Glass Houses (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #13)(111)

“In the corner.”

“By the two Americans?”

“You know them?”

“Never seen them before, but one considers himself a chef. After trying the soup”—Anton nodded toward a bowl—“he asked if I’d give them the recipe.”

Lacoste looked down at the notebook and the page headed Watermelon Gazpacho with Mint and Mango.

She wanted to eat the paper.

“I notice that Ruth isn’t out there. Do you mind if I call her?”

“Be my guest. Might be the first time her phone’s ever rung. I wonder if she’ll know what it is.”

Isabelle smiled, knowing that the young chef and the old poet had established a sort of friendship. Based on him giving her free food, and her giving him grief. And both knowing what happened when the straight road splayed.

Lacoste went to the phone attached to the wall and dialed. After about ten rings, during which Isabelle imagined her searching the small home for whatever was ringing, Ruth picked up.

“Hello,” she shouted into the receiver.

“Ruth, it’s Isabelle Lacoste. I’m at the bistro. We’re having drin—”

“Be right over,” Ruth yelled, then hung up.

Lacoste turned and saw Anton smiling. He’d obviously heard. She suspected everyone in Québec had heard.

She returned to the bistro. Clara and Myrna had joined Reine-Marie and Annie, and after greeting them, Isabelle took a seat.

Her back was to the two men at the table, and to Matheo and Lea, though she could just see their distorted reflections in the leaded-glass window.

“Not sitting with you?” Isabelle asked, tipping her head toward Matheo and Lea.

“Oh, it’s not us they’re avoiding.”

“It’s me,” said Lacoste.

She knew why, of course. The trial. Like her, Matheo and Lea were witnesses for the prosecution. But, unlike her, they were unwilling witnesses.

Lacoste knew the first question the prosecution would ask them, and she suspected they did as well. It was pretty much the first question Chief Superintendent Gamache had asked that November night when they’d made their way through the sleet to the B&B.

*

“What time is it?” asked a groggy Gabri, as the knocking on the door continued. “Did someone forget their key?”

“Everyone’s in,” said Olivier, hauling himself awake. “And what key?”

“It’s one thirty?” Gabri was fully awake now, swinging his legs out of bed and reaching for his dressing gown. “Something’s happened. Something’s wrong. Here, take this.”

He handed Olivier a two-by-four.

“Why?” asked Olivier.

“That’s our burglar alarm.”

“Burglars don’t knock.”

“Wanna risk it?”

They walked softly so as not to disturb their guests, though they were far from sure any of them would be able to sleep. Especially Patrick, who’d looked both exhausted and wide awake even as he was being led to bed by his friends.

Olivier and Gabri turned on the porch light and peered through the window. Then they quickly opened the front door.

*

Patrick heard the knocking.

Little good ever came from being aroused at that hour. Though Patrick had not been asleep.

When they’d gone to bed, Gabri had offered to put him in another room, but Patrick had wanted to go back to the one he’d shared with Katie. That had all of Katie’s clothes, and her jewelry, and her toiletries.

All catalogued and photographed by the homicide team, and returned to exactly where Katie had left them, when she’d left.

Her purse on the chair. Her reading glasses on the book on the bedside table.

He’d lain in bed, listening to the creaking of the old inn. Listening as the others had settled and all human sounds died down. And he could be alone with Katie. He could close his eyes and pretend she was there, beside him, breathing so softly he couldn’t even hear her.

Patrick inhaled the scent of her. And he knew she was there. How could she not be? How could she be gone?

But she wasn’t gone, he told himself quickly, before he fell off the ledge. She was there. Beside him. Breathing so softly he couldn’t hear.

And then, into the night, came the knock on the door. Then the tap on their bedroom door.

“Patrick?”

“Oui?”

“Can you come downstairs, please?” asked Gabri.

*

Patrick, Lea and Matheo entered the living room. And stopped.

Facing them were Chief Superintendent Gamache, Chief Inspector Lacoste and Inspector Beauvoir.

And Jacqueline. The baker.

Gabri stirred the embers in the hearth and threw on a couple of birch logs. The wood caught, and crackled, and temporarily drowned out the sound of the sleet against the windows.

“What’s happening out there?” Olivier whispered when Gabri joined him in the kitchen.

“They’re staring at each other.” Gabri got out the brioche and turned on the oven while Olivier brewed coffee. “What’s Jacqueline doing here?”

“She must know something,” said Olivier. “Maybe she saw something.”

“But why do they want to speak to Patrick and the others?” asked Gabri. “And in the middle of the night. What won’t wait?”