“I’m sorry I did that.”
Gamache stared at the dishevelled man in front of him. “Be careful, Peter. You have a good spirit, but even good spirits stumble, and sometimes they fall. And sometimes they don’t get up.”
TWENTY-FOUR
WHO BENEFITS?
Beauvoir wrote in very large, very clear, very red capital letters on the foolscap. Instinctively he wafted the Magic Marker under his nose as he surveyed his work.
Now that was art. Or, if not actually art, it was definitely beautiful. It represented structure and order, and both those things thrilled the Inspector. Soon they’d have a list, of names, of motives, of clues, of movements. They’d connect them all up. Some would be dead ends, some murky alleys, but some would be superhighways, and they’d follow those speeding clues to the end.
Inspector Beauvoir looked over at the Chief Inspector, his elbows on the dark wooden table, his large fingers intertwined, his eyes thoughtful and attentive.
And then what?
But Beauvoir knew the answer to that. When they’d gone as far as the known world took them, when he and Lacoste and all the other investigators could see no further, Chief Inspector Gamache stepped forward. He walked into the unknown. Because that’s where murderers lurked. They might appear to walk in the same sun and drizzle, along the same grass and concrete, and even to speak the same language. But they didn’t really. Chief Inspector Gamache was willing to go where few others could. And he never, ever asked them to follow him, only to help him find the way.
Both men knew that one day Beauvoir would step forward. And both men knew the burned and desolate spot Gamache sought wasn’t exclusive to the murderer. The reason Armand Gamache could go there was because it wasn’t totally foreign to him. He knew it because he’d seen his own burned terrain, he’d walked off the familiar and comfortable path inside his own head and heart and seen what festered in the dark.
And one day Jean Guy Beauvoir would look at his own monsters, and then be able to recognize others. And maybe this was the day and this was the case.
He hoped so.
Now he put the capped Magic Marker in his mouth and jogged it up and down like a giant red cigar, staring at the blank page, except for the expectant heading.
WHO BENEFITS?
“Well, David Martin does,” said Agent Lacoste. “He doesn’t have to pay alimony.”
Beauvoir wrote the name and the reason. He also wrote, “One less witness.”
“What do you mean?” asked the Chief Inspector.
“Well, at his trial she testified, but basically said she knew nothing about his business dealings. But suppose that wasn’t true? I get the feeling these Morrows aren’t very smart—in fact, they’re so stupid they think they’re smart. But they are cunning. And she grew up in a home where business was talked about, and she adored her father, so she probably paid attention.”
He stopped to gather his run-on thoughts. He was pretty sure this was leading somewhere. His colleagues waited. There was a tap at the door and he strolled over to open it.
Lunch.
“Hello, Elliot,” said the chief as the lithe young waiter gave him a barbecued steak sandwich with sautéed mushrooms and caramelized onions on top.
“Bonjour, Patron,” the young man smiled, then beamed at Lacoste, who looked quite pleased.
He put a lobster salad in front of her. And Beauvoir got a hamburger and string fries. For the last twenty minutes they’d smelled the charcoals warming up in the huge barbecue in the garden, with the unmistakable summer scents of hot coals and lighter fluid. Beauvoir hadn’t stopped salivating. Between that and the sweating he thought he should order a cold beer. Just to prevent dehydration. The chief thought that sounded good, as did Lacoste, and before long each had a beer in a tall frosted glass.
As he looked out of the French doors he saw the maître d’ walk by with a platter of steak and shrimp from the barbecue, presumably for the Morrows.
“You were saying?” The Chief Inspector was looking at him.
Beauvoir took the burger with him to the foolscap.
“D’accord, the husband. Doesn’t it seem as though he’s been here the whole time?” said Beauvoir. “I mean, even before the murder you said people were talking about him, telling you and Madame Gamache who Julia’s husband was. It was as though the Morrows couldn’t figure out if they loved him or hatred him.”
“You’re right,” said Gamache. “He’s been the uninvited guest.”
Beauvoir let that go, suspecting it must be a quote. Still, it was a good way of putting it. The one not necessarily wanted, not expected, not watched for or prepared for. The one, therefore, with the advantage.
