A Fatal Grace (14 page)

Lemieux had decided to jog ahead to their car, parked outside the Morrow home, and turn it on. They weren’t heading back yet, but night had fallen and the car would take a few minutes to warm up. If he started it now, by the time they got back in it would be toasty warm and the frosted windows would be clear, both advantages on a chilling December night.

‘I don’t get it, sir,’ he said as he returned to Gamache.

‘There’s a lot not to get,’ said Gamache with a smile. ‘What in particular is troubling you?’

‘This is my first murder case, as you know.’

‘I do.’

‘But it seems to me if you wanted to kill someone there are a whole lot of better ways.’

‘Like?’

‘Well,
franchement
, just about anything other than electrocuting a woman in the middle of a crowd on a frozen lake. It’s nuts.’

And that’s what worried Gamache. It was nuts.

‘I mean, why not shoot her, or strangle her? It’s Quebec in the middle of winter, why not take her for a drive and shove her out the car? We’d be using her as an ice sculpture in the Cowansville Fête des Neiges. It makes no sense.’

‘And that’s lesson number one.’ They were walking toward Olivier’s Bistro. Lemieux struggled to stay beside the large man as he strode with measured but long strides toward the brightly lit restaurant. ‘It makes sense.’

Gamache suddenly stopped and Lemieux had to twist out of the way to avoid ramming into him. The chief looked at the young agent seriously.

‘You need to know this. Everything makes sense. Everything. We just don’t know how yet. You have to see through the murderer’s eyes. That’s the trick, Agent Lemieux, and that’s why not everyone’s cut out for homicide. You need to know that it seemed like a good idea, a reasonable action, to the person who did it. Believe me, not a single murderer ever thought, “Wow, this is stupid, but I’m going to do it anyway.” No, Agent Lemieux, our job is to find the sense.’

‘How?’

‘We collect evidence, of course. That’s a big part of it.’

‘But there’s more, isn’t there?’ Lemieux knew that Gamache had a near perfect record. Somehow, while others were left baffled, he managed to figure out who would kill. Now Lemieux stood very still himself. The big man was about to tell him how he did it.

‘We listen.’

‘That’s it?’

‘We listen really hard. Does that help?’ Gamache grinned. ‘We listen ’til it hurts. No, agent, the truth is, we just listen.’

Gamache opened the door to the bistro and stepped in.

‘
Patron
.’ Olivier came over and gave Gamache a kiss on both cheeks. ‘Snow’s coming, I hear.’

‘Couple inches tomorrow.’ Gamache nodded sagely. ‘Maybe more.’

‘That Météo Média or the Burlington forecast?’

‘Radio Canada.’

‘Oh,
patron
, they thought the Separatists would win the last referendum. You can’t trust a Radio Canada prediction.’

‘You might have a point, Olivier.’ Gamache laughed, and introduced Lemieux. The bistro was packed, full of people enjoying a drink before dinner. He nodded to a few. ‘Good crowd.’

‘Always is over Christmas. Lots of families visiting, and what with the events of the day, well, everyone comes to Rick’s.’

Rick’s? Rick’s what? Lemieux was already lost. This might be a record. So far in this case it had taken him a few minutes in each interview to become disoriented, and generally with the English. Now the chief was speaking French to another Québecois and Lemieux was already lost. This didn’t bode well.

‘People don’t seem too upset,’ said Gamache.

‘
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 breath 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.