briskly to the subway and what he knew would be the final internal-affairs interview before all returned to normal.
His head was down, and he concentrated on the sidewalk and the soft, light snow hiding the ice below.
One misstep and bad things happened. A turned ankle. A wrist broken trying to break the fall. Or a fractured skull.
It was always what you couldn’t see that hurt you.
And now, sitting in the interview room, Jean-Guy Beauvoir was wondering if Annie had been right and he had, in fact, missed something.
CHAPTER 4
“Who are you?” Gamache asked, leaning forward and staring at the man at the head of the table.
“We already know, sir,” said Benedict.
He spoke slowly. Patiently. Myrna had to drop her head to hide her amusement and delight.
“He’s. A. Notary.” The young man all but patted Armand’s hand.
“Oui, merci,” said Armand. “I did just get that. But Laurence Mercier died six months ago. So who are you?”