Bury Your Dead (25 page)

“I need your help. You obviously know everyone way better than I do. The Chief’s worried. Gabri keeps asking him why Olivier would move the body. It makes sense if he found the Hermit already dead but if you’ve just killed someone in a remote place you’re almost certainly not going to advertise. The Chief thinks we might have gotten it wrong. What do you think?”

She was obviously taken aback by the question. She thought about it before slowly answering. “I think Gabri will never believe Olivier did it, even if he’d witnessed it himself, but I also think that’s a good question. Where do we begin?”

We, thought Beauvoir, there is no “we.” There’s “me” and “you.” In that order. But he needed her so he swallowed the retort, pasted a smile on his face and answered.

“Well, Olivier now says the Hermit wasn’t Czech.”

Clara rolled her eyes and ran her fingers through her hair which now stood out on both sides like Bozo. Beauvoir grimaced, but Clara neither noticed nor cared. Her mind was on other things. “Honestly, that man. Any other lies he’s admitting to?”

“Not so far. He thought the Hermit was Québécois or perhaps
English but completely fluent in French. All his books were English and the ones he asked Olivier to find for him were also English. But he spoke perfect French.”

“How can I help?”

He thought for a moment then made a decision. “I’ve brought the case file. I’d like you to read it.”

She nodded.

“And since you know everyone here I’d like you to sometimes ask questions.”

Clara hesitated. She didn’t like the idea of being a spy but if he was right then an innocent man was in prison and a murderer was among them. Almost certainly in the room with them at that moment.

Myrna and Peter arrived and Beauvoir joined them for a bistro dinner, ordering the filet mignon with cognac blue cheese sauce. They chatted about various events in the village, the ski conditions at Mont Saint-Rémy, the Canadiens game the night before.

Ruth came by for dessert, eating most of Peter’s cheesecake, then she limped off alone into the night.

“She misses Rosa terribly,” said Myrna.

“What happened to her duck?” asked Beauvoir.

“Flew off in the fall,” said Myrna.

The duck was smarter than it looked, thought Beauvoir.

“I dread the spring,” said Clara. “Ruth’ll be expecting her back. Suppose she doesn’t come.”

“It doesn’t mean Rosa’s dead,” said Peter, though they all knew that wasn’t true. Rosa the duck was raised from birth, literally hatched, by Ruth. And against all odds, Rosa had survived and thrived and had grown up, to follow Ruth everywhere she went.

The duck and the fuck, as Gabri called them.

And then last fall Rosa did what ducks do, what was in her nature to do. As much as she loved Ruth, she had to go. And one afternoon, as other ducks quacked and flew in formation overhead, heading south, Rosa rose up.

And left.

After dinner Beauvoir thanked them and got up. Clara walked him to the door.

“I’ll do it,” she whispered.

Beauvoir handed her the dossier and headed into the cold dark night. Walking slowly back to the B and B toward his warm bed, he stopped partway across the village green and looked at the three tall pine trees still wearing their multi-color Christmas lights. The colors bounced off the drifts of fresh snow. Looking up he saw the stars and smelled the fresh, crisp air. Behind him he heard people calling good night to each other and heard their scrunching steps in the snow.

Jean-Guy Beauvoir changed direction and arriving at the old clapboard home he knocked. The door was opened a crack.

“Can I come in?” he asked.

Ruth stepped back and opened her door.

Armand Gamache sat at Renaud’s messy desk, bent over the diaries. For the past couple of hours he’d read them, making notes now and then. Like Champlain’s diaries, Augustin Renaud’s spoke of events but not feelings. They were really more of an agenda, but they were informative.

Sadly, while Renaud had made a note of the time of the Literary and Historical Society board meeting there was no indication why he was interested. And there was no mention of meeting anyone later in the day or that evening.

The next day was blank, though there was a notation for the following week.
SC at 1pm on the Thursday.

The days stretched ahead, empty. Pages and pages, white and barren. A winter life. Not a lunch with a friend, not a meeting, not a personal comment. Nothing.

But what about his immediate past?

There were notations about books, page references, library references, articles. He’d made notes, done sketches of the old city, written addresses. Places, perhaps, he was considering for his next dig? All of them around the Notre-Dame Basilica.

It appeared he’d never considered any site outside a quite tight radius. Then what was he doing in the relative wilderness of the Lit and His? And if he was there simply to look for a book, as Émile had suggested, why was he in the basement, digging? And why ask to speak to the board?

Jean-Guy Beauvoir and Ruth Zardo stared at each other.

It felt like a cage match. Only one would emerge alive. Not for the first time in Ruth’s company, Beauvoir felt an unpleasant retraction below his belt.

“What do you want?” Ruth demanded.

“I want to talk,” snapped Beauvoir.

“Can’t it wait, asshole?”

“No, it can’t, you lunatic.” He paused. “Do you like me?”

Her eyes narrowed. “I think you’re anal, idiotic, cruel and perhaps slightly retarded.”

“And I think the same of you,” he said, relieved. It was as he thought, as he’d hoped.

“Well, glad we got that straight. Thank you for coming by, now, nighty night.” Ruth reached for the doorknob.

“Wait,” Beauvoir said, his hand out, almost touching her withered arm. “Wait,” he said again, almost in a whisper. And Ruth did.

Gamache leaned closer to the diary, a small smile on his face.

Literary and Historical Society.

There it was. Written as bold as could be in Renaud’s diary. Not for the day of the board meeting, the day he died, but a week earlier. And above it the names of four people he’d planned to meet there.

A Chin, a JD and two people named S. Patrick and F. O’Mara. Beneath that was a number 18-something. Gamache slid the desk lamp over so that the light pooled on the page. 1800, or maybe 1869 or 8.

“Or is it 1809?” Gamache mumbled to himself, squinting and flipping to the next page to see if, from the back, it was any clearer. It wasn’t.

He took off his reading glasses and leaned back in the chair, tapping the glasses absently on his knee.

1800 would make sense. That would be a time, six in the evening. Most Québécois used the twenty-four-hour clock. But—

The Chief Inspector stared into space. It actually didn’t make sense. The Lit and His closed at five in the afternoon. 1700 hours.

Why would Renaud arrange to meet four people there an hour after closing?

Maybe, thought Gamache, one of them had a key and would let them in.

Or, maybe Renaud didn’t realize the library would be closed.

Or, maybe he’d arranged to meet someone else there, a Lit and His volunteer not named who would open the door.

Had Augustin Renaud been to the Literary and Historical Society before the day he died? It seemed so. Not walking in like any normal patron, that didn’t seem Renaud’s style. No, the man needed something more dramatic, clandestine. This was a man, after all, who’d managed to break into the Basilica and start digging. The Literary and Historical Society would pose no physical or moral barrier. No door was locked to Augustin Renaud in his Quixotic quest for Champlain.

Gamache looked at his watch. It was after 11
P.M
. Too late to call Elizabeth MacWhirter or any of the other board members, or to drop by. He wanted to see their faces when he asked the question.

He turned back to the diary. What wasn’t in question were Renaud’s feelings about this rendezvous. He’d circled it a few times and even made a couple of exclamation marks.

The amateur archeologist seemed exultant, as though arranging the meeting had been a coup. Gamache found the phone book and looked up Chin. It sounded like a Chinese name and he remembered that Augustin Renaud had once, famously, dug through a wall looking for Champlain and ended up in the basement of a Chinese restaurant.

Could Chin be the name of the restaurant, or the owner?

But there was no Chin. Perhaps it was someone’s first name. There weren’t many Chinese in Quebec City, it wouldn’t be hard to find out.

There were no O’Maras, but there was an S. Patrick living on rue des Jardins, in the old city. Gamache knew it. The small street wound along beside the Ursuline convent and ended right in front of the Notre-Dame Basilica.

And his address? 1809 rue des Jardins. 1809. Not a time then, but a street number. Were they to meet there first then head to the Lit and His?

There were a few other names in Renaud’s diary, mostly, it seemed, officials he was arguing with or editors who’d turned down his manuscripts.
Serge Croix, the Chief Archeologist, was mentioned a few times, always with the word
merde
as though his name was hyphenated. Serge Croix-Merde.

Booksellers, mostly used, figured large in Augustin Renaud’s life. It seemed if he had a relationship with anyone it was with them. Gamache jotted down their names then looked at his watch.

It was almost midnight, and Beauvoir was sitting on a plastic garden chair in Ruth’s kitchen. He’d never been in her home before. Gamache had, a few times, but Beauvoir had always begged off those interviews.

He disliked the wretched old poet immensely which was why he was there.

“OK, dick-head, talk.”

Ruth sat across from him, a pot of watery tea on the white pre-formed table, and one cup. Her thin arms were strapped across her chest, as though trying to keep her innards in. But not her heart, Beauvoir knew. That had escaped years before, like the duck. In time all things fled Ruth.

He needed to talk to someone, but someone without a heart, without compassion. Someone who didn’t care.

“You know what happened?” he asked.

“I read the papers you know.”

“It wasn’t all in the papers.”

There was a pause. “Go on.” Her voice was hard, unfeeling. Perfect.

“I was sitting in the Chief’s office—”

“I’m bored already. Is this going to be a long story?”

Beauvoir glared at her. “The call came at 11:18 in the morning.”

She snorted. “Exactly?”

He met her eyes. “Exactly.”

He saw again the Chief’s corner office. It was early December and Montreal was cold and gray through the windows. They’d been discussing a difficult case in Gaspé when the Chief’s secretary opened the door. She had a call. It was the Inspector in Ste-Agathe. There’d been a shooting. An agent down and one missing.

But he wasn’t missing, he was on the phone asking to speak to the Chief.

Things happened quickly after that, and yet seemed to go on forever.

Agents poured in, the tactical teams were alerted. Satellites, imaging, analysis. Tracing. All swung into action. Within moments there was a near frenzy of activity visible through the large window in the Chief’s office. All going to a protocol Chief Inspector Gamache had designed.

But in his office there was quiet. Calm.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” Agent Morin said, when connected to the Chief.

“It’s not your fault. Are you hurt?” Gamache had asked.

By now Beauvoir was listening on the other line. For reasons he didn’t yet understand they’d so far been unable to trace the call and the man who held Agent Morin and had shot the other agent seemed unconcerned. He’d handed the phone back to the young agent but not before making something clear.

He would neither let Morin go, nor would he kill him. Instead, he’d bind the young agent and leave him there.

“Thank you,” said Gamache.