“Al,” said Evie, pulling him away. “It doesn’t matter what people say. We have to help the police find out who did this to Laurent. That’s all that matters.” She turned from her husband to Lacoste. “You have to believe it wasn’t us. Please.”
The other Sûreté agents came up from the basement and shook their heads. Nothing.
Chief Inspector Lacoste picked up the cassette. “Thank you for your time.”
“May I take this with me?” asked Beauvoir, holding up Al Lepage’s record. “I’ll be careful with it.”
Al waved at him, dismissing the man, the record, the question.
Clara walked with Lacoste and Beauvoir to the cars.
“You don’t really think Al or Evie had anything to do with Laurent’s death, do you?” she asked.
“I think people can do terrible things,” said Beauvoir. “Lash out. Hurt or even kill someone they love. That man is coming apart.”
“From grief,” said Clara.
“From something,” said Beauvoir.
Once in the car, Beauvoir turned to Lacoste. “Did you notice anything strange about the Lepages?”
Lacoste had been quiet, thinking. Now she nodded.
“Neither of them asked about the gun,” she said.
Beauvoir nodded. “Exactly.”
* * *
They spent the balance of the afternoon following up on the interviews and checking facts and details.
Isabelle saw Gamache leave his home with Henri, first glancing in the direction of the old train station, then turning away and walking out of sight.
A few minutes later she found him on the bench above the village, Henri sitting by his side.
“You aren’t avoiding me, are you?” she asked, joining Gamache on the bench. “Because this isn’t a very good hiding place.”
He smiled. His face creasing with amusement.
“Perhaps I am,” he admitted. “It’s not personal.”
“It’s professional,” she said, and nodded. “It must be strange not to be in charge of the investigation.”
“It is, a little,” he admitted. “It’s hard not to slip back into the old roles. Especially since—” He spread his large hands, and she understood the enormity of his struggle. “Laurent.”
She nodded. This murder had hit home.
“You need your space, Isabelle. It’s your investigation. I have no desire to return, but—”
“But it’s in the blood.”
She glanced down at his hands. Those expressive hands. That she’d held, as he lay dying. As he’d sputtered to her what they both knew would be the last thing he’d say.
Reine-Marie.
She’d been the vessel into which he’d poured his final feelings, his eyes pleading with her to understand.
And she did.
Reine-Marie.
She’d held his hand tightly. It was covered in his own blood and that of others. And it mingled with the blood on her hands. Her own, and others.
And now catching killers was in their blood.
Chief Inspector Gamache hadn’t died. And he’d continued to lead them for many investigations. Until the time had come to come here.
He’d done enough. It was someone else’s turn.
Hers.
“You and Madame Gamache seem happy here.”
“We are. Happier than I ever thought possible.”
“But are you content?” Isabelle probed.
Gamache smiled again. How different she was from Jean-Guy, who’d come right out and demanded, “Are you going to stay here doing nothing, or what, patron?”
He’d tried to explain to Jean-Guy that stillness wasn’t nothing. But the taut younger man just didn’t understand. And neither would he have, Gamache knew, in his thirties. But in his fifties Armand Gamache knew that sitting still was far more difficult, and frightening, than running around.
No, this wasn’t nothing. But the time was coming when this stillness would allow him to know what to do. Next.
What next?
“Please take the Superintendent’s position, patron. There’s a lot left to do at the Sûreté. A mess still to clean up. And you saw those two recent recruits. The new agents have no discipline, no pride in the service.”
“I did notice that.”
“If those are the ones coming up through the ranks, we’ll be back where we started within ten years.” She turned to fully face him. “Please, take the job.”
He looked down at the village.