Glass Houses (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #13)(56)

“But why would it?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” said Jacqueline. “Because we worked for a madman?”

“They’re the ones who left,” said Anton. “Not us. Besides, we don’t know anything.”

“We know enough. Maybe he sent the cobrador as a warning. To keep our mouths shut.”

But if the cobrador had come for them, why was Madame Evans dead?

The cops hadn’t yet told them exactly what had happened, but it was obvious. Madame Evans wasn’t just dead. Judging by the activity at the church, it was neither natural nor an accident.

“Is it too late to say something?” he asked.

“Maybe not.” She punched the dough. “But it’ll look bad. They’ll wonder why we didn’t tell them sooner.”

“Why didn’t we?”

But he knew perfectly well.

He remembered that dark mask, facing the bistro. Facing him. Boring through the windows and walls, into the kitchen, where he washed dishes.

The Conscience. That was threatening everything Anton had built up.

Yes. That was why he hadn’t wanted to say anything to that Gamache fellow. The head of the whole S?reté. In case he figured it out. Realized who he was.

Even Jacqueline didn’t know.

He looked at her. Those long fingers in the dough, once so sensuous, were now claws, ripping the life out of a baguette.

He knew why he’d wanted to keep silent about the cobrador. But he began to wonder why she did.

The door between the bakery and the bistro swung open with such force that it banged against the wall, and both Jacqueline and Anton jumped.

Lea Roux stepped in, followed by Matheo.

“We need—” began Lea, but stopped abruptly when she saw Anton.

They stared at each other. He’d seen them before, but only briefly. They were visitors, that’s all he knew. But now he thought, maybe, he recognized them. Or at least her.

“There you are.” Olivier walked in behind them. He acknowledged Lea and Matheo with a sympathetic nod. He’d spoken to them in the bistro, and offered condolences.

Now his attention turned to his dishwasher. “I’ve been looking all over for you.” His voice was appropriately solemn and courteous, though annoyance was poking through. “I need you in the kitchen. It’s a little busy.”

Olivier gave a strained smile and it was clear that, if not for the others present, he’d have said something else. In a whole other way.

“Sorry,” said Anton. He hurried over to the door, but paused to look at Jacqueline. “You okay?”

When she nodded, he turned to Lea and Matheo. “Désolé. It’s terrible.”

It was clear she’d been crying, her eyes were puffy and red.

Anton followed Olivier through the crowded bistro, filled with talk of murder, to the kitchens, filled with the scent of herbs and rich, comforting sauces, and the clatter of pots and pans and dishes.

To others it was a cacophony. To Anton it was a symphony. Operatic even. The clanging and banging of creation, of drama, of tension. Of rivalries. Of divas. Competing flavors and competing chefs. Heartbreak even. As soufflés fell. As casseroles burned.

But most of the time what rose from those noises, that grand tumult, was something wonderful. Beautiful. Exciting and comforting.

Anton had wept once, in Italy, when he’d tasted a perfect gelato. And once in Renty, France, when he’d taken a bite of baguette. A bread so sublime people traveled hours to buy one.

Yes. To others a kitchen was a convenience. Even a chore. To a precious few, it was their world. A messy, wonderful world. His world. His sanctuary. And he longed to get back into it. To hide. And hope the S?reté didn’t figure out who he was.

“Let’s go,” said Olivier, holding open the swinging door to the kitchen. “There’s lots to do. Not just here, but the S?reté agents are going to need sandwiches and drinks.”

“I’ll see to it,” said Anton.

Olivier relaxed just a little. “Merci.”

*

Once back at the church, Isabelle Lacoste sent an agent into Knowlton, to interview staff at the restaurant. See if they remembered the Evanses. Another agent was sent into the village with a list of the people to be interviewed.

She invited Chief Superintendent Gamache to sit in.

He declined. “Unless you need me, Isabelle.”

She thought for a moment. “Well, they’d be more likely to tell the truth, since you know them and know most of their movements in the last day or so. But,” she smiled and shrugged, “if they lie, they lie.”

It was not as cavalier as it sounded, Gamache knew.

“You’ll join us for dinner and stay over, I hope,” he said. “And perhaps we can compare notes.”

With him at the interviews, everyone would be on a short leash. Forced to tell the truth. Which, granted, was helpful in a murder investigation.

But not, perhaps, quite as helpful as a lie.

A lie didn’t necessarily make someone a killer. But it hurried the sorting process. The truthful from the untruthful. Those with nothing to hide. And those with a secret.

A lie was a light. One that grew into a floodlight, that eventually illuminated the person among them with the biggest secret. The most to hide.

*