‘That’s a little harder to say. Until recently she was selling her works for Canadian Tire money.’
Gamache smiled, seeing the wads of the store’s credit bills they gave out with every purchase, like Monopoly money. He had a pile in his glove compartment. Perhaps he should buy an original Clara Morrow while he still could.
‘But then her art started attracting more attention,’ Lacoste continued. ‘As you know, she has a huge solo show coming up.’
‘That brings us to Mariana Morrow,’ said Beauvoir, taking a delicate sip of tea. He imagined Chef Véronique scooping the loose dried leaves into the pretty floral pot, then grasping the large iron kettle and pouring the steaming water in. For him. She’d know it was coming to him, and probably added an extra scoop. And trimmed the crusts from the cucumber sandwiches.
‘Right, Mariana Morrow,’ said Lacoste, turning the page of her notebook. ‘Lives in Toronto too. In an area called Rosedale. I gather it’s like Westmount. Very posh.’
‘Divorced?’ asked Beauvoir.
‘Never married. This is the interesting part. She’s selfmade. Has her own company. She’s an architect. Got a huge break right out of school. For her thesis she designed a small, energy efficient low cost home. Not one of those ugly concrete blocks, but something pretty cool. A place low income people needn’t be ashamed to live in. She made a fortune from it.’
Beauvoir snorted. Trust a Morrow to make money from the poor.
‘She goes all over the world,’ continued Lacoste. ‘Speaks French, Italian, Spanish and Chinese. She makes massive amounts of money. Her last tax form shows her income last year at well over two million dollars. And that’s just what she declares.’
‘Wait a minute,’ said Beauvoir, almost choking on an éclair. ‘You’re saying that woman all wrapped in scarves who drifts around and is late for everything is a self-made millionaire?’
‘More successful than even her father,’ Lacoste nodded. She was secretly pleased. It gave her pleasure to think this most marginalized of Morrows was actually the most successful.
‘Do we know who the kid’s father is?’ Beauvoir asked.
Lacoste shook her head. ‘Maybe there isn’t one. Maybe it was a virgin birth.’
She liked screwing with Beauvoir’s head. ‘I think I can guarantee you that’s not true,’ said Beauvoir, but a look at Gamache removed his smirk. ‘Now, you’re not telling me you believe it, Chief? I’m not going to be the one putting that in the official report. Suspects, Thomas, Peter, Mariana, oh yes and the Second Coming.’
‘You believe in the first, don’t you? Why not the second?’ asked Agent Lacoste.
‘Come on,’ he sputtered. ‘Do you really want me to believe the Second Coming is a child named Bean?’
‘A bean is a seed,’ said Gamache. ‘It’s an old allegory for faith. I have a feeling Bean is a very special child. Nothing is impossible with Bean.’
‘Except to tell if it’s a boy or a girl,’ said Beauvoir, miffed.
‘Does it matter?’ asked Gamache.
‘It matters in that all secrets in a murder investigation matter.’
Gamache nodded slowly. ‘That’s true. Often after a day or so it’s obvious who’s genuine and who isn’t. In this case it’s getting muddier and muddier. Thomas told us about a plant in the desert. If it showed itself for what it really was predators would eat it. So it learned to disguise itself, to hide its true nature. The Morrows are the same. Somehow, somewhere along the line they learned to hide who they really are, what they really think and feel. Nothing is as it seems with them.’
‘Except Peter and Clara,’ said Agent Lacoste. ‘I presume they’re not suspects.’
Gamache looked at her thoughtfully.
‘Do you remember that first case in Three Pines? The murder of Miss Jane Neal?’
They nodded. It was where they first met the Morrows.
‘After we’d made an arrest I was still uncomfortable.’
‘You think we arrested the wrong person?’ asked Beauvoir, aghast.
‘No, we got the murderer, there’s no doubt. But I also knew there was someone else in Three Pines I felt was capable of murder. Someone who needed watching.’
‘Clara,’ said Lacoste. Emotional, temperamental, passionate. So much can go wrong with a personality like that.
‘No, Peter. Closed off, complex, so placid and relaxed on the surface but God only knows what’s happening underneath.’
‘Well, I at least have some good news,’ said Beauvoir. ‘I know who wrote these.’ He held up the crumpled notes from Julia’s grate. ‘Elliot.’
‘The waiter?’ asked Lacoste, amazed.
Beauvoir nodded and showed them the samples of Elliot’s writing next to the notes. Gamache put on his half-moon reading glasses and bent over. Then he sat up.
‘Well done.’
‘Should I speak to him?’
Gamache thought about it for a moment then shook his head. ‘No, I’d like to put a few more things together first, but this is interesting.’
‘There’s more,’ said Beauvoir. ‘He’s not only from Vancouver, but he lived in the same neighbourhood as Julia and David Martin. His parents might have known them.’
‘Find out,’ said Gamache, rising and heading for the door to pick up his wife.
Elliot Byrne seemed to have breached the boundary set out by Madame Dubois. Had young Elliot conquered lonely and defenceless Julia Martin? What had he wanted? An older lover? Attention? Perhaps he’d wanted to finally and absolutely infuriate his boss, the maître d’.
Or was it simpler than that, as it often was? Did he want money? Was he tired of waiting tables for a pittance? And when he got money from Julia, did he kill her?
At the door to the library Gamache paused and looked back at the sheet of foolscap hanging up and the large red letters at the top.
WHO BENEFITS?
Who didn’t benefit from Julia’s death, he was beginning to wonder.
TWENTY-SIX
Reine-Marie laid down her fork and leaned back in the comfortable chair. Pierre whisked away the plate, which had the smallest dusting of strawberry shortcake crumbs left, and asked if there was anything else.
‘Perhaps a cup of tea,’ she said and when he’d left she reached out and squeezed her husband’s hand. It was a rare treat to see him in the middle of one of his cases. When she’d arrived she’d said hello to Inspector Beauvoir and Agent Lacoste, both of whom were eating and working in the library. Then they’d wandered into the dining room, made up with crisp white linen and fresh flowers and gleaming silver and crystal.
A waiter placed an espresso in front of Gamache and a teapot in front of Reine-Marie.
‘Did you know the Manoir makes its own honey?’ Armand asked, noticing the amber liquid in a pot beside her teacup.
‘Really? How extraordinary.’
Reine-Marie didn’t normally take honey but decided to try some with her Thunderbolt Darjeeling, dipping her little finger into the honey before stirring it in.
‘C’est beau. It has a familiar taste. Here, try.’
He dipped as well.
Her eyes narrowed as she tried to figure it out. He knew, of course, what she was tasting but wanted to see if she’d get it.
‘Give up?’ he asked. When she nodded he told her.
‘Honeysuckle?’ She smiled. ‘How wonderful. Will you show me the glade sometime?’
‘With pleasure. They even polish the furniture with the beeswax.’
As they talked Gamache noticed the Morrows were at their table, though Peter and Clara weren’t in their regular seats. They were relegated to the far end, with Bean.
‘Hello,’ said Reine-Marie, as they left the dining room for a stroll, ‘how are you both?’
But she could see. Peter was wan and strained, his clothes dishevelled and his hair awry. Clara was immaculate, buttoned down and impeccable. Reine-Marie didn’t know which was more disconcerting.
‘You know.’ Clara s
hrugged. ‘How’s Three Pines?’ She sounded wistful, as though asking after a mythical kingdom. ‘All ready for Canada Day?’
‘Yes, it’s tomorrow.’
‘Really?’ Peter looked up. They’d lost all sense of time.
‘I’m going over tomorrow,’ said Gamache. ‘Would you like to come? You’ll be in my custody.’
He thought Peter would burst into tears, he looked so relieved and grateful.
‘That’s right, it’s your anniversary,’ said Clara. ‘And I hear there’s a major new talent being unveiled at the clogging competition.’
Gamache turned to his wife. ‘So Gabri wasn’t kidding?’
‘Sadly not.’
They made the arrangements and the Gamaches turned to go into the garden.
‘Wait, Armand.’ She laid a hand on his arm. ‘Do you think we could pop in and compliment the chef? I’m dying to meet her. Would she mind?’
Gamache thought about it. ‘Perhaps we should ask Pierre. I don’t think it’d be a problem, but you never know. Wouldn’t want to have to dodge cleavers.’
‘Sounds like our clog-dancing training. Ruth’s the coach,’ she explained.
Gamache tried to catch Pierre’s eye but the maître d’ was busy explaining, or apologizing, to the Morrows.
‘Come on, we’ll just look in.’ He took her hand and they pushed through the revolving door.
The place was chaos, though after a moment, shoved to the wall and clinging to it as waiters whizzed by balancing trays of glasses and dishes, Gamache could see the ballet. It wasn’t chaos at all, but more like a river in full flood. There was a near frantic movement to it, but there was also a natural flow.
‘Is that her?’ Reine-Marie asked, nodding across the crowded room. She didn’t dare point.
‘That’s her.’
Chef Véronique wore a white chef’s hat and a full apron, and wielded a huge knife. Her back was to them. Then she turned and saw them. She paused.
‘She doesn’t look pleased to see us,’ whispered Reine-Marie, smiling and trying to signal to the clearly annoyed chef that it was her husband’s fault.
‘Let’s get out of here. Me first,’ he said and the two scampered out.
‘Well, that was embarrassing,’ Reine-Marie laughed once they got outside. ‘I’d watch your food from now on.’
‘I’ll get Inspector Beauvoir to taste it first,’ he smiled. The reaction of Chef Véronique had surprised him. In the past she’d seemed in command and not particularly stressed. Tonight she seemed upset.
‘Do you know, I think I’ve met her before after all,’ said Reine-Marie, slipping her arm through her husband’s, feeling his reassuring strength. ‘Probably around here somewhere.’
‘She’s the one who tends the beehives, so maybe you have seen her.’
‘Still,’ said Reine-Marie, straightening up after sniffing the sweet perfume of a peony, ‘she’s quite singular. Hard to forget.’
The garden smelled of fresh-turned earth and roses. Every now and then she caught a slight scent of herbs wafting from the kitchen garden. But the scent she longed for, and caught as she leaned into her husband, was sandalwood. It was more than his cologne, he seemed to exude it. It was how every season smelled. It was how love and stability and belonging smelled. It was the perfume of friendship and ease and peace.
‘Look.’ He pointed into the night sky. ‘It’s Babar.’
He swirled his fingers around, trying to get her to see the elephant shape in the stars.
‘Are you sure? It looks more like Tintin.’
‘With a trunk?’
‘What’re you pointing at?’
The little voice came out of the darkness. The Gamaches squinted and then Bean appeared, carrying the book.
‘Hello, Bean.’ Reine-Marie bent down and hugged the child. ‘We were just looking at the stars, seeing shapes.’
‘Oh.’ The child seemed disappointed.
‘What did you think we’d seen?’ Gamache knelt down too.
‘Nothing.’
The Gamaches paused, then Reine-Marie pointed to the book. ‘What’re you reading?’
‘Nothing.’
‘I used to read about pirates,’ said Gamache. ‘I’d put a patch over my eye, a teddy bear on my shoulder’ – Bean smiled – ‘and find a stick for a sword. I’d play for hours.’
The large, commanding man swept his arm back and forth in front of him, fighting off the enemy.
‘Boys,’ said Reine-Marie. ‘I was National Velvet, riding my horse in the Grand National race.’
She grabbed imaginary reins, tucked her head down, leaned forward and urged her steed over the very highest of fences. Gamache smiled in the darkness, then he nodded.
He’d seen that very pose before, recently.
‘May I see your book?’ He didn’t hold out his hand, he simply asked. After a moment the child handed it to him. It was warm where Bean had clutched it and Gamache had the impression of small indents, as though Bean’s fingers had melded with the hard cover.
‘Myths Every Child Should Know,’ he read, then flipped open the book. ‘It belonged to your mother?’
Bean nodded.
Gamache opened it and let the leaves splay. He looked at Bean.
‘The story of Pegasus,’ he said. ‘Shall I show you Pegasus in the night sky?’
Bean’s eyes widened. ‘He’s up there?’
‘He is.’ Gamache knelt again and pointed. ‘Do you see the four bright stars?’ He put his cheek against the child’s, feeling it soft and warm, then he lifted Bean’s reluctant hand, until Bean relaxed and pointed along with Gamache. Bean nodded.
‘That’s his body. And down below, those are his legs.’
‘He isn’t flying,’ said Bean, disappointed.
‘No, he’s grazing, resting,’ said Gamache. ‘Even the most magnificent of creatures needs a rest. Pegasus knows how to soar and chase and glide. But he also knows how to be at peace.’
The three of them stared at the stars for a few minutes, then they walked around the quiet garden and spoke of their days. Eventually Bean decided to go in and ask for a hot chocolate before bed.
The Gamaches linked arms again and strolled, then turned to walk back.
‘Do you know who killed Julia Morrow?’ she said as they approached the old lodge.
‘Not yet,’ he said quietly. ‘But we’re getting closer. We know who wrote the notes and we have an assortment of clues and facts.’
‘Jean Guy must be very happy.’
‘You have no idea.’ In his mind’s eye he saw the foolscap with its columns. And then, again, the one column without clues or facts, without even theories or guesses.
How.
They walked past the corner of the lodge and both instinctively looked at the white marble cube. Then a figure detached itself from the corner of the lodge. It was as though one of the logs had righted itself and decided to walk back into the forest. In the moonlight they watched the shadow make its way across the lawn, but instead of heading into the dark woods it turned towards the lake.
Bert Finney’s steps echoed on the wooden dock and then were silent. Armand Gamache told Reine-Marie about Finney, and his father.
‘And he told the others?’ she asked.
Beside her Armand nodded. She looked up at the stars.
‘Have you spoken to Daniel again?’
‘I’ll call him tomorrow. I wanted to give him time to calm down.’
‘Him time?’
‘Both of us time. But I’ll call.’
Before they drove back they stopped in at the library to say goodnight.
‘And don’t let the Chief Inspector leave tomorrow without bringing a jar of Chef Véronique’s honey,’ she instructed Beauvoir.
‘Her honey?’
‘She’s a bee-keeper too. Amazing woman.’
Beauvoir agreed.
As they drove back Reine-Marie remembered where she’d seen Chef Véronique before. It was most extraordinary an
d unexpected. She smiled and had opened her mouth to speak when he asked about the Canada Day festivities and soon she was describing the day the villagers had planned.
Once he’d dropped her off she realized she’d forgotten to tell him, but determined not to forget the following day.
*
When he got back to the Manoir Gamache found Agent Lacoste on the phone to her children and Jean Guy Beauvoir sipping espresso on the sofa surrounded by books. On beekeeping.
Gamache wandered the shelves and before long he had an espresso, a cognac and a stack of books of his own.
‘Did you know there’s only one queen bee per hive?’ asked Beauvoir. A few minutes later he broke into the chief’s reading with another announcement. ‘Did you know a wasp or hornet or queen can sting over and over but a worker bee can only sting once? Only honey bees have poison sacs. Isn’t that amazing? When they sting it gets ripped out of them and stays in the victim. Kills the bee. They give up their lives for the queen and the hive. I wonder if they know they’ll die.’
‘I wonder,’ said Gamache, who didn’t really. He went back to his reading, as did Beauvoir.
‘Did you know honey bees are the pollinators of the world?’
It was like living with a six year old.
Beauvoir lowered the book and looked at the chief, sitting on the sofa opposite reading poetry.
‘Without honey bees we’d all starve. Isn’t that amazing?’
For a moment Beauvoir imagined moving to the Bellechasse and helping expand Véronique’s honey empire. Together they’d save the world. They’d be given the Légion d’honneur. Songs would be written about them.
Gamache lowered his book and stared out of the window. All he could see was his own reflection and that of Beauvoir. Two ghostly men reading on a summer evening.
‘Bees form a ball and protect the queen if the hive is attacked. Isn’t that beautiful?’
‘It is.’ Gamache nodded and went back to his reading. Every now and then Beauvoir would hear a murmur from the chief.
Oh, I have slipped the surly bonds of earth,
And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings;
Sunward I’ve climbed … and done a hundred things