Dead Cold (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache, #2)(48)

‘CC and I were sitting side by side, about five feet apart. As I said, it was quite cold and I was wearing a lot of clothing. I think I might have dozed off. The next thing I know CC’s standing at Mother’s chair gripping the back of it as though she’s going to pick it up and throw it. But she’s kind of trembling. Everyone around is cheering and clapping but then I realized CC wasn’t cheering at all, but screaming. Then she lets go of the chair and falls down.’

‘What did you do?’

‘I got up to see what had happened, of course. She was lying on her back and there was a strange smell. I think I must have called out because the next thing I knew there were all these people around. Then Ruth Zardo took over. Bossy woman. Writes horrible poetry. Nothing rhymes. Give me a good bit of Wordsworth any time.’

‘Why did she get out of her chair?’ Beauvoir asked hastily before Kaye or Gamache or both started quoting.

‘How should I know?’

‘Did you see anyone else around the chairs? Anyone bending over them, say? Or maybe spilling a drink?’

‘Nobody,’ said Kaye, firmly.

‘Did Madame de Poitiers speak to you at all?’ Gamache asked.

Kaye hesitated. ‘She seemed disturbed by Mother’s chair. There was something about it that was upsetting her, I think.’

‘What?’ Mother said. ‘You never told me that. What could possibly upset her about my chair, except the fact it was mine? She was out to get me, that woman. And now she died holding my chair.’

Mother’s face matched her caftan and her bitter voice filled the calm and tranquil room. She seemed to realize how she sounded and regained herself.

‘What do you mean, madame?’ asked Gamache.

‘About what?’

‘You said Madame de Poitiers was out to get you. What did you mean by that?’

Mother looked at émilie and Kaye, as though suddenly lost and frightened.

‘She means,’ said Kaye, jumping in to save her friend, ‘that CC de Poitiers was a stupid, vapid, vindictive woman. And she got what she deserved.’





Agent Robert Lemieux was deep in the bowels of S?reté headquarters in Montreal, a building he’d seen in recruitment posters, but never actually visited. In recruitment posters he’d also seen a whole lot of happy Québecois gathered respectfully round a S?reté officer in uniform. That was something else he’d never seen in real life.

He’d found the door, closed, and the name Chief Inspector Gamache had given him stenciled onto the frosted glass.

He knocked and adjusted the leather of his satchel over his shoulder.

‘Venez,’ the voice barked. A thin, balding man looked up from his slanting desk. A pool of light from a small lamp shining on it was the only light in the room. Lemieux had no idea whether the room was tiny or cavernous, though he could guess. He felt claustrophobic.

‘You Lemieux?’

‘Yes sir. Chief Inspector Gamache sent me.’ He took a step further into the room with its formaldehyde smell and intense occupant.

‘I know. Otherwise I wouldn’t be seeing you. I’m busy. Give me what you’ve got.’

Lemieux dug into his satchel and pulled out the photograph of Elle’s dirty hand.

‘So?’

‘Well, here, you see?’ Lemieux waved an index finger over the middle of the hand.

‘You mean these bloodstains?’

Lemieux nodded, trying to look authoritative and praying to God this curt man didn’t ask him why.

‘I see what he means. Extraordinary. Right, tell the Chief Inspector he’ll get it when he gets it. Now go away.’

Agent Lemieux did.





‘Well, that was interesting,’ said Beauvoir as the two men walked through the gathering snow back to the Incident Room.

‘What struck you as interesting?’ Gamache asked, his hands behind his back as he walked.

‘Mother. She’s hiding something.’

‘Perhaps. But could she be the murderer? She was curling the whole time.’

‘But she might have wired up the chair before the curling began.’

‘True. And she might have spilled windshield washer fluid. But how did she get CC to touch the chair before anyone else? There were children running around. Any of them might have grabbed the chair. Kaye might have.’

‘Those two fought the whole time we were there. Maybe Madame Thompson was supposed to get electrocuted. Maybe Mother killed the wrong person.’

‘It’s possible,’ said Gamache. ‘But I don’t think Madame Mayer would risk other lives.’

‘So the curlers are out?’ Beauvoir asked, disappointed.

‘I think so, but when we meet Madame Longpré tomorrow at the lake we’ll have a better idea.’

Beauvoir sighed.

He was frankly astonished the entire community hadn’t died of boredom. Just talking about curling was sucking the will to live right out of him. It was like some Anglo joke, an excuse to wear plaid and yell. Most Anglos, he’d noticed, didn’t like to raise their voices. Francophones were constantly gesturing and shouting and hugging. Beauvoir wasn’t sure why Anglos even had arms, except perhaps to carry all their money. Curling at least gave them an excuse to vent. He’d watched the Briar once on CBC television, for a moment. All he remembered was a bunch of men holding brooms and staring at a rock while one of them screamed.