“All right, what’ve we got?”
Beauvoir was standing by the paper tacked to the wall next to a map of the village.
“We know the victim wasn’t murdered at the bistro,” said Lacoste. “But we still don’t know where he was killed or who he was.”
“Or why he was moved,” said Beauvoir. He reported on their visit to the Poiriers, mère et fils. Then Lacoste told them what she and Morin had learned about Olivier Brulé.
“He’s thirty-eight. Only child. Born and raised in Montreal. Father an executive at the railway, mother a homemaker, now dead. An affluent upbringing. Went to Notre Dame de Sion school.”
Gamache raised his brows. It was a leading Catholic private school. Annie had gone there too, years after Olivier, to be taught by the rigorous nuns. His son Daniel had refused, preferring the less rigorous public schools. Annie had learned logic, Latin, problem solving. Daniel had learned to roll a spliff. Both grew into decent, happy adults.
“Olivier got an MBA from the Université de Montréal and took a job at the Banque Laurentienne,” Agent Lacoste continued, reading from her notes. “He handled high-end corporate clients. Apparently very successfully too. Then he quit.”
“Why?” asked Beauvoir.
“Not sure. I have a meeting at the bank tomorrow, and I’ve also set up an appointment with Olivier’s father.”
“What about his personal life?” Gamache asked.
“I talked to Gabri. They started living together fourteen years ago. Gabri’s a year younger. Thirty-seven. He was a fitness instructor at the local YMCA.”
“Gabri?” asked Beauvoir, remembering the large, soft man.
“Happens to the best of us,” said Gamache.
“After Olivier quit the bank they gave up their apartment in Old Montreal and moved down here, took over the bistro and lived above it, but it wasn’t a bistro then. It’d been a hardware store.”
“Really?” asked Beauvoir. He couldn’t imagine the bistro as anything else. He tried to see snow shovels and batteries and lightbulbs hanging from the exposed beams or set up in front of the two stone fireplaces. And failed.
“But listen to this.” Lacoste leaned forward. “I got this by digging into the land registry records. Ten years ago Olivier bought not just his bistro, but the B and B. But he didn’t stop there. He bought it all. The general store, the bakery, his bistro and Myrna’s bookstore.”
“Everything?” asked Beauvoir. “He owns the village?”
“Just about. I don’t think anyone else knows. I spoke to Sarah at her boulangerie and to Monsieur Béliveau at the general store. They said they rented from some guy in Montreal. Long-term leases, reasonable rates. They send their checks to a numbered company.”
“Olivier’s a numbered company?” asked Beauvoir.
Gamache was taking all this in, listening closely.
“How much did he pay?” asked Beauvoir.
“Seven hundred and twenty thousand dollars for the lot.”
“Good God,” said Beauvoir. “That’s a lot of bread. Where’d he get the money? A mortgage?”
“No. Paid cash.”
“You say his mother’s dead, maybe it was his inheritance.”
“Doubt it,” said Lacoste. “She only died five years ago, but I’ll look into it when I’m in Montreal.”
“Follow the money,” said Beauvoir. It was a truism in crime investigations, particularly murder. And there was suddenly a great deal of money to follow. Beauvoir finished scribbling on his sheets on the wall, then told them about the coroner’s findings.
Morin listened, fascinated. So this was how murderers were found. Not by DNA tests and petrie dishes, ultraviolet scans or anything else a lab could produce. They helped, certainly, but this was their real lab. He looked across the table to the other person who was just listening, saying nothing.
Chief Inspector Gamache took his deep brown eyes off Inspector Beauvoir for a moment and looked at the young agent. And smiled.
Agent Lacoste headed for Montreal shortly after the meeting broke up. Agent Morin left for home and Beauvoir and Gamache walked slowly back over the stone bridge and into the village. They strolled past the darkened bistro and met Olivier and Gabri on the wide veranda of the B and B.
“I left a note for you,” said Gabri. “Since the bistro’s closed we’re all going out for dinner and you’re invited.”
“Peter and Clara’s again?” asked Gamache.
