Dead Cold (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache, #2)(44)

Now, why was she called Mother? Clara had seemed to think he could figure it out without even meeting her. Beatrice Mayer? Mother Bea? He shook his head, but knew he’d get it, eventually. It was the sort of little puzzle he enjoyed.

He went back to his imagination, joining these people for Boxing Day breakfast. The place warm and cheery and festooned with the tackiest Christmas decorations imaginable. He didn’t have to spend energy imagining them. They were still up. The plastic and crepe paper stars and snowflakes. The fake tree, missing at least half its plastic and wire branches. The paper bells and crayoned green and blue snowmen made by the excited and exhausted, and not overly gifted, daycare children. The upright piano in the corner almost certainly had pounded out carols. The room must have been full of the aroma of pancakes and maple syrup, drawn from trees surrounding the town. Eggs and cured Canadian back bacon.

And CC and her family? Where had they sat? Had anyone joined her for her final meal? Had any of them known it was her final meal?

One of them had. Someone had sat in this very room, eating and drinking and laughing and singing Christmas carols on Boxing Day, and planned a murder.

Outside Gamache paused to get his bearings, then, checking his watch, he set out for Lac Brume. He’d always liked Williamsburg. It was quite different from St-Rémy, which was more French while Williamsburg was traditionally more English, though this was changing as the two languages and cultures mixed. As he walked he noticed the lovely homes and shops, all covered in pure white snow. It was quiet: that peace and calm that came in winter as though the earth was resting. Cars barely made any noise on the cushion of snow. People walked silently along the sidewalks, their steps making not a sound. Everything was muffled and mute. It was very, very peaceful.

Four and a half minutes it had taken him to get from the Legion to the lake. He’d not hurried, but he had long legs and he knew most people would take slightly longer. But it was a pretty good average.

He stood at the side of the road looking down over the lake, empty and obscured now by the snow. The curling rink was almost invisible and the only real evidence anything had happened here were the stands, empty and lonely as though waiting for company that would never come.

What to do about Yvette Nichol? The peace of the place gave him a moment to mull the problem. And problem she was. He knew that now. He’d been fooled by her once, but Armand Gamache wasn’t a man to be fooled twice.

She was there for a reason, and the reason wasn’t necessarily CC de Poitier’s murder.





Inspector Beauvoir drove out of Three Pines and turned toward St-Rémy. After a few minutes down wooded and snowy back roads he turned into a driveway and up to a rambling wooden house. He’d brought an agent with him, just in case. Now he knocked on the door and stood loose-limbed, trying to give the impression he was relaxed, maybe even distracted. He wasn’t. He was ready to give chase at any moment. Actually hoped chase would be necessary. Sitting and talking was Chief Inspector Gamache’s territory. Running was his.

‘Oui?’ A disheveled middle-aged man stood on the threshold.

‘Monsieur Petrov? Saul Petrov?’

‘Oui, c’est moi.’

‘I’m here about the murder of CC de Poitiers. I understand you knew her?’

‘I’ve been waiting for you. What took so long? I have some pictures that might interest you.’





Gamache shrugged out of his huge coat, readjusting his jacket and sweater which had bunched up underneath. Like everyone else in winter, he looked as though someone had put a mouse down his back. He paused for a moment, gathering his thoughts, then walked into the small private room, picked up the phone, and dialed.

‘Oh, it’s you, Armand. Did you get my present?’

‘If you mean Agent Nichol, I did, Superintendent Francoeur. Merci.’ Gamache spoke jovially into the phone.

‘What can I do for you?’ Francoeur’s voice was deep and smooth and intelligent. No hint of the cunning, the devious, the cruel man who lived in that head.

‘I want to know why you sent her.’

‘It seemed to me you were too hasty in your judgment, Chief Inspector. Agent Nichol’s worked here in narcotics for a year and we’re very pleased with her.’

‘Then why send her to me?’

‘Are you questioning my judgment?’

‘No, sir. You know I have no need to wonder why you do anything.’

Gamache knew he’d made a direct hit. Venom poured down the line and filled the great, bare silence.

‘Why have you called, Gamache?’ snarled the voice, all pretense dropped.

‘I wanted to thank you, sir, for sending Agent Nichol. Joyeux No?l.’

He hung up then, but he’d already heard the line go dead in his hand. Gamache had what he needed.

He knew he was being frozen out of decision-making at the highest level of the S?reté du Québec, a level he had once enjoyed. Officially he was still head of homicide and a senior officer in the force. But privately things had changed. Since the Arnot case.

But it was only recently he’d come to appreciate how much had changed. He had had no more requests for Beauvoir to lead other investigations. Agent Isabelle Lacoste had been reassigned more than once since the Arnot case to minor jobs in minor departments, as had other members of his homicide squad. Gamache hadn’t thought anything of it, assuming the temporary transfers had been made because they were necessary. It had never occurred to him his people were being punished for something he himself had done.