‘Who’s that?’ Myrna pointed to a man sitting by himself.
‘Monsieur Molson Canadian. Always orders the same beer. Good tipper,’ said Olivier, placing two Irish coffees on the table for Peter and Clara along with a couple of licorice pipes. ‘Merry Christmas.’ He kissed them both then nodded to the stranger. ‘He showed up a couple of days ago.’
‘Probably a renter,’ said Myrna. It was unusual to find strangers in Three Pines, only because it was hard to find and people rarely stumbled on it by accident.
Saul Petrov sipped his beer and took a bite of his roast beef sandwich on a baguette with melting Stilton cheese and arugula. Beside it on his plate was a diminishing pile of shoestring fries, lightly seasoned.
It was perfect.
For the first time in years Saul felt human. He wasn’t quite up to approaching these friendly people but he knew when he did they’d ask him to join them. They just seemed that sort. Already a few had smiled in his direction and lifted their drinks, mouthing ‘Santé’ and ‘Joyeux Noël’.
They seemed kind.
No wonder CC loathed them.
Saul dipped a fry into his small saucer of mayonnaise and wondered which of the people here was the artist. The one who’d done that amazing melting tree. He didn’t even know if it was a man or a woman.
He wondered if he should ask someone. Three Pines was so small he was sure someone would be able to tell him. He’d like to congratulate the artist, buy him or her a beer, talk about their shared art and craft. Talk about things creative instead of the dark places he went with CC. First, though, he had business in Three Pines. But once that was done he’d find the artist.
‘Excuse me.’ He looked up and a huge black woman was smiling down at him. ‘I’m Myrna. I own the bookstore next door. I just wanted to tell you there’s a community breakfast and curling match tomorrow in Williamsburg. We all go. It’s a fundraiser for the local hospital. You may not know about it, but you’re welcome to attend.’
‘Really?’ He hoped he didn’t sound as thick as he felt. Why was he suddenly afraid? Not of this woman, surely. Was he afraid, perhaps, of her kindness? Afraid she’d mistaken him for someone else? Someone interesting and talented and kind.
‘The breakfast’s at the legion at eight and the curling starts at ten on Lac Brume. Hope you can make it.’
‘Merci.’
‘De rien. Joyeux Noël,’ she said in accented but beautiful French. He paid for his lunch, leaving an even larger tip than usual, and left, getting in his car for the short drive up the hill to the old Hadley house.
He’d tell CC about the event. It was perfect. Just what he was looking for.
And when the event was over he’d have finished what he’d come to do, and then, perhaps, he could sit at the same table as these people.
EIGHT
‘Did you find something?’
Chief Inspector Armand Gamache poured his wife a glass of Perrier and kissed the top of her head as he leaned over to peer at the document in her hand. It was Boxing Day and they were in his office at Sûreté headquarters in Montreal. He was in gray flannels, a shirt and a tie, which he always wore to the office, and an elegant cashmere cardigan, an acknowledgment that he was on holiday, after all. Though he was only in his early fifties there was an old world charm about Gamache, a courtesy and manner that spoke of a time past. He smiled down at his wife, his deep brown eyes taking in the soft wave of her graying hair. From where he stood he could just faintly pick up the subtle fragrance of Joy by Jean Patou, the eau de toilette he gave his wife each Christmas. Then he moved round in front of her and eased himself into the leather chair opposite, finding the familiar curves worn into the seat. His body spoke of meals enjoyed and a life of long walks rather than contact sports.
His wife, Reine-Marie, was sitting in another leather chair, a huge red and white check napkin on her lap, a dossier in one hand and a turkey sandwich in the other. She took a bite then dropped her reading glasses from her face, to dangle on their strings.
‘Thought I’d found something, but no. I thought there was a question the investigating officer hadn’t asked, but I see here he did a little later.’
‘Who was it?’
‘The Labarré case. Man pushed in front of the metro car.’
‘I remember.’ Gamache poured himself some water. Around them on the floor were neat stacks of file folders. ‘I didn’t realize it wasn’t solved. You didn’t find anything?’
‘Sorry, my love. I’m not doing so well this year.’
‘Sometimes there’s just nothing to find.’
The two of them picked up fresh folders and resumed reading in companionable silence. It had become their Boxing Day tradition. They’d take a picnic lunch of turkey sandwiches, fruit and cheese to Gamache’s office in the homicide division and spend the day reading about murder.
She looked across at her husband, head buried in a file, trying to tease from it the truth, trying to find in the dry words, in the facts and figures, a human form. For in each of these manila folders there lived a murderer.
These were the unsolved murders. A few years earlier Chief Inspector Gamache had approached his opposite number in the Montreal Metropolitan Police and over cognac at the Club Saint-Denis had made his proposal.
‘An exchange, Armand?’ Marc Brault had asked. ‘How would that work?’
‘I suggest Boxing Day. It’s quiet at Sûreté headquarters and probably in your office as well.’
Brault had nodded, watching Gamache with interest. He, like most of his colleagues, had immense respect for the quiet man. Only fools underestimated him, but Brault knew the service was full of fools. Fools with power, fools with guns.
The Arnot case had proved that beyond doubt. And had almost destroyed the large, thoughtful man in front of him. Brault wondered whether Gamache knew the whole story. Probably not.
Armand Gamache was speaking, his voice deep and pleasant. Brault noted the graying of the dark hair at the temples and the obvious balding head, without attempt to comb it over. His dark moustache was thick, well trimmed and also graying. His face was lined with care, but also laughter, and his deep brown eyes, looking at Brault over his half-moon glasses, were thoughtful.
How does he survive? Brault wondered. Brutal as the world inside the Montreal police could be, he knew the Sûreté du Québec could be even worse. Because the stakes were higher. And yet Gamache had risen to run the largest and most distinguished department in the Sûreté.
He’d go no further, of course. Even Gamache knew that. But unlike Marc Brault, who was ambition itself, Armand Gamache seemed content, even happy with his life. There had been a time, before the Arnot case, when Brault had suspected Gamache was a bit simple, a bit beyond his depth. But he didn’t think that any more. He knew now what was behind the kind eyes and calm face.
He had the strangest feeling just then that Gamache understood everything that was going on, in Brault’s head and in the labyrinthine minds at the Sûreté.
‘I suggest we give each other our unsolved cases and spend a few days reading over them. See if we can find something.’
Brault took a sip of his cognac and leaned back in his chair, thinking. It was a good idea. It was also unconventional and would probably cause a stink if anyone found out. He smiled at Gamache and leaned forward again.