“Deadliest Garden Plants,” said Patricia. She looked at Armand and cocked her head. “Bit of a clue, that.”
Armand smiled.
“That’s how I first got to know the Baroness and how I learned about poison gardens. She had one. Walked me through it and pointed out that foxglove is digitalis. Deadly. She also had monkshood, and lily-of-the-valley, and hydrangea. All toxic. Among other perennials, of course. But, strangely enough, the poisonous ones are the most beautiful.”
Myrna nodded. She was also a keen gardener, though it had never occurred to her to dedicate a bed to plants that kill. But enough people did so that there were a number of books written about it. And Patricia Houle was right. The deadly flowers were among the most beautiful. And, perversely, the longest-lived.
“There’re flowers that’ll really kill someone?” asked Benedict.
“Supposedly,” said Patricia, “though I wouldn’t know how to get the poison out. You probably need a chemistry degree.”
“And a desire,” said Gamache.
His voice was pleasant, but his eyes took in Patricia Houle, and he amended his earlier impression. She gave off an aura not just of confidence but of competence.
He’d noticed her car parked outside, completely cleaned off. The snow around it shoveled with crisp, straight lines.
When she did a job, she did it well and she did it thoroughly.
He suspected if she needed to, she could figure out how to squeeze poison from a daffodil.
Thanking her for her help and hospitality, they left Madame Houle and headed next door.
Bertha Baumgartner’s home seemed to be tilting even further under the weight of the new snow. It would be folly to go anywhere near it, and Gamache made a note to call the local town hall and get warning tape put up. And, as soon as possible, a bulldozer should be brought in.
They dug out Myrna’s and Lucien’s cars, but when they’d cleared off Benedict’s pickup truck, Armand stopped the young man from getting in.
“You can’t drive without winter tires.”
“But I have to. I’ll be fine.”
Those were, Gamache knew, the last words of too many young people.
“Yes, you will be fine,” he said. “Because you’re not going anywhere in that.”
“And if I do drive?” asked Benedict. “What’re you going to do? Call the cops?”
“He wouldn’t need to call,” said Lucien, and saw that Benedict still didn’t get it. “You really don’t know who he is?”
Benedict shook his head.
“I’m the head of the Sûreté du Québec,” said Armand.
“Chief Superintendent Gamache,” said Lucien.
Benedict said either “Oh shit” or “No shit.” Either way, merde was involved.
“Really?”
Gamache nodded. “C’est la vérité.”
Benedict looked behind him, to his pickup, and mumbled something that sounded like “What fucking luck.”
Gamache grinned. He’d had luck like this too, when he was Benedict’s age. Took a long time before he realized it was, in fact, good luck.
“I guess I have no choice,” said Benedict.
“Bon. Call the CAA when the phones come back. Have it towed to a garage and decent winter tires put on. Not the cheap ones. D’accord?”
“Got it,” Benedict mumbled to the snow on his boots.
“It’s all right,” said Gamache quietly. “We’ll pay for the tires.”
“I’ll pay you back.”
“Just give me that lesson in driving on snow you promised. We’ll call it even.”
“Merci.”
“Good.” Gamache turned to Lucien. “Let me know about the meeting with Madame Baumgartner’s children.”
“I will,” said Lucien.
As she drove Benedict back to Three Pines, Myrna looked at the thick snow in the yard. And thought of the poisonous plants buried there. Frozen, but not dead. Just waiting.
Though the real threat, Myrna knew, didn’t come from the poison flowers. Those you could see. Those you knew about. And besides, they at least were pretty.
No. The real danger in a garden came from the bindweed. That moved underground, then surfaced and took hold. Strangling plant after healthy plant. Killing them all, slowly. And for no apparent reason, except that it was its nature.
And then it disappeared underground again.
Yes, the real danger always came from the thing you couldn’t see.
CHAPTER 11
“So what’s the problem?”
“What makes you think there’s a problem?” Armand asked.
“You aren’t eating your … éclair.”
Each of her words was carefully enunciated, though they were still muffled, as though wrapped in too much care and cotton batting.
And her movements, as her hand brought her own pastry to her mouth, were also considered. Deliberate. Precise. Slow.
Gamache visited Isabelle Lacoste at least once a week at her home in Montréal. When the weather was good, they’d go for a short walk, but mostly, like today, they sat in her kitchen and talked. He’d gotten into the habit of discussing events with her. Getting her take on things. Her opinions and advice.
She was one of his senior officers.
He looked now, as he always did, for any sign of improvement. Real was best, but he’d even settle for imagined. He thought perhaps her hands were steadier. Her words clearer. Her vocabulary richer.
Yes. Without a doubt. Maybe.
“Is it the internal investigation?” she asked, and took a bite of the mille-feuille that Armand had brought her from Sarah’s Boulangerie, knowing it was her favorite.
“No. That’s just about over.”
“Still, they’re taking their sweet time. What’s the problem?”
“We both know the problem,” he said.
“Yes. The drugs. Nothing more there?”
She studied him. Looking for signs of improvement. Of reason to hope this really would all go away soon.
The Chief looked relaxed. Confident. But then he almost always did. It was what he hid that worried her.
Isabelle’s brow furrowed in concentration.
“I’m tiring you out,” he said, and made to get up. “I’m sorry.”
“No, no, please.” She waved him back down. “I need … stimulation. The kids are off school because of the storm and have decided I need to learn to count to a … hundred. We did that all morning before I kicked them outside. I tried to explain that I can count. Have been able to for … months, but still, they insisted.” She looked into Armand’s eyes. “Help me.”
It was said with a comically pathetic inflection, intentionally exaggerated. But still, it broke his heart.
“I’m kidding, patron,” she said, sensing more than seeing his sorrow. “More coffee?”
“Please.”
He followed her to the counter. Her gait was slow. Halting. Deliberate. And so much better than anyone, including her doctors, had dared hope.
Isabelle’s son and daughter were outside, building snow forts with the neighborhood children. Through the windows Armand and Isabelle could hear shrieks as one “army” attacked those who held the fort.
Playing the same games Armand had played as a child. The same ones Isabelle, twenty-five years later, had played. Games of domination and war.
“Let’s hope they never know … what … it’s really like,” said Isabelle, standing by the window, next to her boss and mentor.
He nodded.
The explosions. The chaos. The acrid stink of gun smoke. The blinding grit as stone and cement and brick were pulverized. Choking the air.
The screams. Choking the air.
The pain.
His grip tightened on the counter as it washed over him. Sweeping him up. Tossing and spinning. Drowning him.
“Does your hand still tremble?” she asked quietly.
He gathered himself and nodded.
“Sometimes. When I’m tired or particularly stressed. But not like it used to.”