“Can you remember how much you got?”
“I remember exactly. It was three thousand two hundred dollars. Enough to pay for all of this. Sears.”
Gamache looked at the legs of the table. Prefabricated wood. There was an upholstered rocker facing the new television, and a dark wood-veneer cabinet, with decorative plates.
Madame Poirier was also looking at the contents of the room, with pride.
“He came by a few weeks later and you know what he’d brought? A new bed. Plastic still on the mattress. Set it up for me too. He still comes by sometimes. He’s a nice man.”
Beauvoir nodded. A nice man who’d paid this elderly woman a fraction of what that furniture was worth.
“But you’re not in the seniors’ home? Why not?”
“After I got the new furniture the place felt different. More mine. I kinda liked it again.”
She showed them to the door and Beauvoir noticed the welcome mat. Worn, but still there. They said good-bye and headed for her eldest son’s place a mile down the road. A large man with a gut and stubble opened the door.
“Cops,” he called into the house. It, and he, smelled of beer and sweat and tobacco.
“Claude Poirier?” Beauvoir asked. It was a formality. Who else would this man be? He was nearing sixty, and looked every moment of it. Beauvoir had taken the time before leaving the Incident Room to look up the Poirier family. To see what they were walking into.
Petty crimes. Drunk and disorderly. Shoplifting. Benefit fraud.
They were the type who took advantage, found fault, pointed fingers. Still, it didn’t mean that sometimes they weren’t right. Like about Olivier. He’d screwed them.
After the introductions Poirier launched into his long, sad litany. It was all Beauvoir could do to keep him focused on Olivier, so long was this man’s list of people who’d done him wrong. Including his own mother.
Finally the two investigators lurched from the stale house, taking deep breaths of fresh late afternoon air.
“Do you think he did it?” asked Gamache
“He’s certainly angry enough,” said Beauvoir, “but unless he could transport a body to the bistro using the buttons on his remote, I think he’s off the suspect list. Can’t see him getting off that stinking sofa long enough.”
They walked back to their cars. The Chief paused.
“What’re you thinking?” Beauvoir asked.