by Louise Penny
Jean-Guy tapped Benedict on the shoulder. “Come and help me do the dishes.”
While Jean-Guy washed, Benedict dried.
“Why did you lie?” Beauvoir asked quietly.
“About what?” asked Benedict, taking a warm, wet glass.
“About your girlfriend.”
“Oh. That.”
“Tell me the truth,” said Jean-Guy.
“Does it matter?” asked Benedict.
“This is a murder investigation. Everything matters. Especially lies.”
“But the man who died has nothing to do with me.”
“Do you really believe that?” asked Beauvoir. “You’re a liquidator on a will in which he was a major heir. It was read just hours before he was murdered. His body was found in an abandoned home where you were also found. You were there when he was there.”
He let those words sink in.
“But I didn’t know that,” said Benedict.
“And how do I know you’re not lying now? Again?” He watched the young man’s face. “And now you see why lies matter. The actual fib might not matter, but what it shows us is that what you say can’t always be trusted. You can’t be always trusted.”
“But I can,” he said, his cheeks a fluorescent red now. “I don’t lie. Not normally. But I . . . I hate saying it out loud.”
“What?”
“That she left me. That we broke up. It’s too soon.”
“It’s been a couple of months.”
“How do you know that?”
“I’m the acting head of homicide for the Sûreté du Québec,” said Jean-Guy, handing a soapy plate to Benedict. “Do you really think we wouldn’t ask questions about you?”
“Then you’ve gotta know my relationship has nothing to do with what happened.”
“Doesn’t it? You lied again to Monsieur Gamache when he asked why you went to the farmhouse last night. You said you missed your girlfriend and wanted to go home. But that wasn’t true, was it?”
Benedict concentrated on the glass he was drying.
“It is true, sorta. You wouldn’t know what it’s like, to have your heart broken and then to be around people who’re happy.”
He looked at Jean-Guy.
“You. Your wife. Ray-Ray. Monsieur and Madame Gamache. You have what I want, what I wanted. And lost. I couldn’t take it anymore. It hurt too much. I had to leave.”
Benedict’s eyes were wide. Pleading.
For what? Jean-Guy wondered. Understanding? Forgiveness?
No, he thought. He wants what I wanted, when I was heartbroken. He wants me to stop poking the wound.
“I understand,” he said. “No more lies, right?”
“I promise.”
Beauvoir turned to face the young man and stared him squarely in the eyes.
“Why do you think Madame Baumgartner put you on as a liquidator of her will?”
“I don’t know.”
“You must’ve thought about it. Come on, Benedict. Why would she do that? You must’ve known her.”
“I didn’t. I swear. I never met the woman. The Baroness. You can give me a lie detector. Do they still do lie detectors? I should ask Ruth.”
Beauvoir sighed. “She’s a lie manufacturer. She knows nothing about detecting them.”
“But if you make something, wouldn’t you normally recognize them?” asked Benedict.
It was, Jean-Guy had to admit, insightful. And true. Ruth was an expert in lies. It was the truth that sometimes eluded her. And, perhaps, eluded this pleasant young man.
* * *
Across the room Clara was watching the conversation between Jean-Guy and Benedict.
“What’re you thinking?” Reine-Marie asked her.
“That I’d like to paint that young man.”
“Why?”
“There’s something about him. He’s both transparent and . . . what’s the word?”
“Dense?” ventured Reine-Marie.
Clara laughed. “Well, yes. And yet . . .”
And yet, thought Reine-Marie, watching her houseguest. And yet not.
* * *
As they left, Ruth handed Jean-Guy a gift.
“A poetry book,” she said. “One you might appreciate. But don’t read it to my godson.”
“Why not?” he asked, his eyes narrowing.
“You’ll see.”
“One of yours?” Annie asked, looking at the gift, wrapped in old newspaper.
“No.”
“One of mine?” asked Myrna.
“None of your business,” said Ruth.
“I bet it is my business,” muttered Myrna as she put her boots on.
At the door the two women embraced and Myrna offered to walk Ruth home.
“We’ll see her home,” said Olivier.
Out of the darkness, just as she closed the door against the biting cold, Clara heard Gabri say, “Oh look. An ice floe. Come on, Ruth. It has your name on it.”
“Fag.”
“Hag.”
And a sleepy, soft “Fuck, fuck, fuck” as the door closed.
* * *
Armand greeted them at the door.
“Have fun?”
“Ruth was there,” said Jean-Guy.
Armand smiled. Understanding.
“You’ve probably already eaten,” said Reine-Marie. “But in case you’re still hungry.”
She offered him the container.
“Oh you savior. I’m starving.” Armand kissed his wife and took the container into the kitchen.
“Did you manage to translate the email?” Jean-Guy asked.
“Yes, I think so. At least the gist of it.”
“Which was?”
Armand was about to tell him but could see that Annie was waiting for her husband to join her.
“I’ll tell you in the morning. Do you mind if I drive into Montréal with you?”
It was meant to be a rhetorical question, but, to his surprise, Jean-Guy hesitated.
“I don’t have to,” said Armand. “I’m sure someone else—”
“Non, non , of course I’ll drive you. It’s just that I’m not coming back out, and I have an early meeting. We’ll have to leave here early.”
“I can drive you in, sir,” said Benedict. He’d had his head in the fridge and now came out with pie. “If you don’t mind my using your car. I really need fresh clothes and should check on the apartment building. Then I can drive you back out. My truck might be ready by then.”
“That would be perfect,” said Armand. “Merci.”
“Why’re you going in?” asked Reine-Marie.
“I’m having lunch with Stephen Horowitz.” He turned to Jean-Guy. “Horowitz Investments.”
Jean-Guy nodded. Hugo Baumgartner’s firm.
Annie and Jean-Guy said their good-nights, and Benedict took a huge slice of pie and a glass of milk to his room.
“Anthony Baumgartner must’ve been an interesting man,” said Reine-Marie as the leftover coq au vin warmed up
“Why do you say that?”
“Well, because Jean-Guy told us that he had Clara’s painting in his study.”
“Yes. Quite unexpected.”
Armand thought about the email he’d spent the evening translating.
Like the painting, it was infused with bitterness. But there was also hope. Though a different kind from the one in Clara’s painting.
This was hope of revenge. Of retribution. It reeked of greed. And delusion. And profound optimism that something horrible would happen to someone else.
And it had.
Hope itself wasn’t necessarily kind. Or a good thing.
Armand wondered what Baumgartner saw when he stood in front of the painting and looked into the eyes of the Virgin.
Did he see redemption or permission to be bitter?
Maybe, in that face, he saw his own mother. Glaring down at him.
In all her madness and delusion, disappointment and entitlement.
Maybe he saw
what happens when false hope is spread over generations.
Maybe that’s why he liked it.
Maybe he saw himself.
“You go to bed,” he said to Reine-Marie. “I’ll be along soon. Still have a little work to do.”
“So late?”
“Well, Honoré wanted to watch the second Terminator movie, and then we visited the casino, so there wasn’t much time to work.”
“You’re a silly, silly man,” she said, kissing him. Her thumb traced the deep furrow of scar at his temple. “Don’t be late.”
She took her tea with her but left behind the delicate scent of chamomile and old garden roses, mingled with the rich, earthy aroma of coq au vin. Armand stood in the kitchen and closed his eyes. Then, opening them again, he headed to his study.
Henri and Gracie followed and curled up under the desk. Armand put in his password and saw that the photos and video he’d opened had finally downloaded.
* * *
Amelia and Marc had parted ways early.
It was dark now. The time when hungry people slipped out of tenements and rooming houses. On the hunt.
She’d gone from alley to back street, to parking lot, to abandoned building. Saying the same thing. Over and over.
“I’m looking for David.”
A few times she thought she saw a flicker of interest, of recognition, but when pressed—“Where is he? How can I find him?”—the person turned away.
She’d attracted, though, a group of mostly young women. Some prostitutes. Some transsexuals. Most hard-core junkies. Who’d steal, suck, tug anything for a hit.
They came to her because she didn’t ask anything of them. And she could fight. Had fought. And won.
They didn’t know it was possible. To fight back.
But now they did.
* * *
Armand looked at the photos of Amelia taken just a few hours earlier.
They were shot from a distance.
He could see that in one of them she was making a gesture. Grabbing her forearm in what he assumed was a fairly common curse. He could imagine what was also coming out of her mouth.
He looked closer.
She was grubby. Hair unwashed. Clothes dirty. The lower part of her jeans was soaked in slush.
He tried but couldn’t see her eyes. Her pupils.
Then he clicked on the video.
* * *
“You know, don’t you, you shithead,” she snarled. “Where’s David?”
“Why do you want him?”
“None of your fucking business. Tell me or I’ll break your arm.”
The dealer turned away.
A semicircle of young women stood behind Amelia. They were barely more than girls.
“Don’t you turn your goddamned back on me.”
Amelia moved swiftly. Much quicker than the stoned dealer could react. She pushed him into the wall. Then, grabbing his arm, she twisted it behind his back. Jerking it up in a quick, practiced movement.
He let out a shriek that scattered those around. The onlookers scampering away.
The man, barely more than a boy, slid to the ground, weeping. His arm hung at a terrible angle. Useless.
“Next it’s your leg. Then your neck,” said Amelia.
She squatted beside him and slid the sleeve of her jacket up, exposing her forearm.
“David. Where’s David?”
* * *
Armand moved this way and that, as though changing his vantage point would let him see better.
But her body was blocking it, and despite the fact there was sound in the recording, her back was to him and he couldn’t hear very well.
He did see her get up, and with her foot she pushed the man over.
He heard him cry out. Then Amelia, and her gang, left the picture. The young men who’d stood with the dealer now turned away. And followed Amelia.
Armand narrowed his eyes and scowled. Then went back to the beginning of the video and watched again and again. Until something caught his attention.
He froze the frame. Then enlarged it. As he did, the image grew less and less defined. But still he zoomed in. Closer and closer.
And brought his face closer and closer to his screen, until his nose was almost touching it.
She wasn’t just making a gesture with her forearm. That arm, he saw on closer inspection, was uncovered.
In minus twenty degrees, Amelia had shoved her jacket and sweater up so that her skin was exposed.
There were two reasons he could think of that someone might do that.
To shoot heroin, though she hadn’t.
Or to show someone something.
And there was something there. Her tattoos. He’d seen them licking out from the cuffs of her uniform but had never seen the actual images. Now he could.
The needle work seemed fine, refined. No pictures. Just words, intertwined. All up and down her arm. Though he couldn’t read what was written, he could see that some words, phrases, were in Latin. Some in Greek. In French and English.
Her body, it seemed, was a Rosetta stone. A way to unlock, decode, Amelia.
He wished he could read what was actually written there.
But one thing did stand out. Something scrawled boldly on her skin. More like graffiti than the fine etchings of the other words.
He looked closer. Then sat back hoping that, as with paintings, distance would give him perspective. It didn’t.
He zoomed closer. Cursing his bleary vision.
D he could make out. At both ends. And then, with his finger, he traced the lines. Slowly. Having to back up when he realized he’d taken a wrong turn and was now deep into Latin or Greek.
V.
A.”
DAVD.
“David,” he whispered.
And beside the name some numbers. “One. Four,” he mumbled.
He unfroze the image, and the now-familiar video rolled on. He watched as she once again used the move they’d taught her at the Sûreté Academy and dislocated the dealer’s shoulder.
Then Amelia and her followers left the frame. Along with his friends. Her entourage was getting larger and larger and now included young men.
Her influence was growing.
It hadn’t taken long. And he probably should have seen this coming, and maybe he had and just didn’t want to admit it.
He’d not only released a deadly narcotic onto the streets of Québec. He’d released Amelia.
And she was doing what Amelia always did. She was taking over.
“What are you up to?” he whispered. “And who’s David?”
The video continued to roll, but all that was left was the heap on the ground, like garbage.
And the whimpering.
Armand was about to turn it off when he noticed movement. A little girl in a bright red tuque. She walked out of the darkness and paused on the sidewalk. Alone. All alone. Then the girl turned and walked out of the frame. After Amelia.
He stared, his face pale. His mouth slightly open. Sickened to see a child alone on the streets.
He was so absorbed by what had just left the frame that he almost missed seeing what remained.
There was someone else, he now noticed. A man. On the very edge of the screen. He was leaning, almost casually, against the wall of the alley. His arms folded, he stared after Amelia. And appeared to be thinking. Then he made up his mind. Pushing off from the wall, he moved. But he didn’t follow the others. Instead he stepped over the writhing dealer and walked in the opposite direction.
Armand wondered if he’d just met David.
CHAPTER 27
By midmorning, when Armand and Benedict left for Montréal, Jean-Guy was long gone.
And because Armand wasn’t with him, he didn’t see Jean-Guy stop in back of the building and look around before being buzzed inside.
The large conference room was empty when he arrived.
Jean-Guy sat but soon got up. Restless, he paced back and forth in front of the windows. T
hen around the table. Pausing to look at a familiar painting. A copy of a classic Jean Claude Lemieux.
Then he paced again, looking out the window at Montréal, slightly obscured by ice fog. Like a veil of gauze.
He gripped his hands behind his back and puffed out his cheeks before exhaling.
I have a family now, he told himself, and need to put them first.
Yes. That was why he was there. Not for himself. Not because he was a chickenshit. Or just a chicken. Or just a shit.
The door opened, and he turned around to see the now-familiar men and women who’d interviewed him. Who’d made the offer just a few days earlier.
He’d declined to accept. Which did not make them at all happy. Apparently not many said no.
He’d explained that he was loyal to the Chief Superintendent. And they’d explained the advantages, and distinct disadvantages, of refusing their offer.
He was being worn down. Acting Chief Inspector Beauvoir recognized the technique, even as he recognized it was working.
But sitting in bed the night before, Annie asleep beside him, he’d gone back over the papers. Reading. Rereading. Would it really be so bad if he signed? Could anyone really blame him?
Ironically, it was the sort of thing he’d normally discuss with the Chief. But could not. Not this time. Not this deal.
He had, of course, discussed it at length with Annie. The options. The consequences.
And now here he was. About to do something he’d never have thought possible.
After shaking hands, they all sat. In the awkward silence, while an assistant brought coffee, Jean-Guy pointed to the Lemieux.
“I like it.”
“I’m glad,” the woman said.
“A numbered print?” he asked.
“The original.”
“Ah,” he said. “Chiaroscuro.”
A man next to her smiled. “I see you know your art. Yes. Not many realize that it’s the play of light and dark, of subtleties and extremes—”
Beauvoir nodded and smiled. But all he could think of, for some reason, was ice cream.
When the coffee arrived, rich and strong, he took a long, restorative gulp. He was ready for them.
And they for him, it seemed.
The woman in charge pushed a small stack of papers across the table, with a pen lying on top of them.
“We’re so glad you’ve changed your mind.”
He picked up the pen and signed quickly. He couldn’t afford to hesitate now. It was one of the early lessons in homicide from then Chief Inspector Gamache.