Glass Houses (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #13)(35)

“That’s right. Most new members have some legislation they’re personally attached to. Most are defeated.”

“Was yours?” asked Clara.

“It was. A bill to end overcrowding in emergency wards.”

“Actually, it was about the war on drugs,” said Armand.

“Oh, yeah, that’s right.”

“I read your bill closely,” said Gamache. “I was head of homicide at the time and a huge percentage of the crime, of the killings, in Québec are drug-related.”

“And what did you think?”

“I thought it offered creative solutions to an obviously failing situation.”

“Then why did her bill fail?” asked Gabri.

“A number of reasons,” said Gamache.

Senior S?reté officers on the take. Corruption in government. The cartels getting more and more powerful and calling the shots.

But he wouldn’t say any of that to them. Though there was one reason that he could discuss.

“It might seem trivial, but one reason is that you named the bill after someone. I can’t remember who.”

“Edouard,” said Lea. “And why was that a problem?”

“It made it feel like a personal crusade by a member trying to make her mark, and not a sweeping solution to a growing social threat.”

“Other bills are named for people,” said Clara. “Lots of them.”

“Absolutely, but those that succeed already have broad public support. Their sponsors have done their legwork. Gotten the media, the public and fellow politicians behind them. You”—he turned to Lea—“did not.”

“True. If politics is an art, I was finger-painting.”

“So who was Edouard?” asked Reine-Marie.

“He was our roommate at Université de Montréal,” said Matheo.

“We all hung out,” said Lea. “Edouard was one of the crowd.”

“A little more than that, wouldn’t you say?” said Matheo.

Even in the candlelight they could see her color rise.

“I had a small crush on him,” said Lea. “We all did. Even you, I think.”

Matheo laughed and grinned. “He was very attractive.”

“What happened to him?” asked Myrna.

“Can’t you guess?” said Matheo.

There was a lull in the conversation.

“He must’ve been young,” said Clara, at last.

“Not even twenty,” said Lea. “He jumped off the roof of the residence. Fifteen stories up. Down. Stoned. It was a long time ago.”

“Not so long,” said Matheo. “We were all very proud that the first thing Lea did when elected was propose La loi Edouard.”

Edouard’s Law.

“It failed,” said Lea.

“But at least you tried,” said Gamache. “And now you’ve learned so much more about the process. Have you considered reentering your bill? Perhaps we can work together to craft an effective bill.”

“I look forward to that,” said Lea.

Gamache waited, then sat back in his chair. Considering.

Lea Roux had been polite, but did not seem all that interested in working with the head of the S?reté to stop drug trafficking.

And why would that be, he asked himself. And why would she have apparently forgotten that her very first bill, her priority, was Edouard’s Law?

Appearances, again. Like the thing on the village green. They cloaked what was underneath.





CHAPTER 11

In the morning it was gone.

Armand stood on the verandah, in his coat and cap and gloves. Henri and little Gracie on leashes. Though from their perspective, Armand was the one on the leash.

All three stared at the empty village green, shrouded in early morning mist.

He looked around. At the homes, the gardens, down the quiet dirt roads that ran into and out of Three Pines like compass points, marking the cardinal directions.

Nothing stirred. Though there was birdsong now, and a few blue jays rested on the back of the bench on the green.

“Off you go,” he said, unclipping the dogs.

Henri and Gracie took off, down the steps, along the path, over the quiet road and onto the green, where they chased each other round and round the three tall pines.

Gracie ran a little like a hare, loping at speed.

She couldn’t be…? Armand wondered, as he watched.

Her back feet were larger than her front, it was true. And her ears were growing longer and longer.

It was still far from clear what Gracie was. But one thing wasn’t in question.

Whatever she was, she was theirs.

A slight movement off to his left caught his attention and he looked over. There, in an upper window, a large robed figure looked down on him.

Armand stared at it, his eyes sharp, his focus absolute. His body tense.

But when the figure took a step back and light fell on it, he saw that it was Myrna.

She waved and a minute later emerged wearing a wool coat, bright pink tuque with pompom, and carrying the largest mug of coffee he’d ever seen. Really, more a pail.

“Our friend has gone,” she said, her feet making a thucking sound as she yanked her rubber boots out of the mud with every step.