Glass Houses (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #13)(107)

It was a question that had plagued them.

There were a few reasons the murderer might do that. He was panicked. Or distracted. The way people sometimes walked out of a shop with an unpaid article in their hands. By mistake.

And when the murderer realized what he’d done, how very incriminating the bat was, he’d returned it.

That was the most likely reason.

But still, why not just burn it? Why risk returning it?

And that brought them to the other reason. The killer wanted the bat to be found.

“To manipulate the results,” said Beauvoir. “To plant DNA evidence.”

“Maybe,” said Gamache. “And if that’s what’s happened, it might be helpful to let the real murderer think he’s fooled us.”

“More incompetence, patron?” asked Beauvoir. He smiled.

And yet Beauvoir felt a creeping concern that they weren’t simply pretending to be incompetent, but that they actually were. That these decisions would lead them in the wrong direction and a killer would go free.

“We need more evidence,” he said.

Gamache was nodding. It wasn’t enough to find out who’d murdered Katie Evans. They had to be able to prove it.

“Been a long day,” he said. “We need to eat.”

There was no challenging that last statement at least.

*

Anton hadn’t been lying about his skills as a chef.

The beef casserole, with hints of herbs, and wild garlic and succulent mushrooms he’d gathered in the fall and dried, was unlike anything they’d ever tasted.

“Does Olivier know what he has in Anton?” Reine-Marie asked.

She’d been trying to put on a cheerful face, though she was clearly exhausted, wrung out by the events of the day.

“I don’t think so,” said Armand, clearing the table while Jean-Guy got out the dessert.

“Panna cotta with raspberry coulis,” Beauvoir read from the note attached to the ramekins. “Anton told me he learned how to cook in treatment. Clearly I went into the wrong treatment program.”

“Never,” said Gamache. “We love our macramé plant hangers.”

“That’s good, because Christmas is coming up.”

“Come on,” Armand said to Reine-Marie, who had dark circles under her eyes and was fading fast. “Time for bed. We’ll save a dessert for you.”

“I’m all right,” she said.

“I know you are.”

He helped her up, and when Isabelle and Jean-Guy had said their good-nights, he walked with her upstairs, but not before taking Jean-Guy and Isabelle aside.

“Call Myrna and Ruth. See who else they told about the Prohibition story. And see what you can find out about Anton.”

The dishwasher chef had admitted to a lot, including knowing both the cobrador and the victim. But it wasn’t really anything the investigators wouldn’t have found out on their own eventually.

Were his admissions the act of an innocent man, clearing his conscience, or the preemptive act of a killer?

“When I come down, we’ll go over to the B&B.”

“Oui, patron.”

After getting Reine-Marie settled in bed, he returned a few minutes later only to find her fast asleep. Tucking the hot water bottle under the covers, he kissed her softly, so as not to wake her, and left the tea on the bedside table. The scent of chamomile, he knew, would be soothing.

As he went downstairs, he could hear Jean-Guy on the phone.

“Listen, you old hag, it’s a simple question.”

He could even hear Ruth’s scratchy reply.

“You call in the middle of the night to ask about Prohibition, numbnuts? Isn’t it a little late, in every way?”

“It’s nine thirty, and I need to know.”

“It’s 2017, and Prohibition has been repealed, or hadn’t you heard, asshat.”

“I’m not calling for a history lesson…”

Their conversation, if that’s what it could be called, continued as Gamache looked into his study and saw Lacoste on his computer, entering Anton’s name into the S?reté records.

“That’ll take a while. I’m going to take Henri and Gracie for a walk. Need some fresh air?” he asked, as more filth floated in from the room next door.

“Good idea.”

Once outside, they looked at the B&B. Lights were still on.

They walked, heads bowed into the wind, while the dogs played and did their business, oblivious to the driving sleet.

“Patron, about the cellar. Why don’t you want us—” Lacoste began before Gamache stopped her by raising his hand, palm toward her, in warning.

“But we’re alone,” she shouted, above the wind.

Without a word, he pointed toward the shops.

A light had gone on in the loft above Myrna’s bookstore. Jean-Guy must have moved on to the next person on his list. No doubt a more pleasant conversation.

But that wasn’t what Gamache was indicating.

In the bistro, patrons could be seen through the mullioned windows chatting and having dessert and coffee in front of the fireplace, before heading home.

A figure walked past the window, dark against the lights. Bundled up, so that it was impossible to see if it was a man or a woman.