A Fatal Grace (39 page)

It was a quiet, almost dream-like day, their lives muffled by exhaustion and the thick layer of gathering snow. Gamache sat at his desk. Behind him the volunteer firefighters cleaned the pumper truck and put their equipment in order. Occasionally he nodded off, his feet on his desk, his eyes closed and his hands folded over his stomach.

She’s not worth it.

He startled awake. Beauvoir’s voice, panicked, filled his head again, and again he smelt smoke. He dropped his feet to the floor, his heart racing. The volunteers were slowly going about their work on their side of the large room, but he was alone on his side. He wondered, briefly, what it would be like to join the volunteers, to retire to Three Pines and buy one of the old village homes. To put out his shingle.
A. Gamache, Détective privé.

But then he noticed that he wasn’t alone after all. Sitting quietly at a terminal was Agent Nichol. He thought for a moment, wondering whether he was about to do something very foolish. He got up and walked over to her.

‘At the height of the fire, when we were trying to save you…’ He sat down, forcing her to look at him. She was pale and radiated smoke as though it had seeped beneath her skin. Her clothes were ill fitting and slightly dirty, a grease stain on her lapel, dark smudges round her cuffs. Her hair was badly cut and falling into her eyes. He felt like giving her his credit card with instructions to buy nice clothes. He felt like passing his large, tired hand in front of her brow to sweep the dull hair from her angry eyes. He did neither, of course. ‘Something was said. I suspect you heard it. One of us yelled, “She’s not worth it.”’

Now she looked at him straight on, her face full of bitterness.

Gamache stared back. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘It’s time for the truth, for both of us.’

He told her what he had in mind, his plan. And she listened. When he’d finished he asked her to keep it to herself. She agreed and thought two things. That he was probably smarter than she’d given him credit for, and that he was going down. After he was gone she brought out her cell phone and made a quick, discreet call.

‘I decided to tell him about Uncle Saul,’ she whispered. ‘I know, I know. It wasn’t part of the plan. Yes sir. But I’m on the ground here and it was a decision I had to make at the last moment,’ she lied. She couldn’t possibly admit it had slipped out in a vulnerable moment. He’d think her weak. ‘Yes, it was a risk, I agree. I was afraid he’d take it the wrong way, but I think it worked. It seemed to appeal to him.’ At least that part was true. Then she told him everything Gamache had said to her.

By the end of the day more than eight inches of puffy snow had fallen. Not the kind that made good snowmen, but it made for great snow angels and Gamache could see kids flinging themselves into the fluffy whiteness, flapping their arms and legs.

The fire inspector had just left.

It would take a while, of course, but his initial finding was that the fire was caused by creosote.

‘So someone set fire to creosote and killed Petrov,’ said Beauvoir.

‘Exactly,’ confirmed the fire inspector. ‘Petrov set fire to the creosote.’

‘What?’

‘When Petrov lit the fire that day he was killing himself, though he didn’t know it. Creosote is a natural substance. It comes from wood that hasn’t dried long enough. I suspect the chimney hadn’t been cleaned in years and the wood was young, and…’ The inspector raised his palms to the ceiling indicating the inevitable and not uncommon.

Saul Petrov had struck the match that had eventually killed him. It was an accident after all.

Gamache looked out the window at the fire inspector sweeping the snow from his pickup truck. The sun had gone down and in the light of the Christmas decorations he could see snow tossed into the air, like tiny storms, as villagers shoveled their walks and driveways. On the village green Ruth Zardo whacked at her bench to get the snow off then plopped down on it.

Must be five o’clock, thought Gamache, checking his watch, then picking up his phone he dialed Agent Lacoste. She was at the Sûreté lab waiting for the results on the necklace and the Li Bien ball.

‘
Oui, allô?
’

‘It’s Gamache.’

‘I’m in the car, almost there, chief. You won’t believe what they found.’

Half an hour later the team had reassembled in the Incident Room.

‘Look.’ Lacoste handed the report to Gamache who put on his half-moon reading glasses. ‘I decided to drive it down rather than tell you about it. Thought you’d need to see for yourself.’

His brows were drawn together in concentration, as though struggling through a document in a little known language.

‘What?’ snapped Beauvoir, reaching out to take the papers. But Gamache didn’t hand them over. Instead he continued to stare at them, turning from one page to the next then back again. Finally he looked up at them over his glasses, his deep brown eyes puzzled and worried. Almost in a dream he handed the pages to Beauvoir, who snatched them up and started reading.

‘But this is bullshit,’ he said after a minute skimming the information. ‘It doesn’t make sense. Who was the technician?’ He checked the signature at the bottom and grunted. ‘Still, must have been an off day.’

‘I thought so too,’ said Lacoste, enjoying the looks on their faces. After all, she’d had the hour and a half drive down from Montreal to think about the results. ‘I had him do them twice. That’s why I’m late.’

The papers made their way round the room, arriving at Agent Nichol last.

Gamache took them back and placed them neatly in front of him. The room was silent while they all thought. The fire crackled in the woodstove and the coffee bubbled and perked, sending little puffs of aroma into the room. Lacoste got up and poured herself a cup.

‘What do you think it means?’ Gamache asked her.

‘It means Crie is no longer in danger.’

‘Go on.’ Gamache leaned forward, his elbows on the table.

‘It means we’ve found out who killed L, and that person’s no threat to Crie,’ said Lacoste, watching their faces as she spoke. Gamache, she could tell, was with her, though one step behind. Beauvoir was listening, struggling to keep up, and the other two were simply baffled.

‘What’re you talking about?’ demanded Beauvoir impatiently. ‘The genetic tests say clearly L was CC’s mother. We got that from the blood samples taken at the autopsy.’ He tapped the report in front of Gamache.

‘That’s not the interesting part,’ said Gamache, separating one of the sheets and handing it to Beauvoir. ‘This is.’

Beauvoir took the sheet and read it again. It was the tests done on the necklace. The blood on the screaming eagle pendant belonged to L, but they already knew that. He looked at the next paragraph. The one describing the blood on the leather strap.

Same blood type, of course. Blah, blah, blah. Then he stopped. Same blood type, but not the same blood. It wasn’t L’s blood on the leather. It was CC de Poitiers’s. But what was CC’s blood doing on the necklace?

He looked over at Gamache who was at his own desk now, grabbing a file and bringing it back to the conference table. He opened it and skimmed a few pages, then slowed down and read more carefully.

‘There. Is that what you mean?’ He handed CC’s autopsy report over to Agent Lacoste, who read the part he indicated and nodded, smiling.

‘Got it.’

Gamache leaned back in his chair and exhaled deeply.

‘Crie isn’t in any danger from the person who killed L because that person’s already dead.’

‘The photographer,’ said Lemieux.

‘No,’ said Lacoste. ‘CC de Poitiers. She killed her own mother. It’s the only thing that makes sense. CC grabbed the necklace from her mother’s neck and broke it. That bruised the back of L’s neck, but it also cut into CC’s hand. Her palm. See here in the autopsy report for CC? Her palms were scorched but the coroner mentions another wound, partly healed, underneath. CC killed her mother then took the necklace from her dead hand and threw it in the garbage here.’

‘So who threw out the video and the Li Bien ball?’ asked Beauvoir.

‘CC as well. Three sets of fingerprints were on the Li Bien ball: Peter and Clara Morrow and CC’s.’

‘But they would be,’ persisted Beauvoir. ‘It belonged to her. No one else ever got to see it, never mind touch it.’

‘But if someone else had stolen it then thrown it away,’ reasoned Gamache, ‘there’d be a fourth set of prints.’

‘Why would CC throw out the Li Bien ball?’ asked Lemieux.

‘I’m only guessing,’ said Lacoste, ‘but I think it was guilt. Two things in her house reminded her of her mother. The
Lion in Winter
video and the Li Bien ball. I think they had nothing to do with evidence. I think she threw them out because she couldn’t stand to see them.’

‘But why put the video in the garbage and take the Li Bien ball all the way to the dump?’

‘I don’t know,’ admitted Lacoste. ‘It’s possible they were done on different days. Maybe she tossed the video at the same time she threw away the necklace, but it took her a while to get round to the Li Bien ball.’

‘It would have been more precious,’ agreed Gamache. ‘She’d have hesitated to destroy it. It’d become a symbol of her family, her philosophy, her fantasies. That’s probably why she couldn’t bring herself to just throw it away, but placed it gently in the dumpster.’

‘CC killed her own mother,’ repeated Beauvoir. ‘Why?’

‘Money,’ said Lacoste, who’d had time to think about it. ‘She was about to meet with American buyers, hoping to sell her philosophy to them. She’d market Li Bien and make a fortune.’

‘But that was probably fantasy on her part,’ said Lemieux.

‘Maybe, but as long as she believed it that’s all that mattered. Everything was riding on selling Li Bien to the Americans.’

‘Then along comes a drunken bag lady as a mother,’ nodded Gamache, ‘putting the lie to her carefully constructed life. Something had to die, either her dream or her mother. It wasn’t much of a choice.’ He looked down at the box in his hands. He turned it over, yet again.

B KLM.

Why had L collected those letters? He opened the box and his index finger swam through the other capital letters. Ks, Ms, Cs, Ls and Bs.

Slowly he closed the box and placed it on his desk, staring into space. Then he got up and walked round the room. Round and round he went, with a measured, unhurried pace, his head down and his hands clasped behind his back.

After a few minutes he stopped.

He had his answer.

THIRTY-THREE

‘Madame Longpré.’ Gamache rose and bowed to the slight woman in front of him.

‘Monsieur Gamache.’ She nodded slightly and accepted the chair he held for her.

‘What can I get you?’

‘An espresso,
s’il vous plaît.
’

The two of them settled into the bistro, their table slightly to one side of the fireplace. It was ten o’clock the next morning and flurries were falling. It was one of those not uncommon but still extraordinary meteorological phenomena that happened in Quebec in the winter: it was snowing and sunny at the same time. Gamache glanced out the window and marveled. Crystals and prisms, delicate and fragile, floated by and lay soft on Three Pines. Pink and blue and green sparkled from the trees and the clothing of villagers strolling through it.

Their coffees arrived.

‘Have you recovered from the fire?’ she asked. Em had been there, along with Mother and even Kaye. They’d spent the night serving sandwiches and hot drinks and providing blankets for the freezing volunteers. They’d all been exhausted and Gamache had decided to wait until this morning before speaking to Émilie.

‘It was a horrible night,’ he said. ‘One of the worst I can remember.’

‘Who was he?’

‘A man named Saul Petrov.’ Gamache waited to see if there was any reaction. There was only polite interest. ‘A photographer. He was taking pictures of CC.’

‘Why?’

‘For her catalogue. She was planning to meet with an American company in hopes of interesting them in her project. She had aspirations of becoming a style guru, though her aspirations seemed to have gone beyond style.’