Dead Cold (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache, #2)(19)

‘Do you like it?’ he asked softly.

‘I love it. And I love you. Thank you, Peter.’ She hugged him, still holding the sphere. ‘It must be a Christmas decoration. Do you think it’s a picture of Three Pines? I mean, of course it’s three pine trees but they actually look like our pines on the village green. But I guess any three evergreens together are going to look alike. I adore it, Peter. It’s the best gift ever. And I won’t even ask where you found it.’

He was very grateful for that.

By mid-morning the chestnut stuffing was in the turkey and the turkey was in the oven, filling the house with more wonderful Christmas smells. Peter and Clara decided to wander over to the bistro, passing villagers as they went. Most took a moment to recognize since they’d almost all received brand new tuques in their Christmas stockings, the old ones being both familiar and well eaten by dogs and kittens. All winter long the family pet would worry the pompoms until most of the villagers ended up looking like candles, with wicks on the tops of their heads instead of the woolly balls.

At the bistro Clara found Myrna by the fire sipping mulled wine. They struggled out of their coats, which didn’t seem to want to let them go, and put their tuques and mitts on the radiator to keep warm. Cherry-faced villagers and children kept arriving, in from cross-country skiing or snow-shoeing, tobogganing down the hill above the mill or skating on the pond. Some were just heading off for half a day’s downhill skiing at Mont St-Rémy.

‘Who’s that?’ Myrna pointed to a man sitting by himself.

‘Monsieur Molson Canadian. Always orders the same beer. Good tipper,’ said Olivier, placing two Irish coffees on the table for Peter and Clara along with a couple of licorice pipes. ‘Merry Christmas.’ He kissed them both then nodded to the stranger. ‘He showed up a couple of days ago.’

‘Probably a renter,’ said Myrna. It was unusual to find strangers in Three Pines, only because it was hard to find and people rarely stumbled on it by accident.





Saul Petrov sipped his beer and took a bite of his roast beef sandwich on a baguette with melting Stilton cheese and arugula. Beside it on his plate was a diminishing pile of shoestring fries, lightly seasoned.

It was perfect.

For the first time in years Saul felt human. He wasn’t quite up to approaching these friendly people but he knew when he did they’d ask him to join them. They just seemed that sort. Already a few had smiled in his direction and lifted their drinks, mouthing ‘Santé’ and ‘Joyeux No?l’.

They seemed kind.

No wonder CC loathed them.

Saul dipped a fry into his small saucer of mayonnaise and wondered which of the people here was the artist. The one who’d done that amazing melting tree. He didn’t even know if it was a man or a woman.

He wondered if he should ask someone. Three Pines was so small he was sure someone would be able to tell him. He’d like to congratulate the artist, buy him or her a beer, talk about their shared art and craft. Talk about things creative instead of the dark places he went with CC. First, though, he had business in Three Pines. But once that was done he’d find the artist.

‘Excuse me.’ He looked up and a huge black woman was smiling down at him. ‘I’m Myrna. I own the bookstore next door. I just wanted to tell you there’s a community breakfast and curling match tomorrow in Williamsburg. We all go. It’s a fundraiser for the local hospital. You may not know about it, but you’re welcome to attend.’

‘Really?’ He hoped he didn’t sound as thick as he felt. Why was he suddenly afraid? Not of this woman, surely. Was he afraid, perhaps, of her kindness? Afraid she’d mistaken him for someone else? Someone interesting and talented and kind.

‘The breakfast’s at the legion at eight and the curling starts at ten on Lac Brume. Hope you can make it.’

‘Merci.’

‘De rien. Joyeux No?l,’ she said in accented but beautiful French. He paid for his lunch, leaving an even larger tip than usual, and left, getting in his car for the short drive up the hill to the old Hadley house.

He’d tell CC about the event. It was perfect. Just what he was looking for.

And when the event was over he’d have finished what he’d come to do, and then, perhaps, he could sit at the same table as these people.





EIGHT




‘Did you find something?’

Chief Inspector Armand Gamache poured his wife a glass of Perrier and kissed the top of her head as he leaned over to peer at the document in her hand. It was Boxing Day and they were in his office at S?reté headquarters in Montreal. He was in gray flannels, a shirt and a tie, which he always wore to the office, and an elegant cashmere cardigan, an acknowledgment that he was on holiday, after all. Though he was only in his early fifties there was an old world charm about Gamache, a courtesy and manner that spoke of a time past. He smiled down at his wife, his deep brown eyes taking in the soft wave of her graying hair. From where he stood he could just faintly pick up the subtle fragrance of Joy by Jean Patou, the eau de toilette he gave his wife each Christmas. Then he moved round in front of her and eased himself into the leather chair opposite, finding the familiar curves worn into the seat. His body spoke of meals enjoyed and a life of long walks rather than contact sports.

His wife, Reine-Marie, was sitting in another leather chair, a huge red and white check napkin on her lap, a dossier in one hand and a turkey sandwich in the other. She took a bite then dropped her reading glasses from her face, to dangle on their strings.