Dead Cold (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache, #2)(67)

‘No. That’s a bit of poetry.’

If that’s poetry, thought Beauvoir, wearily subsiding once again into the welcoming bed, I can get to like it.

‘Why’re you reading the Bible?’ he mumbled, half asleep already.

‘It’s about the writing on the wall at Mother’s meditation center. Psalm 46, verse 10. It should read, Be still, and know that I am God.’

Beauvoir drifted away, comforted by the voice and the thought.





TWENTY-THREE




The bedside clock glowed 5:51. It was still dark and would be for a while. Gamache lay in bed, feeling the fresh freezing air from the slightly open window on his face, and the bed sheets warm around him.

It was time to get up.

He showered and dressed quickly in the cool room with its dark wood furniture, white walls and fluffy feather bedding. The room was elegant and way too inviting. Gamache tiptoed down the dark stairs of the B. & B. He’d put his warmest clothing on and got into his huge parka. He’d shoved his tuque and mitts into the sleeve of his parka when he’d come in the night before, and now, thrusting his right arm into the armhole, he hit the blockage. At a practiced shove the pompom of the tuque crowned the cuff followed by his mitts, like a tiny birth.

Once outside he started walking, his feet munching on the snow. It was a brittle crisp morning but without a breath of wind and Gamache thought the forecast might actually be accurate. It was going to be a cold one, even by Quebec standards. Leaning forward slightly, head down, his mittened hands clasped behind his back, Gamache walked and thought about this baffling case with its embarrassment of suspects and clues.

Puddles of anti-freeze, niacin, The Lion in Winter, booster cables, Psalm 46:10 and a long lost mother. And that was only what he’d uncovered so far. CC was two days dead and what he really needed was an epiphany.

Round the Commons the case took him in the dark, though in winter the night was never pitch black. The snow covering the ground had its own glow. Past the homes of sleeping villagers he trudged, smoke from the chimneys rising vertically, past the darkened shops, though a hint of a light in the basement of Sarah’s Boulangerie promised fresh croissants.

Round and round he went in the astonishing quietude and comfort of the hushed village, his feet crunching on the hardened snow and his breathing loud in his ears.

Was CC’s mother asleep in one of these houses? Was it an easy sleep she enjoyed, or did her conscience startle her awake, like a home invader intent on violence?

Who was CC’s mother?

Had CC found her?

Did Mom want to be found?

Was CC motivated by need for family or was there some other, darker, purpose?

And what about the Li Bien ball? Who’d thrown it away? And why not simply toss it into the frozen dumpster, smashing it into unrecognizable pieces?

Fortunately Armand Gamache loved puzzles. Just then a dark figure shot off the village green, racing toward him.

‘Henri! Viens ici,’ a voice commanded. For a dog with such big ears Henri didn’t seem to hear. Gamache stepped aside and Henri skidded past with great glee.

‘Désolée,’ said émilie Longpré, puffing as she approached. ‘Henri, you have no manners.’

‘It’s a privilege to be chosen as Henri’s playmate.’

They both knew Henri also chose his own frozen poop as a playmate, so the bar wasn’t set so high. Still, Em gave a slight incline of her head, acknowledging his courtesy. émilie Longpré was a dying breed of Québecoise. Les Grandes Dames, not because they pushed and insisted and bullied, but because of their immense dignity and kindness.

‘We’re not used to meeting anyone on our morning walk,’ explained émilie.

‘What time is it?’

‘Just past seven.’

‘May I join you?’

He fell in beside her, the three of them making their slow progress round the Commons, Gamache tossing snowballs to an ecstatic Henri as one by one lights appeared in village windows. In the distance Olivier waved as he crossed from the B. & B. to the bistro. A moment later soft light came through the window.

‘How well did you know CC?’ Gamache asked, watching Henri skid lazily around on the frozen pond after a snowball.

‘Not well. I only met her a few times.’

In the dark Gamache couldn’t make out Em’s expression. He felt handicapped but focused intently on her tone.

‘She came to visit me.’

‘Why?’

‘I invited her. Then I met her a week or so later at Mother’s meditation center.’ émilie’s voice held a touch of humor. She could still see it. Mother’s face the color of her caftan, which that day was crimson. CC, thin and righteous, standing in the middle of the meditation room, critiquing Mother’s entire way of life.

‘Of course, it’s understandable.’ CC condescended to Mother. ‘It’s been years since you’ve renewed your spiritual path and things get stale,’ she said, mixing her metaphors and picking up a bright purple meditation pillow with two fingers, as evidence of Mother’s woefully fossilized philosophy. And decorating scheme. ‘I mean, since when has the color purple been divine?’

Mother’s hands flew to the top of her head, her mouth open and silent. But CC didn’t see any of this. She’d tilted her head to the ceiling, palms up, and hummed like a large tuning fork.