A Fatal Grace (16 page)

‘Did he?’ Ruth gave her an arch look. ‘Luck. I mean, look at it. This woman collapses on the ice and he thinks she was electrocuted? By what? The hand of God?’

‘But she was electrocuted,’ said Peter, just as Olivier arrived.

‘You’re talking about CC,’ he said, looking longingly at the empty chairs by the fire. But he had a restaurant full of patrons and to sit down now was to be lost.

‘Peter thinks you did it, Ruth,’ said Clara.

‘And maybe I did. And maybe you’re next.’ She smiled maniacally at Peter who wished Clara had kept her mouth shut.

Ruth reached for the nearest drink on the table.

‘What did you tell the police?’ Olivier asked Peter.

‘I just described what happened.’

‘The Chief Inspector booked into the B. & B.’ Olivier picked up Peter’s empty wine glass and tilted it toward him in a silent question. Peter, surprised it was empty, shook his head. Two was his limit.

‘You don’t think she was electrocuted?’ Clara asked Ruth.

‘Oh, I know she was. Knew it right away. I was just surprised that nincompoop Gamache glommed onto it so quickly.’

‘How could you know right away?’ asked a skeptical Myrna.

Ruth said,

‘
A smell of burning filled the startled air.

CC de Poitiers was no longer there.’

Myrna, despite herself, started to laugh. It was a particularly appropriate quote, or misquote. A smell of burning had indeed filled the startled air.

‘Actually,’ said Clara, ‘another poem came to my mind.

This world he cumbered long enough

He burned his candle to the snuff

And that’s the reason some folks think,

He left behind so great a stink.
’

Clara’s poem fell into the silence round the fire. Behind them conversations ebbed and flowed, bursts of laughter were heard, glasses clinked together. No one was mourning the death of CC de Poitiers. Three Pines was not diminished by her passing. She’d left behind a stink but even that was lifting. Three Pines felt lighter and brighter and fresher for its loss.

Gamache could smell the stew before he made it through the door.
Boeuf bourguignon
, with its aroma of sirloin and mushrooms, of tiny pearl onions and Burgundy wine. He’d called Reine-Marie from the office to let her know he was back, and on her request had picked up a fresh baguette from the local bakery round the corner from their house. Now he struggled through the door carrying the evidence box, his satchel and the precious baguette. He didn’t want to break bread before he’d even made it through the door, though it wouldn’t be the first time.

‘Is that the pool boy?’

‘
Non, Madame Gamache, désolé.
It’s just the baker.’

‘With a baguette, I hope.’ She came out of the kitchen wiping her hands on a towel. When she saw him her face broke into a warm smile. She couldn’t help it. There he was standing in the hall, both hands holding the box, his leather satchel falling off his shoulder and trying to drag his giant caramel coat with it, and the baguette under his arm rubbing crust into his face.

‘It’s not, I’m afraid, as robust as it once was.’ He gave her a wry smile.

‘It’s just perfect for me, monsieur.’ She carefully tugged it out from under his arm, freeing him to bend down and drop the box to the floor.

‘
Voilà.
It’s good to be home.’ He took her in his arms and kissed her, feeling her soft body beneath his coat. They’d both swelled since they’d first met. There was no way either would get into their wedding clothes. But they’d grown in other ways as well, and Gamache figured it was a good deal. If life meant growth in all directions, it was fine with him.

Reine-Marie hugged him back, feeling his coat wet from the falling snow making her own sweater damp. But she figured it was a good deal. In exchange for a little discomfort, she got immense comfort.

After he’d showered and changed into a clean turtleneck and tweed jacket he joined her for a glass of wine in front of their fireplace. It was the first quiet night for weeks, what with family and the crush of Christmas parties.

‘Should we eat here?’ he asked.

‘What a wonderful idea.’

He put out folding tables in front of their chairs while she served the
boeuf bourguignon
on egg noodles, with a basket of sliced baguette.

‘What a strange couple,’ said Reine-Marie, when he’d finished telling her the events of his day. ‘I wonder why CC and Richard stayed together. I wonder why they married at all.’

‘I do too. Richard Lyon’s so passive, so befuddled, and yet I wondered how much was an act. Either way, he’d be a very annoying person to live with, unless you’re also kind of vague, or very patient, and it doesn’t sound as though CC de Poitiers was either. Have you heard of her?’

‘Never. But she might be known in the English community.’

‘I think she was only famous in the mirror. Lyon gave me this.’ He reached into the satchel lying beside his easy chair and pulled out
Be Calm
.

‘Self-published,’ Reine-Marie commented after examining the cover. ‘Lyon and his daughter saw the whole thing?’

Gamache nodded, taking a forkful of the tender stew. ‘They were in the stands. Lyon didn’t know anything was wrong until he noticed everyone looking over to where CC had been sitting. Then people began leaving their seats. Gabri went to him and said there’d been an accident.’

He realized he’d spoken of Gabri as though Reine-Marie had met the man. And she seemed to feel the same way.

‘And the daughter? Crie did you say her name was? Why call a child Crie? What a hideous thing to do to a child, poor one.’

‘More than you know. She’s not well, Reine-Marie. She’s withdrawn, almost catatonic. And she’s immense. Must be fifty, sixty pounds overweight and she’s only twelve or thirteen. Lyon couldn’t remember.’

‘Being fat isn’t a sign of unhappiness, Armand. At least, I hope it isn’t.’

‘True. But it’s more than that. It’s as though she’s disconnected. And there’s something else. When the murder happened Lyon described seeing CC lying there and the rescuers working on her but he didn’t know where Crie was.’

‘You mean he didn’t look for her?’ asked Reine-Marie, her fork stopped partway to her mouth in astonishment.

Gamache shook his head.

‘Odious man,’ said Reine-Marie.

It was hard not to agree, and Gamache was left to wonder why he was trying so hard not to.

Maybe, came the answer, maybe it’s too easy. Maybe you don’t want the solution to be anything as pedestrian as the scorned, humiliated, cuckolded husband murdering the selfish wife. Maybe that was too easy for the great Armand Gamache.

‘It’s just your ego,’ said Reine-Marie, reading his mind.

‘What is?’

‘The reason you’re not agreeing with me about Lyon. You know he probably did it. You know they must have had a sick relationship. Why else would she treat him like that and why else would he take it? And why else would their daughter withdraw until she all but disappeared? I mean, by your description, no one even noticed whether she was there or not.’

‘She was there. She went with them in the truck. But you’re right.’

‘About what?’

‘I don’t want Richard Lyon to be guilty.’

‘Why not?’ She leaned forward.

‘I like him,’ said Gamache. ‘He reminds me of Sonny.’

‘Our dog?’

‘Remember how he’d wander from backyard to backyard, looking for picnics?’

‘I remember he once got on the 34 bus and ended up in Westmount.’

‘Lyon reminds me of Sonny. Eager to please, hungry for company. And I think he’s got a good heart.’

‘Good hearts get hurt. Good hearts get broken, Armand. And then they lash out. Be careful. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said any of that. You know your business better than I. Forgive me.’

‘It’s always good to be reminded, especially about my ego. Who was that character in Julius Caesar who described his job as standing behind the emperor and whispering, “You’re only a man.”’

‘So now you’re an emperor? This isn’t going in a promising direction.’

‘Careful,’ he said, wiping the last of the gravy off his plate with a crispy piece of baguette, ‘or you’ll crush my ego completely. Then I’ll disappear.’

‘I’m not worried.’ She gave him a kiss as she collected their plates and made for the kitchen.

‘Why wasn’t CC sitting with her family?’ she asked a few minutes later as Gamache washed up and she dried. ‘Doesn’t that strike you as strange?’

‘The whole thing strikes me as strange. I’m not sure I’ve ever had a case where so little made sense from the get-go.’ Gamache’s sleeves were rolled up and his hands soapy as he vigorously scrubbed the Le Creuset pot.

‘Why would a woman leave her family in the cold stands while she took a comfortable chair under the heater?’ Reine-Marie seemed genuinely perplexed.

‘I guess that answers it.’ Gamache laughed, handing her the pot. ‘It was comfortable and warm.’

‘So she was selfish and he’s odious. If I were Crie I’d disappear too.’

Once the dishes were done they took their coffee tray into the living room and Gamache carried over the box with the evidence from Elle’s murder. It was time to change gears, at least for a while. Sipping coffee and occasionally lowering a report to stare into the fire, he went through the box more thoroughly than he’d been able to that morning.

He picked up the small engraved wooden box and opened it, staring at the strange assortment of letters. Homeless people weren’t famous for their good sense, but even so, why would she have cut out all those letters? C, B, L, K and M. Turning it over he saw again the letters taped to the bottom. B KLM.

Maybe the C fell off. Maybe it sat in that hole between the B and K.

He picked up the autopsy report. Elle had been strangled. Alcohol was found in her bloodstream and there were signs of chronic alcoholism. No drugs. Some bruising round her neck, of course.

Why kill a bag lady?

The murderer was almost certainly another homeless person. Like any sub-culture, this one interacted mostly with itself. A regular pedestrian would probably not care enough about Elle to kill her.

He opened the craft paper envelope which held the crime scene photographs. Her face was smudged and surprised. Her legs were splayed and wrapped in layers of clothing and newspapers. He lowered the picture and peered into the box. There they were. Some yellowing newspaper, some fresher, curled into the shape of Elle’s legs and arms and torso, like a dismembered ghost.

There were pictures of Elle’s filthy hands, her nails grotesque. Long and twisted and discolored with God knew what beneath them. Actually, the coroner knew what. Gamache consulted the report. Dirt. Food. Excrement.

One hand had some blood on it, her own blood according to the report, and a few fresh cuts in the center of the palm, like stigmata. Whoever had killed her might have gotten some blood on him. Even if the clothes were washed there would still be some DNA left. Blood was the new albatross.

Gamache made a note of that and turned to the final photograph. It was of Elle naked on the coroner’s cold gurney. He stared at it for a moment, wondering when he’d get used to seeing dead bodies. Murder still shocked him.

Then he picked up his magnifying glass and slowly examined her body. He was looking for letters. Had she written or taped K L C B and M onto her body? Perhaps the letters were some obsessive talisman. Some madmen drew crucifixes all over their bodies and all round their homes, to ward off evil. Maybe these letters were Elle’s crucifix.

He lowered the magnifying glass. Her body, while free of consonants, was thick with dirt. Years of it. Even the occasional bath or shower at the Old Brewery Mission couldn’t lift it off. It was engraved on her body, like a tattoo. And like a tattoo it told a story. It was as eloquent as a Ruth Zardo poem.

I understand. You can’t spare

anything, a hand, a piece of bread, a shawl

against the cold,

a good word. Lord

knows there isn’t much

to go around. You need it all.

A good word. That reminded him of something else. Crie. Like Elle, she longed for a good word. Begged for it as surely as Elle had begged for food.

The tattoo of filth spoke of Elle’s external life, but was mute about what happened inside, beneath the layers of fetid clothing and dirt and alcohol-shriveled skin. Staring at the picture of the body on the gurney Gamache wondered what this woman had thought and felt. Gamache knew those things had probably died with her. Knew he might find her name, might even find her killer, but he would probably never find her. This woman had been lost years ago.

Like Crie, only further down the road?

And then he saw it. A small discoloration different from the rest. It was dark and circular, too even to be random filth. It was on her chest, on her breastbone.

Lifting his magnifying glass again he spent some time looking at it. He wanted to be certain. And when he looked up Armand Gamache was.

He took out the other pictures again and stared at one in particular. Then he rooted through the evidence box, looking for one small thing. Something that would be easy to overlook. But it wasn’t there.

He carefully replaced everything in the box and put it by the door. Then he returned to his warm chair by the fire and sat a moment watching Reine-Marie reading, her lips moving ever so slightly now and then and her brows rising and lowering in a way only he, who knew her so well, could see.