A Better Man (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #15)(139)

The next morning the villagers gathered to dismantle the wall of sandbags. All danger was past.

Then, led by Myrna, they walked down the path beside the Bella Bella, past young fiddleheads and lily of the valley and crocuses in the woods, to the bend in the river.

Lighting candles and a stick of dried sage, they smudged the area, blessed the area, said a prayer for the dead and the living. Then all walked back to the bistro for breakfast.

But Armand and Reine-Marie stopped at the bench on the village green. A peaceful place in the bright sunshine. They watched robins hop on the grass. They smelled woodsmoke and mud. And sweet pine.

Armand put his hand into his coat pocket and felt the envelope there. He’d forgotten it but now brought it out.

“What’s that?” Reine-Marie asked.

“From Jean-Guy. His suggestion for my second-in-command.”

After he’d opened it, he smiled and put it back in his pocket. Beside him, Reine-Marie closed her eyes and tilted her face up.

Then they walked back to the bistro to join the others.

Unheard by anyone else, Armand bent down and whispered to Ruth. “I forgive you, but don’t ever do it again.”

“Do what?”

“You know.” While he couldn’t bring himself to say the words, especially to the elderly woman, even this elderly woman, he brought out his phone and showed her. The Twitter handle @dumbass. And the link to the real S?reté video of the raid on the factory. There were other posts by @dumbass, defending Gamache. But when the video went up, they’d stopped.

There was no longer any need to defend him once that vile video went viral.

“How did you find it?” he asked.

“I didn’t. You think I’d defend you?”

“I do.”

“I would,” the old poet admitted. “I did. But that’s not me.”

Armand stepped back and stared at Ruth. He knew her to be many things, but never a liar.

So if she wasn’t @dumbass, who was?



* * *



Madeleine Toussaint sat at her desk and opened her computer.

Putting in her S?reté code, she went back over her posts, aimed at Gamache, and deleted them all. Pausing just a moment at the final one.

Then Chief Superintendent Toussaint hit delete. And @dumbass disappeared. Never, she prayed, to be found. Because if anyone knew … If the Premier found out she’d defied him, and defended Gamache by posting the real video …

It was an act of contrition. An amend. And now they were even, and she owed her former mentor nothing.

Looking across the room, her eyes fell on the last remnant of the last occupant. Something she kept meaning to take down. But had kept up. The framed poster, nailed to the wall by the door. The first, and last, thing seen each day.

Noli timere.



* * *



Armand sat on the sofa beside Reine-Marie and reached for the café au lait Olivier had brought them.

He seemed distracted, but now he reached into his pocket and handed Reine-Marie the envelope. “You might want to read this.”

“Jean-Guy’s recommendation?” She put on her reading glasses. “Will you take it?”

“I think so.”

Armand watched her face as Reine-Marie read. He saw the smile. And relief. As she stared at Jean-Guy’s familiar hand and the name he’d so carefully written.

Armand’s new second-in-command.

Isabelle Lacoste.

Reine-Marie lowered the paper to her lap and looked into the fireplace. Everything might be all right, after all, she thought.





ACKNOWLEDGMENTS


This book was initially going to be dedicated to my wonderful agent of fifteen years, Teresa Chris, in thanks for her own dedication to the books. She was the first publishing professional to believe in Gamache and Three Pines.

But, having said that, I decided to dedicate A Better Man not to my agent, but to a dog. (Sorry, Teresa…)

Bishop, the golden retriever who shared Michael’s and my life for many years, died while I was writing this book. In fact, I almost changed the name of the dog in the book from Fred to Bishop, but for some reason, “Fred” just worked better. Besides, that was the name of my assistant Lise’s dog, who also died while I was writing A Better Man. He deserved to be remembered, too.

Bishop is the last in a long line of golden retrievers who have shared, and improved, our lives. Who taught us how to be more generous, more kind, way more forgiving. More patient. More human.

Our first golden was Bonnie.

I’d wanted a dog for a long time. Michael did not. Just before we got married I somehow convinced him that a puppy would be the perfect wedding gift to each other. It was, for Michael, the same as giving each other razor-sharp teeth, pee, poop, and tumbleweeds of hair.

He was not enthusiastic.

After our honeymoon we picked up Bonnie, all eight weeks of her, and brought her home.

She immediately peed. Then cried all night.

In the morning I came down to find Michael cradling her, and Bonnie curled, asleep, in his arms.

She was forever his. And he was hers.

Each successive dog, over twenty years, tolerated me and bonded to Michael. Which, I must say, was fine with me. I loved seeing the joy in both their eyes when they spotted each other.