And Armand Gamache and his team spent their days finding murderers.
But was this a murder at the Manoir Bellechasse? Gamache didn’t know. But he did know that something unnatural had happened here.
Take this in to them, s’il vous plaît,” Chef Véronique’s large ruddy hand trembled slightly as she motioned to the trays. “And bring out the pots already there. They’ll want fresh tea.”
She knew this was a lie. What the family wanted they could never have again. But tea was all she could give them. So she made it. Over and over.
Elliot tried not to make eye contact with anyone. He tried to pretend he heard nothing, which was actually possible given the sniffles and snorts coming from Colleen. It was as though her head contained only snot. And too much of it.
“It’s not my fault,” she sputtered for the hundredth time.
“Of course it’s not,” said Clementine Dubois, hugging her to her huge bosom and readjusting the Hudson’s Bay blanket she’d put on the young gardener for comfort. “No one’s blaming you.”
Colleen subsided into the soft chest.
“There were ants everywhere,” she hiccuped, pulling back but leaving a thin trail of mucus on the shoulder of Madame Dubois’s floral dress.
“You and you,” said Chef Véronique, pointing to Elliot and Louise, not unkindly. The tea would be too strong if they waited much longer. The waiters were young, she knew, and had no experience with death. Unlike herself. Sending them in to wait on the Morrows was bad enough at the best of times, and this was far from the best of times. A room full of grief was even worse than a room full of anger. Anger a person got used to, met most days, learned to absorb or ignore. Or walk away from. But there was no hiding from grief. It would find you, eventually. It was the thing we most feared. Not loss, not sorrow. But what happened when you rendered those things down. They gave us grief.
All around the staff sat in easy chairs, perched on counters, leaned against walls, sipping strong coffee or tea, comforting each other. Murmured guesses, theories, excited speculation filled the air. The maître d’ had brought Colleen in, delivered her into their arms for comfort and dry clothing, then rounded up the rest of the staff. Once the family had been told he’d broken the news to the employees.
Madame Martin was dead. Crushed by that statue.
Everyone had gasped, some had exclaimed, but only one cried out. Pierre scanned the room, but didn’t know who. But he did know the sound had surprised him.
Inspector Beauvoir finally stared into the hole. Only it wasn’t a hole. It was filled with a human. A woman, wide-eyed, surprised, and dead, a statue imbedded in her chest.
“Jesus.” He shook his head and slapped his arm, squishing a blackfly. In his peripheral vision he saw Agent Lacoste leaning in and putting her latex gloves on.
This was their new office.
Over the next few minutes more trucks and team members arrived and the Scene of Crime work got into full swing. Armand Gamache took it all in, as Beauvoir led the forensics.
“What do you think, Chief?” Lacoste removed her gloves and joined him under his umbrella. “Was she murdered?”
Gamache shook his head. He was stumped. Just then the young Sûreté officer he’d placed in the Great Room with the Morrows appeared, excited.
“Good news, sir,” she said. “I thought you’d like to know as soon as possible. I think we have a suspect.”
“Well done. Who?”
“The family was quiet at first, but after a while two of them started whispering. Not the artist fellow, but the other brother and sister. They seem pretty confident if it was murder she could only have been killed by one of two people.”
“Really?” Beauvoir asked. They might be able to get back to civilization sooner than he’d thought.
“Oui.” She consulted her notebook. “The shopkeeper and his cleaning woman wife. Their names are Armand and Reine-Marie something. They’re guests.”
Beauvoir grinned and Lacoste turned away briefly.
“My suspicions confirmed,” said Beauvoir. “Will you come quietly?”
“I’ll miss you,” said Agent Lacoste.
Gamache smiled slightly and shook his head.
Seven mad Morrows.
Six.
ELEVEN
“Peter,” Clara whispered.
She’d watched as he’d taken the Manoir notepaper and a pencil and then, gray head bowed, become lost as the pencil drew lines within ordered lines. It was mesmerizing and comforting, in the way the third martini was comforting. It felt good, but only because it numbed. Even Clara felt drawn in. Anything to escape the room filled with silent and solemn sorrow.