by Louise Penny
‘C’est vrai,’ Olivier agreed.
‘The monster’s dead and the villagers are celebrating,’ said Gabri, appearing at Gamache’s elbow.
‘Gabri,’ Olivier admonished. ‘That’s terrible. Haven’t you heard you must only say good things of the dead?’
‘Sorry, you’re right. CC’s dead.’ Gabri turned to Gamache. ‘Good.’
‘Oh, dear Lord,’ said Olivier. ‘Stand back. He’s channeling Bette Davis.’
‘It’s going to be a bumpy night,’ Gabri agreed. ‘Salut, mon amour.’ Gabri and Gamache exchanged a hug. ‘Have you left your wife yet?’ Gabri asked.
‘Have you?’
Gabri moved to stand beside Olivier. ‘There’s an idea, now that it’s legal. The Chief Inspector could be our best man.’
‘I thought Ruth was going to be our best man.’
‘True. Sorry, chief.’
‘Perhaps I could be your matron of honour. Let me know. I hear you had a tough time of it today trying to save Madame de Poitiers.’
‘No more than Peter, and I suspect considerably less than Ruth.’ Olivier jerked his head toward the window and the invisible woman sitting alone in the cold. ‘She’ll be in soon for her Scotch.’
Her important appointment, thought Lemieux.
Gamache said to Gabri. ‘I’d like to book into your B. & B. Two rooms.’
‘Not for that horrible trainee you had last time, I hope.’
‘No, just Inspector Beauvoir and me.’
‘Merveilleux. We’ll book you in.’
‘Merci, patron. We’ll see you tomorrow.’
Walking to the door he whispered to Lemieux, ‘Rick’s is from the film Casablanca. Here’s lesson number two. If you don’t know something, ask. You have to be able to admit you don’t know something, otherwise you’ll just get more and more confused, or worse, you’ll jump to a false conclusion. All the mistakes I’ve made have been because I’ve assumed something and then acted as though it was fact. Very dangerous, Agent Lemieux. Believe me. I wonder if you haven’t already leaped to a false conclusion?’
This cut Lemieux deeply. He was desperate to impress Gamache. He needed to impress him if he was to get the job done. But now, for some reason, the chief felt he might be on the wrong track. As far as Lemieu knew he wasn’t on any track, nor had he come to any conclusions about the case. Who could, so early?
‘You need to tread very carefully, Agent Lemieux. I often think we should have tattooed to the back of whatever hand we use to shoot or write, “I might be wrong.”’
Standing outside the bistro Chief Inspector Gamache’s face was in darkness, but Lemieux assumed he was smiling. It must be a joke. The head of homicide for the Sûreté du Québec couldn’t possibly be advocating such self-doubt.
Still, he knew his job was to learn from Gamache. And he knew if he watched the chief, and listened, not only would the mystery be revealed, but so would Gamache.
And Robert Lemieux was eager for that to happen.
He took out his notebook and in the biting cold he wrote down the two lessons. Then he waited in case there was more, but Armand Gamache seemed frozen in place, his tuque on, his mitts on, everything ready. Except the man.
He was staring at something in the distance. Something beyond the charming village, something beyond Ruth Zardo and her lit Christmas trees. He was staring at something in the darkness.
As he looked more closely, and let his eyes adjust to the night, Agent Robert Lemieux became aware of the outline of something even darker than the night. A house on the hill overlooking the village. As he stared the darkness seemed to take shape and an image of turrets appeared against the dark sky and darker pine forest. From one of the chimneys he saw just a hint of smoke before it was dragged away like a wraith into the woods.
Gamache took a breath, exhaling puffy white air, and turning to the young man beside him he smiled.
‘Ready?’
‘Yes sir.’
Lemieux didn’t know why but he was suddenly a little afraid and suddenly very glad to be in the company of Armand Gamache.
At the top of the hill Agent Lemieux glided the car to a stop beside a snow bank, hoping he’d left enough room for the chief to squeeze out.
He had, and Gamache stood for the briefest moment surveying the large, dark house before beginning to walk decisively down the long path to the unlit front door. As the old Hadley house got closer Gamache tried to banish the impression it was watching him, its blinds half drawn like hooded serpent eyes.
It was fanciful, but that was a side to himself he’d come to accept and even encourage. It helped sometimes. But sometimes it hurt. Gamache wasn’t sure which this was.
From inside the house Richard Lyon watched the two men approach. One was clearly in charge. Not only was he walking first down their path, but he seemed in command. It was a quality Lyon noticed in others, mostly as a counterpoint to his complete lack of it. The other figure was smaller and slimmer and walked with a bit of a bounce, like a younger man.
Deep breath. Suck it up. Be a man. Be a man. They were almost at the door now. Should he go and open it before they arrived? Should he wait for them to ring? Would making them wait be rude? Would opening the door show anxiety?
Richard Lyon’s mind was racing, but his body was frozen. It was his natural state. He had a very slim brain and a very generous body.
Be a man. Firm handshake. Look him in the eye. Lower your voice. Lyon hummed a little, trying to get his voice below the soprano register. Behind him in the gloomy living room his daughter Crie stared into space.
Now what? Normally at a time like this CC would have told him exactly what to do. Be a man. Suck it up. He wasn’t totally surprised to hear her voice in his head still. It was almost comforting.
God, you’re such a loser.
Almost comforting. It would be helpful if she’d say something constructive, like ‘Go open the door, you idiot’ or ‘Sit down and make them wait. Jesus, do I have to do everything?’
The doorbell peeled and Richard Lyon jumped out of his skin.
What an idiot. You knew they were there. You should have gone to the door to let them in as they approached. Now they’ll think you’re rude. God, what a loser.
Armand Gamache stood at the door, Lemieux behind him, trying not to remember the last time he was there. Trying to see the old Hadley house as just a building. And buildings, he told himself, were just everyday materials. The same materials went into this house as his own in Outremont. There was nothing special about this place. But still the house seemed to moan and shiver.
Armand Gamache braced himself, putting his shoulders back a little and lifting his head more. He was damned if he was going to let a house get the better of him. Still, part of him felt like a six-year-old who’d approached the haunted house on a dare and now wanted to run home as fast as his desperate legs would take him.
Wouldn’t that be a sight, he thought, imagining Lemieux watching as Chief Inspector Gamache ran shrieking past him and down into the village below. Best not to do that. Not just yet.
‘Maybe they’re not home.’ Lemieux was looking around hopefully.
‘They’re here.’
‘Hello.’ The door suddenly yanked open, startling Lemieux, and a short, squat man stood there speaking in a very low voice. He sounded to Gamache like a person just recovering from laryngitis. The man cleared his throat and tried again.
‘Hello.’ It came out in a more healthy register.
‘Mr Lyon? My name is Armand Gamache. I’m the head of homicide for the Sûreté du Québec. I’m sorry to intrude.’
‘I understand,’ said Lyon, pleased with his tone and his words. They didn’t sound rehearsed. ‘A terrible, terrible day. We’re devastated, of course. Come in.’
To Gamache’s ear the man sounded rehearsed. But not, perhaps, quite enough. He had the words right but the tone wrong, like a poor actor speaking from his head and not his heart.
Gamache took a deep br
eath and crossed the threshold. He was almost surprised to find that ghosts and demons weren’t swirling around his head, that something cataclysmic and catastrophic didn’t happen.
Instead, he found himself in a dreary front hall. He almost laughed.
The house hadn’t changed all that much. Its dark wood paneling still greeted guests in the unwelcoming entrance hall. The cold marble floors were spotless. As they followed Lyon through the hall into the living room Gamache noticed there didn’t seem to be any Christmas decorations up. Nor were many lights on. A few pools of light here and there, but not nearly enough to take the gloom from the room.
‘I wonder if we might turn on more lights?’ Gamache nodded to Lemieux who went quickly round the room, switching on lamps until the place was bright, if not cheerful. The walls were bare, except for the rectangles where old Timmer Hadley had had pictures. Neither CC nor her husband had bothered to repaint. In fact, they didn’t seem to have bothered to do anything. The furniture looked as though it probably came with the house. It was heavy and ornate, and, as he was about to discover, extremely uncomfortable.
‘My daughter Crie.’ Lyon waddled ahead of them and pointed to a huge girl wearing a yellow sundress and sitting on the sofa. ‘Crie, these men are with the police. Please say hello.’
She didn’t.
Gamache sat down beside her and looked at her staring straight ahead. He wondered whether she was autistic. She was certainly withdrawn, but then she’d just witnessed her mother’s murder. It would be unusual for a child not to be.
‘Crie, my name is Armand Gamache. I’m with the Sûreté. I’m so sorry about what happened to your mother.’
‘She’s always like this,’ explained Lyon. ‘Though she’s good at school apparently. I guess it’s natural for a young girl. Moody.’ This is going all right, he said to himself. You have him fooled. Just don’t screw up. Be sad about your wife but supportive of your daughter. Be a man.
‘How old is Crie?’
Lemieux sat at a small chair in a corner and took out his notebook.
‘Thirteen. No, wait. She’s twelve. Let me see. She was…’
Oh oh.
‘That’s all right, Mr Lyon, we can look it up. I’m thinking perhaps we should talk in private.’
‘Oh, Crie won’t mind, will you?’
There was silence.
‘But I will,’ said Gamache.
Listening to this and taking notes Lemieux tried to heed Gamache’s advice and not jump to conclusions about this weak, jabbering, mincing, stupid little man.
‘Crie, would you go up and watch television for a while?’
Crie continued to stare.
Lyon reddened a little. ‘Crie, I’m speaking to you. Please leave…’
‘Perhaps we should go to another room.’
‘It’s not necessary.’
‘Yes it is,’ Gamache said gently and got up. He held out his arm, guiding Lyon before him. The little man waddled ahead and across the entrance hall into the room beyond. At the door Gamache looked back at Crie, plump and plucked, as though bred for the pot.
This was still a tragic house.
THIRTEEN
‘Yes, we were at the community breakfast this morning,’ said Lyon.
‘All three of you?’
‘Yes.’ Lyon hesitated.
Gamache waited. They were in the dining room now.
‘We arrived in separate cars, CC and I. She was visiting a colleague.’
‘Before breakfast?’
‘It’s a very stressful time for her. A very important time. Big things happening.’
‘What did your wife do?’
‘You don’t know?’ Lyon seemed genuinely surprised.
Gamache raised his eyebrows and shook his head.
Lyon got up and ran out of the room returning a moment later with a book. ‘This is CC.’
Gamache took it and stared at the cover. It was all white with arched black eyebrows, two piercing blue eyes, nostrils, and a red slash of lips hovering in the middle. It was artful and bizarre. The effect was repellent. The photographer, Gamache thought, must have despised her.
The book was called Be Calm.
Gamache tried to recall why that sounded familiar. It would come to him, he knew. Below the title was a black symbol.
‘What’s this?’ Gamache asked.
‘Oh, yes. That didn’t turn out so well. It’s supposed to be the logo for CC’s company. An eagle.’
Gamache looked at the black blotch. Now that Lyon had told him he could see the eagle. Hooked beak, head in profile, mouth open in a scream. He hadn’t taken any marketing courses but he supposed most companies chose logos that spoke of strength or creativity or trust, some positive quality. This one evoked rage. It looked like one pissed-off bird.
‘You can keep that. We have more.’
‘Thank you. But I still don’t know what your wife did.’
‘She was Be Calm.’ Richard Lyon didn’t seem to be able to grasp that not everyone rotated in CC de Poitiers’s orbit. ‘The design firm? Li Bien? Soft palettes?’
‘She designed dentures?’ Gamache made a guess.
‘Dentures? No. Houses, rooms, furniture, clothes. Everything. Life. CC created it all.’ He opened his arms wide like an Old Testament prophet. ‘She was brilliant. That book is all about her life and her philosophy.’
‘Which was?’
‘Well, it’s like an egg. Or really more like paint on a wall. Though not on the wall, of course, but Li Bien. Beneath the wall. Painting inside. Kinda.’
Lemieux’s pen hovered over his notebook. Should he write this down?
Dear God, thought Lyon. Shut up. Please, shut up. You’re a fat, ugly, stupid, stupid loser.
‘When did she leave this morning?’ Gamache decided to try another tack.
‘She was gone when I got up. I snore I’m afraid so we have separate bedrooms. But I could smell coffee so she must have just left.’
‘And what time was that?’
‘About seven thirty. When I got to the Legion about an hour later CC was already there.’
‘With the colleague?’
Did he hesitate again?
‘Yes. A man named Saul something. He’s rented a place down here for the Christmas holidays.’
‘And what does he do for your wife?’ Gamache hoped Lemieux had managed to keep a straight face.
‘He’s a photographer. He takes pictures. He took that picture. Good, isn’t it?’ Lyon pointed to the book in Gamache’s hand.
‘Was he taking pictures of the breakfast?’
Lyon nodded, his eyes round and puffy and somehow imploring. But imploring him to do what, Gamache wondered.
To not pursue this line of questioning, he suddenly knew.
‘Was the photographer there during the curling match?’ he pursued.
Lyon nodded unhappily.
‘You know what this means, don’t you?’
‘That’s just rumor. Vile, baseless lies.’
‘It means he might have taken a picture of the person who killed your wife.’
‘Oh,’ was Lyon’s startled reply. But try as he might Gamache couldn’t figure out whether Lyon was surprised-happy or surprised-terrified.
‘Who do you think did it?’ Clara asked, passing a glass of red wine to Peter before sitting back in the easy chair and sipping from her own.
‘Ruth.’
‘Ruth? Really?’ Clara sat up and stared at Peter. He was almost never wrong. It was one of his more annoying features. ‘You think Ruth killed CC?’
‘I think if I keep saying that eventually I’ll be right. Ruth’s the only one here, as far as I know, who could kill without a second thought.’
‘But you don’t really think that of her?’ Clara was surprised, though she didn’t necessarily disagree.
‘I do. It’s in her nature. If she hasn’t murdered someone before now it’s only because she’s lacked the motive and opportunity. The ability is there.’
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br /> ‘But would she electrocute someone? I always figured if Ruth killed someone it would be with her cane, or a gun, or she’d run them down with her car. She’s not a great one for subtlety.’
Peter went to their bookcases and searched the volumes stacked and piled and crammed in together. He scanned the titles, from biographies to novels to literature and history. Lots of murder mysteries. And poetry. Wonderful poetry that sent Clara humming and moaning in the bath, her favorite place to read poetry since most volumes were slender and easy to hold with slippery hands. Peter was jealous of the words that brought such pleasure to his wife. She made sounds as though the words were caressing her and entering her and touching her in a way he wanted to keep just for himself. He wanted all her moans. But she moaned for Hecht and Atwood and Angelou and even Yeats. She groaned and hummed with pleasure over Auden and Plessner. But she reserved her greatest pleasure for Ruth Zardo.
‘Remember this?’ He brought over a small book and handed it to Clara. She flipped it open and read, at random,
‘You were a moth
brushing against my cheek
in the dark.
I killed you
not knowing
you were only a moth,
with no sting.’
She flipped to another poem, again at random, and another and another.
‘They’re almost all about death, or loss,’ she said, lowering the book. ‘I hadn’t realized that. Most of Ruth’s poems are about death.’ She closed the book. It was one of Ruth’s older volumes.
‘Not just about death,’ said Peter, throwing a birch log on the fire and watching it spit, before heading to the kitchen to check the casserole warming for dinner. From there he shouted, ‘But also very subtle. There’s a great deal to Ruth we don’t see.’
‘You were only a moth, with no sting.’ Clara repeated the words. Was CC only a moth? No. CC de Poitiers had a sting. To come anywhere near the woman was to feel it. Clara wasn’t sure she agreed with Peter about Ruth. Ruth got all her bitterness out in her poetry. She held nothing in, and Clara knew the kind of anger that led to murder needed to ferment for a long time, often sealed beneath a layer of smiles and sweet reason.