Bury Your Dead (8 page)

And yet, they never went, no matter how tempting the deals. And Gabri knew why. Myrna, Clara, Peter knew why. And it wasn’t Ruth’s theory.

“You’re all too fucking lazy to move.”

Well, not entirely.

Gabri sipped his
café au lait
and looked into the leaping flames, listening to the familiar babble of familiar voices. He looked across the bistro with its original beams, wide plank floor, mullioned windows, its mismatched, comfortable antique furniture. And the quiet, gentle village beyond.

No place could ever be warmer than Three Pines.

Out the window he saw a car descend rue du Moulin, past the new inn and spa on the hill, past St. Thomas’s Anglican Church, around the village green. Its progress was slow, and left tire marks in the fresh, fallen snow. As he watched it drew up beside Jane Neal’s old brick home. And stopped.

It was an unfamiliar vehicle. If Gabri had been a mutt he’d have barked. Not a warning, not out of fear, but excitement.

Wasn’t often Three Pines had visitors unless it was people stumbling across the tiny village in the valley by accident, having gone too far astray. Become confused. Lost.

That was how Gabri and his partner Olivier had found Three Pines. Not intending to. They had other, grander, plans for their lives but once they’d laid eyes on the village, with its fieldstone cottages, and clapboard homes, and United Empire Loyalist houses, its perennial beds of roses and delphiniums and sweet peas, its bakery, and general store, well, they’d never left. Instead of taking New York, or Boston or even Toronto by storm they’d settled into this backwater. And never wanted to leave.

Olivier had set up the bistro, furnishing it with finds from the neighborhood, all for sale. Then they’d bought the former stagecoach inn across the way and made it a bed and breakfast. That had been Gabri’s baby.

But now, with Olivier gone, Gabri also ran the bistro. Keeping it open for his friends. And for Olivier.

As Gabri watched a man got out of the car. He was too far away to recognize, and dressed against the snow with a heavy parka, toque, scarves. Indeed, it could have been a woman, could have been anyone. But Gabri rose and his heart leapt ahead of him.

“What is it?” Peter asked. His long legs uncrossing and his tall, slim body leaning forward on the sofa. His handsome face was curious, happy for relief from the vacation conversation. Peter, while an artist himself, wasn’t great at the “what if” conversations. He took them too literally and found himself stressed when Clara pointed out that for only fifteen thousand dollars they could upgrade to a Princess Suite on the
Queen Mary 2
. It was his cardio exercise for the day. Having had it, he now focused on Gabri, who was focused on the stranger walking very slowly through the snow.

“Nothing,” said Gabri. He would never admit what he was now thinking, what he thought every time the phone rang, every time there was a knock on the door or an unfamiliar car arrived.

Gabri looked down at the coffee table, with their drinks and a plate
of chocolate chip cookies and the thick Diane de Poitiers writing paper with its partly finished message. The same one he wrote every day and mailed, along with a licorice pipe.

Why would Olivier move the body?
he’d written. Then added,
Olivier didn’t do it.
He would mail it that afternoon, and tomorrow he’d write another one to Chief Inspector Gamache.

But now a man was walking, almost creeping, toward the bistro out of the thickly falling snow. In just the twenty yards from his car snow had already gathered on his hat, his scarf, his slender shoulders. Olivier had slender shoulders.

The snowman arrived at the bistro and opened the door. The outside world blew in and people looked over, then went back to their meals, their conversations, their lives. Slowly the man unveiled himself. His scarf, his boots, then he shook his coat, the snow falling to the wooden floor and melting. He put on a pair of slippers, kept in a basket by the door for people to grab.

Gabri’s heart thudded. Behind him Myrna and Clara were continuing to discuss whether, for a few thousand more, it might be worth upgrading all the way, to the Queen Suites.

He knew it couldn’t be Olivier. Not really. But, well, maybe Gamache had been convinced by all the letters, maybe he’d let him out. Maybe it had been last-minute, like the travel deals, a last-minute escape that instead of taking him away had brought Olivier home.

Gabri stepped forward, unable to help himself now.

“Gabri?” Peter asked, standing up.

Gabri got halfway across the bistro.

The man had taken off his hat and turned into the room. Slowly, as recognition dawned, the conversation died out.

It wasn’t Olivier. It was one of the men who’d taken him away, arrested Olivier, put him in prison for murder.

Inspector Jean-Guy Beauvoir surveyed the room and smiled, uncertainly.

When the phone call had come that morning from the Chief Inspector, Beauvoir had been in his basement making a bookcase. He didn’t read but his wife Enid did, and so he was making it for her. She was
upstairs, singing. Not loudly and not well. He could hear her cleaning up the breakfast dishes.

“You okay down there?” she’d called.

He wanted to tell her he wasn’t. He was bored stupid. He hated woodwork, hated the damned crossword puzzles she shoved on him. Hated the books she’d piled up next to the sofa, hated the pillows and blankets that followed him around, in her arms as though he was an invalid. Hated how much he owed her. Hated how much she loved him.

“I’m fine,” he called up.

“If you need anything, just call.”

“I will.”

He walked over to the workbench, pausing for breath at the counter. He’d done his exercises for the day, his physio. He hadn’t been very disciplined until the doctor had pointed out that the more he did them the sooner he could get out from under Enid’s crushing concern.

The doctor didn’t exactly put it that way, but that’s what Beauvoir heard and it had been motivation enough. Morning, noon and night he did his exercises to regain his strength. Not too much. He could tell when he did too much. But sometimes he felt it was worth it. He’d rather die trying to escape than be trapped much longer.

“Cookie?” she sang down.

“Yes, Cupcake?” he replied. It was their little joke. He heard her laugh and wondered how much it would hurt to cut his hand off with the jigsaw. But not his gun hand, he might need that later.

“No, do you want a cookie? I thought I’d do a batch.”

“Sounds great.
Merci.
”

Beauvoir had never particularly wanted children, but now he was desperate for them. Maybe then Enid would transfer her love to them. The kids would save him. He felt momentarily bad for them, being dragged under by her unconditional, undying, unrelenting love, but, well,
sauve qui peut.

Then the phone rang.

And his heart stopped. He’d thought, hoped, with time it would stop doing that. It was inconvenient having a heart that halted every time there was a call. Especially annoying when it was a wrong number. But instead of going away it seemed to be getting worse. He heard Enid
hurrying to answer it and he knew she was running because she knew how much the sound upset him.

And he hated himself, for hating her.

“Oui, allô?”
he heard her say and immediately Beauvoir was back there, to that day.

“Homicide.” The Chief’s secretary had answered the phone in the office. It was a large, open space taking an entire floor of the Sûreté du Québec headquarters in Montreal. There were, however, a few enclosed spaces. There was a private conference room with Beauvoir’s beloved Magic Markers, and long sheets of paper on the walls, and blackboards and corkboards. All neatly organized.

He had his own office, being the second in command.

And the Chief had a large office in the corner, with windows looking out over Montreal. From there Armand Gamache ran the province-wide operation, looking into murders in a territory that stretched from the Ontario border to the Atlantic Ocean, from the frontier with Vermont and New York to the Arctic Circle. They had hundreds of agents and investigators in stations across the province and special teams that went into areas without a homicide squad.

All coordinated by Chief Inspector Gamache.

Beauvoir had been in Gamache’s office discussing a singularly gnarly case in Gaspé when the phone had rung. Gamache’s secretary had answered it. Inspector Beauvoir glanced at the clock on the Chief”s wall just as the phone rang. 11:18
A.M
.

“Homicide,” he’d heard her say.

And nothing had been the same since.

A small tapping on the door brought Elizabeth MacWhirter out of her reverie. She’d been staring down at the list of members, putting off the time she’d have to phone them. But she knew that time had already come and gone. She should have made the calls an hour ago. Already messages were coming in from members of the English community, including CBC Radio and the weekly English newspaper, the
Chronicle-Telegraph.
She, Winnie and Porter had tried to be coy, but had only succeeded in sounding secretive.

Reporters were on their way.

And still Elizabeth put off phoning, clinging, she knew to the last moments of anything that resembled normalcy. Of their quiet, uneventful lives, volunteering to be custodians of a dusty and all but irrelevant past, but a past precious to them.

The knocking sounded again. No louder, but not going away either. Were the reporters here already? But they, she suspected, would pound at the door as would the police. This tapping was a request, not a demand.

“I’ll get it,” said Winnie, walking across the large room and up the two steps to the door. At their desks in front of the large Palladian windows Elizabeth and Porter watched. Winnie was speaking with someone they couldn’t see, nor could they hear her conversation but she seemed to be trying to explain something. Then she seemed to be trying to close the door. Then she stopped, and opening it wide she turned into the room.

“Chief Inspector Gamache wants to speak to you,” she said to Elizabeth, almost in a daze.

“Who?” asked Porter, popping up at his desk, taking charge, now that the elderly woman had answered the door.

Winnie swung the door wide and there stood Armand Gamache. He looked at the people, but took in his surroundings. The office had a cathedral ceiling, huge arched windows and was sunken a few steps from the door. It was paneled in wood, with wood floors and bookcases and looked like an old-fashioned, miniature, gymnasium where the activity was intellectual not physical.

“I’m sorry to disturb you,” he said, coming further into the room. His coat was off and he was wearing a camel hair cardigan, a shirt and tie, and deep blue corduroy slacks. Henri, his German shepherd, was at his side.

Porter stared. Winnie backed down the stairway. Elizabeth got up from her desk and walked over.

“You came,” she said, smiling, her hand out. He took it in his large hand and held it.

“What do you mean?” asked Porter. “I don’t understand.”

“I asked if he could come and watch over the investigation for us. This is Chief Inspector Gamache,” Elizabeth waited for recognition. “Of the Sûreté du Québec.”

“I know who it is,” lied Porter. “Knew all along.”

“Chief Inspector Gamache, let me introduce the head of our Board of Directors,” said Elizabeth. “Porter Wilson.”

The two men shook hands.

“We don’t need help, you know. We’re fine on our own,” said Porter.

“I know, I just wanted to make sure. You’ve been so kind allowing me to use your library, I thought I’d offer some of my own expertise in return.”

“This isn’t even your jurisdiction,” Porter grumbled, turning his back on the Chief Inspector. “The separatists are going to have a field day. How do we know you’re not one of them?”

Elizabeth MacWhirter could have died. “For God’s sake, Porter, he’s here to help. I invited him.”

“We’ll talk about that later.”

“Not all separatists wish you harm,
monsieur
,” said Gamache, his voice friendly but firm. “But you’re right, this isn’t my jurisdiction. I’m impressed you know that.” Elizabeth watched with some amusement as Porter began to melt. “You clearly follow politics.” Porter nodded and relaxed further. Much more, thought Elizabeth, and he’d curl up in Gamache’s lap.

“The Sûreté has no jurisdiction in cities,” Gamache continued. “The death of Monsieur Renaud is a case for the local Quebec City homicide force. I happen to know Inspector Langlois and he was kind enough to also ask me to join them. After some thought,” he looked over at Elizabeth, “I decided I would just have a look.” He turned back to Porter. “With your permission of course, sir.”

Porter Wilson all but swooned. Winnie and Elizabeth exchanged glances. If they’d only realized it was so easy. But then Porter’s face clouded again as the reality sunk in.

This might not be an improvement. They’d gone from no police to now two forces occupying their building.

Not to mention the body.

“I wonder if I could leave Henri with you while I go into the basement?”