Glass Houses (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #13)(94)

“A pretty good indication,” said Myrna.

She looked at Armand, but he wasn’t agreeing. Or disagreeing.

He couldn’t get away from the feeling that this was far simpler than it appeared, and all this other stuff was just muddying the waters.

Something happened, perhaps long ago, to create a motive. To propel someone into killing Katie Evans.

An old inheritance.

*

“Back up, you brute,” said Jean-Guy, trying to get past the threshold of the Gamache home while tiny Gracie tried to stop him.

“What is that?” asked Anton in a whisper, so as not to offend the creature. “I’ve seen Monsieur and Madame Gamache walking the two of them.” He looked over at Henri, who was standing back and wagging his tail so furiously his entire body was swaying. “He’s a shepherd, I know that.” But even so, Anton stared at Henri for a moment. Judging by the ears, he seemed to have some satellite dish in him. Then Anton turned back to Gracie and lowered his voice even more. “Is it a piglet?”

“We have no idea what she is. Pup, pug, pig. Wolverine. Though we’re pretty sure she’s a she,” said Jean-Guy, as they took the food into the kitchen.

“Well, progress not perfection,” said Anton, and Jean-Guy paused while turning on the oven.

Anton glanced around as he unpacked the dinner, noticing the worn butcher block countertops, the open shelving with dishes and glasses.

At the far end of the kitchen, by the windows that looked onto the village green, two armchairs sat on either side of a woodstove. Books and newspapers and magazines were stacked on side tables. Not messy, but neither was it overly neat.

The room was restful and inviting. As was the living room they’d walked through.

After tossing a small piece of wood into the woodstove to get the embers going again, Beauvoir joined Anton.

“You used a phrase just now,” said Beauvoir, putting out the napkins and trying not to step on Gracie, still underfoot.

“Did I?” Anton followed him around the pine table, folding the napkins nicely.

“Progress not perfection. It’s one I recognize.” He stopped and looked at Anton. “Are you a Friend of Bill?”

“I wondered about you too,” said Anton with a smile. “Hot chocolate in a bistro? When everyone else is drinking wine or scotch. Six years’ sobriety. You?”

“Two years and three months.”

“Well done. Booze?”

“And drugs,” said Beauvoir. “Painkillers.”

It wasn’t something he ever talked about, except to other members, and people who knew. Like Annie, of course, and the Gamaches.

Friend of Bill was code. For a member of AA. Of which this Anton was clearly one. It was like finding a member of his tribe, unexpectedly.

The two men stood in the warm kitchen, the sleet hitting the windows, and realized that while they knew nothing about each other, they actually knew each other better than almost anyone else on earth.

“Drugs were my problem too,” said Anton. “Pharmaceuticals. Almost killed me. I had one foot in the grave and the other on a banana peel, as they say. Ended up in treatment, and finally kicked the drugs, but took up drinking. Seemed a sensible decision.”

Jean-Guy laughed. It was, absolutely, the logic of an addict.

“Finally kicked that too,” said Anton, putting the casserole in the oven to stay warm.

“You have a moment?” Beauvoir asked, indicating the chairs by the woodstove.

One of the problems with investigations was being away from his sponsor and meetings. It was helpful to talk to another member. Someone who knew the terrain.

“When did you start?” asked Beauvoir, taking a seat. Lifting Gracie onto his lap, he wrapped her in his sweater to keep her warm.

“Using? A bit in high school but it really got out of control at university. I’m not sure I was ever cut out for higher education, but the drugs sure hurried along the inevitable.”

“Flunked out?”

“Left just before that happened.” Anton shook his head. “You know, some kids could handle it, but some, like me, it was like putting nitro in my system.”

“Did you ever deal?” asked Beauvoir.

Anton brought his hand up to his mouth and regarded Beauvoir as he gnawed on his nails.

“I won’t arrest you,” smiled Jean-Guy. “Besides, it must’ve been years ago.”

“Not that long,” Anton protested, then smiled. “Yeah, I dealt, but not as much as some. I ended up using most of it myself. Big mistake. What a shit storm.” Anton shook his head at the memory. “Flunking out became the least of my worries. You know what a supplier does to a dealer who becomes a junkie?”

“I’ve seen.”

“So have I. That’s really why I left. I ran away and hid. Put shit up my nose and my head up my own ass. And hoped no one would find me.”

“So how’d you get straight?”

“Family sent me to treatment. They’d had enough.”

He glanced into the fire and put his stocking feet up on the hassock, taking a small book off it first.

Opening the book, he flipped through it, then stopped and gave a single harrumph and looked up at Beauvoir.

“Have you read this?”

Jean-Guy sighed. “I have.”