And something else.
Chief Inspector Gamache straightened up and sighed.
There was no doubt. This was murder.
The woman at his feet had a broken neck. Had she been at the foot of a flight of stairs he might have thought it an accident. But she was lying face up beside a flower bed. On the soft grass.
Eyes open. Staring straight into the late morning sun.
Gamache almost expected her to blink.
He looked around the pleasant garden. The familiar garden. How often had he stood back there with Peter and Clara and others, beer in hand, barbeque fired up. Chatting.
But not today.
Peter and Clara, Olivier and Gabri were standing down by the river. Watching. Between Gamache and them was the yellow tape, the great divide. On one side the investigators and on the other, the investigated.
“White female,” the coroner, Dr. Harris, said. She was kneeling over the victim, as was Agent Isabelle Lacoste. Inspector Jean Guy Beauvoir was directing the Scene of Crime team for the Sûreté du Québec. They were methodically going over the area. Collecting evidence. Photographing. Carefully, meticulously doing the forensics.
“Middle-aged,” the coroner’s voice carried on. Clinical. Factual.
Chief Inspector Gamache listened as the information was reeled off. He, better than most, knew the power of facts. But he also knew few murderers were ever found in facts.
“Dyed blond hair, graying roots just showing. Slightly overweight. No ring on the ring finger.”
Facts were necessary. They pointed the way, and helped form the net. But the killer himself was tracked by following not only facts but feelings. The fetid emotions that had made a man into a murderer.
“Neck snapped at the second vertebra.”
Chief Inspector Gamache listened and watched. The routine familiar. But no less horrifying.
The taking of one life by another never failed to shock him, even after all these years as head of homicide for the storied Sûreté du Québec. After all these murders. All these murderers.
He was still amazed what one human could do to another.
Peter Morrow stared at the red shoes just poking out from behind the flower bed. They were attached to the dead woman’s feet, which were attached to her body, which was lying on his grass. He couldn’t see the body now. It was hidden by the tall flowers, but he could see the feet. He looked away. Tried to concentrate on something else. On the investigators, Gamache and his team, bending, bowing, murmuring, as though in common prayer. A dark ritual, in his garden.
Gamache never took a note, Peter noticed. He listened and nodded respectfully. Asked a few questions, his face thoughtful. He left the note-taking to others. In this case, Agent Lacoste.
Peter tried to look away, to focus on the beauty in his garden.
But his eyes kept being dragged back to the body in his garden.
Then, as Peter watched, Gamache suddenly and quite swiftly turned. And looked at him. And Peter immediately and instinctively dropped his eyes, as though he’d done something shameful.
He instantly regretted it and raised his eyes again, but by then the Chief Inspector was no longer staring at them. Instead, he was approaching them.
Peter considered turning away, in a casual manner. As though he’d heard a deer in the forest on the other side of the Rivière Bella Bella.
He started to turn, then stopped himself.
He didn’t need to look away, he told himself. He’d done nothing wrong. Surely it was natural to watch the police.
Wasn’t it?
But Peter Morrow, always so sure, felt the ground shifting beneath him. He no longer knew what was natural. No longer knew what to do with his hands, his eyes, his entire body. His life. His wife.
“Clara,” said Chief Inspector Gamache, extending his hand to her, then kissing Clara on both cheeks. If the other investigators found it odd that their Chief would kiss a suspect, they didn’t show it. And Gamache clearly didn’t care.
He went around the group, shaking hands with all of them. He came to Olivier last, obviously giving the younger man a chance to see it coming. Gamache extended his hand. And everyone watched. The body momentarily forgotten.
Olivier didn’t hesitate. He shook Gamache’s hand but couldn’t quite look him in the eye.
Chief Inspector Gamache gave them a small almost apologetic smile, as though the body was his fault. Was that how dreadful things started? Peter wondered. Not with a thunder clap. Not with a shriek. Not with sirens, but with a smile? Something horrible come calling, wrapped in civility and good manners.
But the something horrible had already been, and gone. And had left a body behind.
“How are you doing?” asked Gamache, his eyes returning to Clara.
It wasn’t a casual question. He looked genuinely concerned.
Peter could feel himself relax as the body was lifted from his shoulders. And given to this sturdy man.
Clara shook her head. “Stunned,” she said at last, and glanced behind her. “Who is she?”
“You don’t know?”
He looked from Clara to Peter, then over to Gabri and finally Olivier. Everyone shook their heads.
“She wasn’t a guest at your party?”
“She must have been, I suppose,” said Clara. “But I didn’t invite her.”
“Who is she?” asked Gabri.
“Did you get a look at her?” Gamache persisted, not quite ready to answer the question.
They nodded.
“After we called the police I went back into the garden, to look,” said Clara.
“Why?”
“I had to know if I knew her. See if she was a friend or neighbor.”
“She wasn’t,” said Gabri. “I was preparing breakfast for our B and B guests when Olivier called to tell me what had happened.”
“So you came over?” asked Gamache.
“Wouldn’t you?” asked the large man.
“I’m a homicide detective,” said Gamache. “I sort of have to. You don’t.”
“I’m a nosy son-of-a-bitch,” said Gabri. “I sort of have to too. And like Clara, I needed to see if we knew her.”
“Did you tell anyone else?” asked Gamache. “Did anyone else come into the garden to look?”
They shook their heads.
“So you all took a good look, and none of you recognized her?”
“Who was she?” asked Clara again.
“We don’t know,” admitted Gamache. “She fell on her purse and Dr. Harris doesn’t want to move her yet. We’ll find out soon enough.”
Gabri hesitated then turned to Olivier. “Doesn’t she remind you of something?”
Olivier was silent, but Peter wasn’t.
“The witch is dead?”
“Peter,” said Clara quickly. “The woman was killed and left in our garden. What a terrible thing to say.”
“I’m sorry,” said Peter, shocked at himself. “But she does look like the Wicked Witch of the West, with her red shoes sticking out like that.”
“We’re not saying she is,” Gabri hurried to say. “But you can’t deny in that get-up she doesn’t look like anyone from Kansas.”
Clara rolled her eyes and shaking her head she muttered, “Jesus.”
But Gamache had to admit, he and his team had talked about the same thing. Not that the dead woman reminded them of the Wicked Witch, but that she clearly was not dressed for a barbeque in the country.
“I didn’t see her last night,” said Peter.
“And we’d remember,” said Olivier, speaking at last. “She’d be hard to miss.”
Gamache nodded. He’d appreciated that as well. The dead woman would have stood out in that brilliant red dress. Everything about the woman screamed “look at me.”
He looked back at her and searched his memory. Had he seen anyone in a bright red dress at the Musée last night? Perhaps she’d come straight from there, as presumably many guests did. But none came to mind. Most of the women, with the notable exception of Myrna, wore more muted colors.