by Louise Penny
‘But CC planned to use the name of her center. That could have been a disaster for Mother.’
‘True, but I don’t think Mother believed it.’
‘The center’s called Be Calm. That phrase seems to keep coming up. Wasn’t it the name of your curling team?’
‘Where’d you hear that?’ Em laughed. ‘That must have been fifty, sixty years ago. Ancient history.’
‘But interesting history, madame.’
‘I’m glad you think so. It was a joke. We didn’t take ourselves seriously, and didn’t much care whether we won.’
It was the same story he’d heard before but he wished he could see her expression.
Henri limped over, lifting first one paw then the other.
‘Oh, poor Henri. We’ve stayed out too long.’
‘Should I carry him?’ asked Gamache, feeling badly because he hadn’t remembered that the biting snow could burn a dog’s paw. Now he remembered last winter struggling to carry old Sonny the three blocks home when his feet couldn’t take the cold any more. It had broken both their hearts. And he remembered hugging Sonny to him a few months later when the vet came to put him to sleep. And he remembered saying soothing things into the stinky old ears and looking into the weepy brown eyes as they closed, with one final soft thump of the ragged, beloved, tail. And as he felt the final beat of Sonny’s heart Gamache had had the impression it wasn’t that his old heart had stopped but that Sonny had finally given it all away.
‘We’re almost there,’ said Em, her voice now thick, her lips and cheeks beginning to freeze in the cold.
‘May I offer you breakfast? I’d like to continue this conversation. Perhaps the bistro?’
Émilie Longpré hesitated just an instant, then agreed. They dropped off Henri then made their way through the dawn to Olivier’s Bistro.
‘Joyeux Noël,’ the handsome young waiter said to Gamache, showing them to the table by the freshly lit fireplace. ‘It’s good to see you again.’
Gamache held the chair for Em and looked after the young man going to the cappuccino machine to make their bowls of café au lait.
‘Philippe Croft,’ said Em, following his gaze. ‘Nice young man.’
Gamache smiled delightedly. Young Croft. The last time he’d met Philippe, during an earlier case, he’d been less than likable.
It was just eight o’clock and they had the place to themselves.
‘This is a rare treat, Chief Inspector,’ said Em, surveying the menu.
Her hair was standing on end from the static caused when she’d removed her tuque. But then so was his. They both looked as though they’d had a small fright. Now they sipped their coffees, feeling the warmth spread through their bodies. Their faces were rosy and their cheeks beginning to thaw. The smell of fresh brewed coffee mingled with the wood smoke from the young fire, and the world seemed cozy and right.
‘Do you still want your curling lesson this morning?’ Em asked. Gamache hadn’t forgotten their date and was looking forward to it.
‘If it isn’t too cold.’
‘This morning should be perfect. Look at the sky.’ She nodded out the window. There was a delicate glow in the sky as the sun considered rising. ‘Clear and cold. By this afternoon it’ll be a killer.’
‘May I suggest the eggs and sausages?’ Philippe was at their elbow, his order pad ready. ‘The sausages are from Monsieur Pagé’s farm.’
‘They’re wonderful,’ confided Em.
‘Madame?’ Gamache invited her to order first.
‘I’d love the sausages, mon beau Philippe, but I’m afraid at my age they’re a bit much. Does Monsieur Pagé still provide your back bacon?’
‘Mais oui, home cured, Madame Longpré. The best in Quebec.’
‘Merveilleux. Such luxury.’ She leaned across the table to Gamache, genuinely enjoying herself. ‘I’ll take a poached egg, s’il vous plaît, on a piece of Sarah’s baguette and some of your perfect bacon.’
‘And a croissant?’ Philippe looked at her playfully. They could smell the croissants baking in the shop next door, the connecting door open and eloquent.
‘Perhaps just one.’
‘Monsieur?’
Gamache ordered and within minutes he had a plate of sausages and French toast. A jug of local maple syrup was at his elbow and a basket of croissants steamed between them, accompanied by jars of homemade jams. The two ate and talked and sipped their coffees in front of the lively and warm fire.
‘So what did you think of CC?’ he asked.
‘She struck me as a very lonely woman. I felt sorry for her.’
‘Others have described her as selfish, petty, hurtful and frankly a little stupid. Not someone you’d choose to be with.’
‘They’re right, of course. She was desperately unhappy and took it out on others. People do, don’t they? They can’t stand it when others are happy.’
‘Yet you invited her to your home.’
This was the question he’d wanted to ask since she’d mentioned it on their walk. But he’d needed to be able to watch her face.
‘I’ve been desperately unhappy in my life.’ Her voice was quiet. ‘Have you, Chief Inspector?’
It wasn’t a response he could have predicted. He nodded.
‘I thought so. I think people who have had that experience and survived have a responsibility to help others. We can’t let someone drown where we were saved.’
Now the room was very still and Gamache realized he was holding his breath.
‘I understand, madame, and I agree,’ he said finally. Gently he asked, ‘Could you tell me about your sadness?’
She met his eyes. Then she reached into her cardigan pocket and pulled out a ball of white Kleenex, and something else. On the table between them she placed a small black and white photograph, cracked and dusty from the tissues. She caressed it clean with one practiced finger.
‘This is Gus, my husband, and my son David.’
A tall man had his arm across the shoulder of a lanky young man, a boy really. He looked to be a teenager, with long shaggy hair and a coat with wide lapels. His tie was also wide, as was the car behind them.
‘This was just before Christmas 1976. David was a violinist. Well, actually, he only played one piece.’ She laughed. ‘Extraordinary, really. He heard it when he was a child, little more than a baby. Gus and I had it on the hi-fi and David suddenly stopped what he was doing and went right over to the console. He made us play it over and over. As soon as he had the words he asked for a violin. We thought he was kidding, of course. But he wasn’t. One day I heard him practicing in the basement. It was shaky, and squeaky, but sure enough, it was the same piece.’
Gamache could feel the blood run from his hands and feet and into his heart, which gave a squeeze.
‘David had taught himself the piece. He was six. His teacher eventually quit since David refused to practice or play anything else. Just the one piece. Willful child. Gus’s side of the family.’ She smiled.
‘What was it?’
‘Tchaikovsky’s violin concerto in D Major.’
Gamache couldn’t bring it to mind.
‘David was a normal teenager. He played goalie on his hockey team, dated one of the Chartrand girls for most of high school, wanted to go to the Université de Montréal to study forestry. He was a lovely boy, but not an extraordinary one, except in that one feature.’
She closed her eyes and after a moment one hand turned upward, exposing her slim wrist, blue with veins. The hand moved fluidly back and forth. The ghost notes filled the space between them and surrounded the table and eventually the entire bistro seemed filled with music Gamache couldn’t hear but could imagine. And knew Em heard perfectly clearly.
‘Lucky boy, to have found such a passion,’ he said quietly.
‘That’s exactly it. If I hadn’t ever met the divine I’d have known it in his face as he played. He was blessed, and so were we. Still, I don’t think he planned to take it any further, but then
something happened. He came home just before his Christmas exams with a notice. Every year the Lycée held a competition. All the musicians had to play the same piece, chosen by the committee. That year,’ she nodded to the photo, ‘it was Tchaikovsky’s violin concerto in D Major. David was beside himself. It was to be held the fifteenth of December in Gaspé. Gus decided to drive him there. They could have taken the train or flown, but Gus wanted some time alone with David. You know what it’s like, perhaps, with teenagers? David was seventeen and a typical boy. Not very talkative about his feelings. Gus wanted to let him know, in his own way, that his father loved him and would do anything in the world for him. This picture was taken just before they left.’
Em gazed down and her finger crept along the wooden table toward it, but stopped just short.
‘David came in second in the competition. He called, so excited.’ She could hear him still, breathless, as though unable to contain his happiness. ‘They were thinking of staying to hear some other contestants but I’d been watching the weather and there was a storm coming in, so I convinced them to leave right away. You can guess the rest. It was a beautiful day, like today. Clear and cold. But it proved to be too cold, too bright. Black ice, they said. And the sun right in Gus’s face. Too much light.’
TWENTY-FOUR
‘So who’s CC’s mother?’ Beauvoir asked. They’d been in the morning meeting in the Incident Room for half an hour and he was feeling like his old self again.
With one significant difference.
His old self had despised Agent Yvette Nichol, but this morning he found himself quite liking her and not quite remembering what had been the problem. They’d had breakfast together at the B. & B. and ended up laughing hysterically at her description of trying to warm up his hot water bottle. In the microwave.
‘Sure you find it funny,’ said Gabri, plopping two Eggs Benedicts in front of them. ‘You didn’t come home to find what looked like the cat exploded in the micro. Never liked the cat. Loved the hot water bottle.’
Now they all sat round the conference table listening to reports. The Li Bien ball had been produced and dusted for prints. They found three sets which had been transmitted to the lab in Montreal.
Nichol had reported her findings. She’d gone into Montreal to interview the school about Crie.
‘I wanted to get more than just a report card. Seems she’s considered a smart girl, but not very bright, if you follow. Plodding, methodical. I get the impression Crie was a bit of a blight for Miss Edward’s School for Girls. The vice principal called her Brie once then corrected herself. Crie’s best subject is science, though she was beginning to show some interest in the theatre. She’d hidden away for the past few years doing the technical stuff, but this year she was actually in the play. Bit of a disaster apparently. Stage fright. Had to be led off the stage. The other kids weren’t very kind. Neither were the parents, apparently.’
‘And the teachers?’ Gamache asked.
Nichol shook her head. ‘But there was something interesting. The tuition cheque bounced a few times. So I looked into their finances. Seems CC and her husband were living way beyond their means. In fact, they were a couple of months away from complete disaster.’
‘Was CC insured?’ Beauvoir asked.
‘For two hundred thousand dollars. Richard Lyon comes from a modest background. Gained a degree in engineering from Waterloo but never achieved professional status. Went to work at his current job eighteen years ago. He’s a kind of low-level manager. Organizes schedules. An under-achiever. He makes forty-two thousand a year, clears thirty. She hasn’t seen a profit in the six years she’s had her company. Does small interior design jobs here and there, but seems to have spent most of the last year writing the book and coming up with her own line of household items. Here.’ Nichol tossed a catalogue onto the table. ‘That’s the prototype for the catalogue she was planning to put out, the one the photographer was working on, I guess.’
Beauvoir grabbed it. Li Bien soaps, Serenity coffee mugs, Be Calm bathrobes.
‘CC had lined up a meeting for next week with Direct Mail Inc.,’ Nichol continued. ‘It’s the biggest marketer of catalogue items in the United States. She was planning to sell them on her line. If she had, it would have been huge.’
‘What do they say?’ Isabelle Lacoste asked.
‘I have a call in to them,’ said Nichol, a smile she hoped said thank you for asking on her face.
‘Any word from the lab on those pictures he took at the curling?’ Beauvoir asked Lacoste.
‘I’ve sent an agent to get the negatives developed. Should hear soon.’
‘Good,’ said Gamache, then told them about niacin, The Lion in Winter, and Psalm 46:10.
‘So who’s CC’s mother?’ Beauvoir asked the key question.
‘There’re a few women in Three Pines who’re the right age,’ said Lacoste. ‘Émilie Longpré, Kaye Thompson, and Ruth Zardo.’
‘But only one of them has the initial L,’ said Agent Lemieux, speaking for the first time. He was watching Agent Nichol closely. He wasn’t sure why, but he didn’t like her, didn’t like her sudden appearance and certainly didn’t like this newfound camaraderie with Inspector Beauvoir.
‘I’ll check them out,’ said Lacoste, and the meeting broke up.
Gamache reached for the wooden box on his desk, turning it over automatically to stare at the letters stuck to the bottom.
‘What’s that?’ Beauvoir pulled up a chair beside the chief.
‘A piece of evidence from another case,’ said Gamache, handing it to Beauvoir. As he took it Gamache suddenly had the impression Beauvoir would be able to see something he hadn’t. He’d look at the letters on the outside and inside and put it all together. Gamache watched the Inspector handle the box.
‘One of your Christmas cases?’
Gamache nodded, not wanting to break Beauvoir’s concentration.
‘Collected letters? What a nutcase.’ He handed the box back to Gamache.
Well, so much for intuition.
As he left Gamache bent down and spoke to Lacoste. ‘Add Beatrice Mayer to your list.’
The curling stone thundered down the rough ice and hit the rock at the far end with a huge bang that moments later bounced off the hills surrounding Lac Brume. It was a bitterly cold morning, the coldest of the winter so far and the mercury still falling. By midday their flesh would freeze in seconds. The sun, teasing them with light but no warmth, hit the snow and magnified, blinding anyone not wearing dark glasses.
Billy Williams had cleared the curling surface on Lac Brume for them, and now he, Beauvoir, Lemieux and Gamache watched tiny Émilie Longpré straighten up, her breath coming out in jagged puffs.
Not long, thought Gamache. We’ll have to get her in soon before she freezes. Before we all do.
‘Your turn,’ she said to Beauvoir, who’d been watching her with polite attention. Curling was not to be taken seriously. As Beauvoir crouched and stared at the other end of the ice, twenty-five feet away, he could see where this was going. He’d astonish them with his natural ability. Soon he’d be fighting off pleas to join the Canadian Olympic curling team. He’d turn them down, of course, too embarrassed to be associated with such a ridiculous pastime. Though maybe, when he could no longer do any real sports, he’d consider joining the Olympic curling team.
Clara slipped into the claw-foot tub. She was still pissed off at Peter for dumpster diving, but was beginning to feel better. She slid down into the hot scented water, her toes playing with lumps of herbal bath, a Christmas gift from Peter’s mother. She knew she should call to thank her, but that could wait. His mother insisted on calling her Clare and up until this year had given her cooking gifts. Books, pans, an apron once. Clara hated cooking and suspected Peter’s mother knew it.
Clara swished her hands back and forth and let her mind wander to her favorite fantasy. The director of the Museum of Modern Art in New York knocking on her door. His car would have stalled out i
n the bitterly cold temperatures, and he’d need help.
Clara could see it all. He’d come into the house and she’d make him a cup of tea, but when she turned to give it to him he’d have disappeared. Into her studio. She’d find him there, staring.
No. Weeping.
He’d be weeping at the beauty, the pain, the brilliance of her art.
‘Who did these?’ he’d ask, not bothering to wipe the tears away.
She’d say nothing, just let him realize the great artist was before him, humble and beautiful. He’d declare her the greatest artist of her generation, or any other. The most gifted, astonishing, brilliant artist that ever lived, anywhere, any time.
Because she was nothing if not fair, she’d show him Peter’s studio, and the chief curator of MOMA would be polite. But there’d be no doubt. She was the real talent in the family.
Clara hummed.
‘Now kneel down, Inspector. You grab the handle of the rock as though you’re going to shake hands.’ She was bending over him. ‘Now, you bring the rock back with your right arm and your left leg also swings back, then you bring both forward at the same time and slide down the ice, the rock leading the way. Don’t shove it, mind. Just release.’
Beauvoir looked down the curling rink to her stone at the far end. It suddenly seemed very far away.
Gamache watched Beauvoir take a deep breath and bring his right hand back, the rock threatening to overbalance him already. Beauvoir remembered the silly broom and leaned over on it, feeling his boots begin to slip. This couldn’t be right.
The rock thumped onto the ice and he gave a great heave, knowing he’d somehow lost the momentum he was meant to build up. His right arm shot out, still clinging to the stone, and his left leg scrambled for purchase. He could feel himself falling.
Beauvoir fell flat on the ice, arms and legs splayed, the stone still in his grip.
‘Whale oil beef hooked,’ said Billy Williams, laughing.
Clara was thinking about the movie the night before. It’d been a while since she’d watched a video. Almost all their movies were on DVD, mostly because Peter’s favorite videos were ruined. He’d kept pausing them at his favorite spots to watch over and over and the tape had stretched. Gone wonky.