Dead Cold (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache, #2)(100)

‘Mother and Kaye and I often take the bus into Montreal and a couple of years ago we saw El at the station. It was a shock, seeing her like that, but we eventually got used to it.’

‘And you showed her some of Clara’s art?’

‘Clara? Why would we do that?’ Em was obviously confused. ‘We never had long with her, just a few minutes, so we’d give her clothes and blankets and food and some money. But we never showed her Clara’s art. Why would we?’

‘Did you ever show her a picture of Clara?’

‘No.’ Again Em seemed baffled by the question.

Why indeed, thought Gamache.

I’ve always loved your art, Clara, El had said when Clara was down and distressed.

I’ve always loved your art.

Gamache felt the warmth of the fire on his face. He wondered whether El had ever had a cod quota or worked construction.

‘How did you know El had been killed?’ There was no cushioning that question.

Em had clearly been bracing for it and hardly reacted at all.

‘We went back to Montreal on December twenty-third to give her a Christmas gift.’

‘Why go back? Why not give her the present after Ruth’s book launch?’

‘El was a creature of habit. Anything outside her routine upset her. A few years ago we tried to give her a gift early and she didn’t react well, so we learned. It had to be the twenty-third. You look puzzled.’

And he did. He couldn’t believe a woman living on the streets followed a Day Timer. How’d she even know what day it was?

‘Henri knows dinner time and when it’s time for his promenade,’ said Em after Gamache had told her what was bothering him. ‘I don’t want to compare El to my puppy, but in the end she was like that. Almost all instinct. El lived on the streets; she was crazy, covered in her own excrement, obsessive and drunk. But she was still the purest soul I’ve ever met. We looked for her outside Ogilvy’s, then the bus station. We eventually called the police. That’s when we found out she’d been killed.’

Em broke eye contact, her self-possession slipping. But still Gamache knew she’d have to endure one more question.

‘When did you know it was her daughter who killed her?’

émilie’s eyes widened. ‘Sacré,’ she whispered.





THIRTY-FIVE




‘No,’ Beauvoir screamed at the television. ‘Stop him. Defense, defense.’

‘Watch it, watch it.’ Beside him Robert Lemieux was twisting on the sofa, trying to check the New York Ranger who was racing down the ice at the New Forum.

‘He shoots!’ the announcer screamed. Beauvoir and Lemieux leaned forward, all but clasping hands, watching the tiny black dot on the screen shoot off the Ranger stick. Gabri was gripping his easy chair and Olivier’s hand was stopped halfway to the cheese plate.

‘He scores!’ the announcer shrieked.

‘Thomas. Fucking Thomas.’ Lemieux turned to Beauvoir. ‘They’re paying him what? Sixteen zillion a year and he can’t stop that.’ He gestured to the screen.

‘They’re only paying him about five million,’ said Gabri, his enormous fingers delicately spreading a piece of baguette with Saint-Albray cheese and dabbing a bit of jam on top. ‘More wine?’

‘Please.’ Beauvoir held out his glass. It was the first hockey game he’d watched without chips and beer. He quite liked the cheese and wine change-up. And he was realizing he quite liked Agent Lemieux. Up until this moment he’d seen him as a piece of mobile furniture, like a chair on wheels. There for a purpose, but not to be friendly with. But now they were sharing this humiliating defeat at the hands of the crappy New York Rangers, and Lemieux was proving himself a staunch and knowledgable ally. Granted, so were Gabri and Olivier.

The Hockey Night in Canada theme was playing and Beauvoir got up to stretch his legs and walk around the living room of the B. & B. In another chair Chief Inspector Gamache was making a call.

‘Thomas let in another,’ said Beauvoir.

‘I saw. He’s coming too far out of the net,’ said Gamache.

‘That’s his style. He intimidates the other team, forces them to shoot.’

‘And is it working?’

‘Not tonight,’ Beauvoir agreed. He picked up the chief’s empty glass and wandered away. Fucking Thomas. I could do better. And while the commercials were on Jean Guy Beauvoir imagined himself in net for the Canadians. But Beauvoir wasn’t a goalie. He was a forward. He liked the limelight, the puck play, the panting, the skating and the shooting. Hearing an opponent grunt as he was forced into the boards. And maybe giving him an extra elbow.

No, he knew himself enough to know he’d never make a goalie.

That was Gamache. The one they all depended on to make the save.

He took the filled wine glass back and put it on the table by the phone, Gamache smiling his thanks.

‘Bonjour?’ Gamache heard the familiar voice and his heart contracted.

‘Oui, bonjour, is this Madame Gamache, the librarian? I hear you have a book overdue.’

‘I have a husband overdue, and he is a little bookish,’ she said, laughing. ‘Hello, Armand. How are things going?’

‘Eleanor Allaire.’