by Louise Penny
‘He has a crush on you,’ Gabri sang. Myrna didn’t correct him.
‘But you kept insisting Lyon hadn’t left your side the whole time.’ Gamache turned to Myrna.
‘That’s right.’
‘And I believed you. So if not Richard Lyon it had to have been his daughter.’
‘Crie took a hell of a chance,’ said Peter.
‘I agree,’ said Gamache. ‘But she had an advantage. She didn’t care. She had nowhere to go and nothing to lose. She had no plan outside of killing her mother.’
‘Five o’clock. Time to go.’ Ruth stood up and turned to Reine-Marie. ‘You’re the first reason I’ve seen to believe your husband isn’t a complete moron.’
‘Merci, madame.’ Reine-Marie inclined her head in a gesture reminiscent of Émilie. ‘Et bonne année.’
‘I doubt it.’ Ruth limped out of the room.
Richard Lyon sat in his workroom in the basement, tinkering with his Hardcover Hand, as he’d come to call it. Beside him on the workbench sat a Christmas card, received that morning in the mail. It was from Saul Petrov, apologizing for the affair with CC. He’d gone on to say that he’d had a roll of film of CC in compromising positions that he’d chosen to burn that morning. He’d kept the film with thoughts of blackmailing her one day, if she struck it rich, and had even considered holding on to it to do the same to Lyon. But he’d recently discovered a conscience he’d thought had gone for ever, and now he wanted to tell Lyon that he was sorry. Petrov ended the letter by saying he hoped one day they might be, if not friends, at least friendly, since they would almost certainly be neighbors.
It surprised Lyon how much the letter meant, and he thought perhaps he and Petrov might have been friends.
Gamache and Reine-Marie ran into Agent Robert Lemieux as they walked to their car outside the bistro.
‘I plan to see Superintendent Brébeuf,’ said Gamache, shaking the young man’s hand and introducing Reine-Marie, ‘and ask him to assign you to homicide.’
Lemieux’s face opened in astonishment. ‘Oh, my God, sir. Thank you, thank you. I won’t let you down.’
‘I know you won’t.’
Lemieux helped him clear off his car while Reine-Marie used the washroom in the bistro.
‘Poor Madame Zardo.’ Lemieux pointed his snow scraper at Ruth, sitting on her bench on the village green.
‘Why do you say that?’
‘Well, she’s a drunk. One of the villagers said that’s her beer walk.’
‘Do you know what a beer walk is?’
Lemieux started to say yes then wondered. Maybe he’d gotten it wrong. Jumped to a conclusion. Instead he shook his head.
‘Neither did I.’ Gamache smiled. ‘Myrna Landers explained it to me. Ruth Zardo had a dog named Daisy. I met Daisy. The two were inseparable. Two stinky old ladies limping and growling through life. This past autumn Daisy grew weak and disoriented and finally the end was near. Ruth took her old friend on one last afternoon walk. It was five o’clock and they went into the woods where they’d gone each day. She took along a gun and when Daisy wasn’t looking, she shot her.’
‘But that’s awful.’
‘It’s called a beer walk because most farmers before they put their family pets down take a twelve pack with them, get just drunk enough, and do the deed. Ruth was sober. It was an act of love and mercy and formidable courage. Later Olivier and Gabri helped her bury Daisy under the bench here. And every day at five Ruth visits Daisy. Like Greyfriars Bobby.’
Lemieux didn’t understand the reference, but he understood he’d been wrong.
‘You must be careful,’ said Gamache. ‘I’m counting on you.’
‘I’m sorry sir. I’ll do better.’
At Sûreté headquarters the phone rang and the Superintendent picked it up quickly. It was the call he’d been waiting for. After listening for a few moments, he spoke.
‘You’ve done well.’
‘I don’t feel good about this, sir.’
‘And you think I do? It makes me sick. But it has to be done.’
And it was true. The Superintendent was heartsick about the position he found himself in. But he was the only person who could bring Gamache down.
‘Yes, sir. I understand.’
‘Good,’ said Michel Brébeuf. ‘We’re clear. I have another call. Keep me informed.’ He hung up on Agent Robert Lemieux and took the next call.
‘Bonjour, Superintendent.’ Gamache’s deep warm voice came down the line.
‘Bonne année, Armand,’ said Brébeuf. ‘What can I do for you, mon ami?’
‘We have a problem. I need to talk to you about Agent Nichol.’
At home again Yvette Nichol unpacked her suitcase, putting the dirty clothing into her drawers. Her father stood at the doorway, getting up his courage to speak. To start the New Year with the truth about fictional Uncle Saul.
‘Yvette.’
‘What is it?’ She turned round, a dull gray sweater bunched into a ball in her hands. Her voice was petulant, a tone he’d heard her use with others with some satisfaction, but never with himself. Now he noticed the smell of smoke. It seemed to get stronger as he approached her, as though his daughter had been scorched.
‘I’m proud of you,’ he said. She’d told him about the fire, of course. But hearing her on the phone describing it from Three Pines had seemed unreal. Now, actually smelling the smoke, imagining her that close to the flames, he felt overcome with terror. Had he really come that close to losing her? For a lie? A fictitious Uncle Saul?
‘I don’t want to talk about it any more. I told you everything already.’ She turned her back to him. For the first time. In one fluid, vicious, calculated move she changed his life for ever. She turned away from him.
Gutted, barely able to speak, Ari Nikolev tried to find the courage to tell his daughter she’d almost lost her life because of a lie he’d told. And retold. All her life.
She’d hate him, of course. Nikolev, staring at his daughter’s back, had a vision of his life stretching forward for years, bleak and cold. All the warmth and laughter and love turned to ice and buried beneath years of lies and regret. Was the truth worth it?
‘I want—’
‘What do you want?’ She turned back to him now, willing him to ask her again. To get her to open up. To get her to tell him again and again about the devastating fire until it became a part of the family lore, its jagged edges worn and softened by repetition.
Please, please, please, she silently begged him. Please ask me again.
‘I want to give you this.’ He reached into his pocket and dropped into her free hand a single butterscotch candy, its cellophane crackling as it landed, like the very beginning of a fire. As he walked down the gloomy corridor the smoke clung to him, in the way his daughter once did.
‘Who were you speaking to?’ Reine-Marie asked, getting into the car.
‘Michel Brébeuf.’ Gamache put the car into gear. The plan begins, he thought. As they drove out of Three Pines they passed a motorist who waved.
‘Was that Denis Fortin?’ asked Gamache, who knew the art dealer slightly.
‘I didn’t see, but that reminds me,’ said Reine-Marie. ‘I met a friend of yours in the bistro. He said it was good to see you again.’
‘Really? Who?’
‘Billy Williams.’
‘And you understood what he said?’ asked Gamache in amazement.
‘Every word. He asked me to give you this.’ She held up the small paper bag on her lap, protecting it from their latest family member. Henri sat in the back seat, listening alertly to their conversation and wagging his tail. Reine-Marie opened the bag to show Gamache a slice of lemon meringue pie. Gamache felt goose bumps on his arms.
‘Look, there’s a napkin in here with something written on it,’ said Reine-Marie, diving into the bag and pulling it out. ‘Isn’t that funny?’
Gamache pulled the car to the side of the road near the top of du Moulin.
‘Let
me guess,’ he said, feeling his heart thudding in his chest.
‘
Where there is love, there is courage
Where there is courage, there is peace
Where there is peace, there is God.
And when you have God, you have everything.
’
‘How did you know?’ Reine-Marie asked, her eyes wide with astonishment, her hands delicately holding the napkin.
In the rearview mirror Armand Gamache could see Three Pines. He got out of the car and stared down at the village, each home glowing with warm and beckoning light, promising protection against a world sometimes too cold. He closed his eyes and felt his racing heart calm.
‘Are you all right?’ Reine-Marie’s mittened hand slipped into his.
‘I’m more than all right.’ He smiled. ‘I have everything.’
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
As ever, and always, the first person to thank is Michael, my amazing, lovely, brilliant and patient husband.
Thank you to Gary Matthews and James Clark for fielding urgent questions about electricity. To Lili de Grandpré for making sure the French is correct, especially the swear words, which I, of course, never normally use, but apparently she does. Thank you to Marc Brault for lending me his fine name. To Dr Robert Seymour and Dr Janet Wilson for thinking about the medical issues and coming up with the answers I needed.
There’s a fair amount of curling in A Fatal Grace, a sport I happen to love. I played it a bit in Thunder Bay and Montreal and respect the focus and poise the players have, never mind their ability to make amazing shots under pressure. It’s a thrilling sport, despite what Inspector Beauvoir might think. I visited the Sutton Curling Club and spoke to Wayne Clarkson, Ralph Davidson and Bob Douglas, who explained strategy to me. Thank you for your time and patience.
I met Anne Perry at a mystery conference in Canada before my first book, Still Life, had been published. She agreed to read it and became the first established writer to endorse the book, a massive event for any debut novelist. Anne Perry is lovely, both inside and out, and I’m deeply grateful to her for giving me the time of day, never mind the endorsement. I’m extremely grateful to all the other writers who also endorsed the book. This is no small task, having to read the whole thing on top of the million other calls on their time. But Margaret Yorke, Reginald Hill, Ann Granger, Peter Lovesey, Deborah Crombie and Julia Spencer-Fleming all gave me that time. And I will do it for others, if asked.
Many thanks to the wonderful Kim McArthur and her team.
And finally, thank you to Teresa Chris, my agent, for her wisdom and robust humour, and to Sherise Hobbs of Headline and Ben Sevier of St Martin’s Press for making this book better and for doing it with such kindness and thoughtfulness.
I’m one lucky woman, and I know it.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
A FATAL GRACE. Copyright © 2006 by Louise Penny. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
www.minotaurbooks.com
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Penny, Louise.
A fatal grace / Louise Penny.
p. cm.
ISBN: 978-0-312-35256-1
1. Police—Québec (Province)—Fiction. 2. Murder—Investigation—Fiction. 3. City and town life—Québec (Province)—Fiction. I. Title.
PR9199.4.P464 D43 2007
813'.6—dc22
2007007917
First published as Dead Cold in Great Britain by Headline Publishing, a division of Hodder Headline
FB2 document info
Document ID: 73b3c058-1fc2-4ec1-bd0c-bcefad59b402
Document version: 1
Document creation date: 10.5.2013
Created using: calibre 0.9.29, FictionBook Editor Release 2.6.6 software
Document authors :
Louise Penny
About
This file was generated by Lord KiRon's FB2EPUB converter version 1.1.5.0.
(This book might contain copyrighted material, author of the converter bears no responsibility for it's usage)
Этот файл создан при помощи конвертера FB2EPUB версии 1.1.5.0 написанного Lord KiRon.
(Эта книга может содержать материал который защищен авторским правом, автор конвертера не несет ответственности за его использование)
http://www.fb2epub.net
https://code.google.com/p/fb2epub/