Olivier looked at his partner, with his cheery white and red heart-shaped apron. The one he’d begged Gabri not to buy for Valentine’s Day two years ago. Had begged him not to wear. Had been ashamed of, and prayed no one they knew from Montréal visited and saw Gabri in such a ridiculous outfit.
But now Olivier loved it. Didn’t want him to change it.
Didn’t want him to change anything.
As he washed the glasses he saw Armand Gamache take a sip of his coffee and get to his feet.
* * *
Beauvoir walked over to the sheets of paper tacked to the walls of the old railway station. Uncapping the Magic Marker he waved it under his nose as he read what was written. It was all in neat, black columns.
Very soothing. Legible, orderly.
He read and reread their lists of evidence, of clues, of questions. Adding some gathered by their investigations so far that day.
They’d interviewed most of the guests at the party. Not surprisingly, none had admitted to wringing Lillian Dyson’s neck.
But now, staring at the sheets, something occurred to him.
All other thoughts left his mind.
Was it possible?
There were others at the party. Villagers, members of the art community, friends and family.
But someone else was there. Someone mentioned a number of times but never remarked upon. And never interviewed, at least not in depth.
Inspector Beauvoir picked up the phone and dialed a Montréal number.
TWENTY
Clara closed the door and leaned against it. Listening for Peter. Hoping, hoping. Hoping she’d hear nothing. Hoping she was alone.
And she was.
Oh, no no no, she thought. Still the dead one lay moaning.
Lillian wasn’t dead. She was alive in Mr. Dyson’s face.
Clara had raced home, barely able to keep her car on the road, her view obscured by that face. Those faces.
Mr. and Mrs. Dyson. Lillian’s mom and dad. Old, infirm. Almost unrecognizable as the robust, cheery people she’d known.
But their voices had been strong. Their language stronger.
There was no doubt. Clara had made a terrible mistake. And instead of making things better, she’d made them worse.
How could she have been so wrong?
* * *
“Fucking little asshole.” André Castonguay shoved the table away and got up, unsteadily. “I have a thing or two to say to him.”
François Marois also got up. “Not now, my friend.”
They both watched as Denis Fortin walked back down the hill and into the village. He didn’t hesitate, didn’t look in their direction. Didn’t deviate from a course he’d clearly chosen.
Denis Fortin was making for the Morrow house. That much was clear to Castonguay, to Marois, and to Chief Inspector Gamache, who was also watching.
“But we can’t let him speak to them,” said Castonguay, trying to pull himself away from Marois.
“He won’t be successful, André. You know that. Let him have his try. Besides, I saw Peter Morrow leave a few minutes ago. He’s not even there.”
Castonguay turned unsteadily toward Marois. “Vraiment?” There was a slightly stupid smile on his face.
“Vraiment,” Marois confirmed. “Really. Why don’t you go back to the inn and relax.”
“Good idea.”
André Castonguay walked slowly, deliberately across the village green.
Gamache had watched all this, and now his gaze shifted to François Marois. There was a look of weary sophistication on the art dealer’s face. He seemed almost bemused.
The Chief Inspector stepped off the terrasse and joined Marois, whose eyes hadn’t left the Morrow cottage, as though he expected it to do something worth witnessing. Then his look shifted to Castonguay, trudging up the dirt road.
“Poor André,” said Marois to Gamache. “That really wasn’t very nice of Fortin.”
“What wasn’t?” asked Gamache, also watching the gallery owner. Castonguay had stopped at the top of the hill, swayed a bit, then carried on. “It seemed to me Monsieur Castonguay was the one being abusive.”
“But he was provoked,” said Marois. “Fortin knew how André would react as soon as he sat at the table. And then—”
“Yes?”
“Well, ordering more drinks. Getting André drunk.”
“Did he know Monsieur Castonguay has a problem?”
“Daddy’s little problem?” Marois smiled, then shook his head. “It’s become an open secret. Most of the time he has it under control. Has to. But sometimes—”