“Bitte schön.”
As Gamache hung up he felt that conversation had gone both well and badly. Was comforting and nauseating. Successful and humiliating. And almost certainly not German.
“Such a tuches.”
CHAPTER 23
Inspector Dufresne had already arrived with the homicide team. Their vehicles were parked discreetly along the road, waiting for Chief Inspector Beauvoir’s signal to join him.
At Beauvoir’s knock the door to Anthony Baumgartner’s home opened and Anthony’s sister, Caroline, stood there.
Tall. Elegant. The only evidence of grief were the circles under her eyes.
“Madame,” said Beauvoir, introducing himself, though leaving out the department he headed. “I believe you know Monsieur Gamache.”
Caroline had shaken Beauvoir’s hand, but on seeing Gamache she stepped forward.
And hugged him.
It was quick and might have surprised her more than him.
When he’d been head of homicide, Gamache learned that people reacted to sudden death differently. The emotional could become restrained. Holding themselves back, for fear of what would happen if they cracked.
The restrained became emotional, not skilled at managing feelings.
The strong collapsed. The weak strengthened.
In grief people were themselves and not themselves.
Caroline hugged him.
Then led them both into the living room.
The place, Gamache knew, would soon be searched by those homicide agents waiting outside. Anthony Baumgartner’s life would be laid as bare as his body now was.
Inspected. Dissected.
Pulled apart. As they, like the coroner, searched for the cause of death.
Dr. Harris’s job was done. Anthony had died from a blow to the head. But theirs was just beginning.
Once they were in the living room, Hugo Baumgartner stepped forward and offered a hand but otherwise stood like a gnome in a garden. Concrete, mute, ugly. And yet, somehow, the dumpy little man dominated the elegant room.
“This is my sister-in-law, Adrienne Fournier,” said Caroline. “Adrienne, this is Chief Inspector Beauvoir and Chief Superintendent Gamache.”
They offered their condolences.
“Merci. It’s terrible. I’m afraid I’m still struggling with it. I expect to see Tony come down the hall in his slippers.” Then she smiled. “I can see you’re a bit confused. Tony and I have been divorced for a few years but managed to remain friends. Probably should’ve just been friends all along.”
“Probably?” asked Caroline.
Adrienne shot her a look but ignored the aside. “Though we have made great children.”
She was of average height and well dressed. Over fifty, with hair dyed a rich brown, judicious makeup, and a trim figure. Her clothing was stylish without being showy.
“Before we begin,” Beauvoir said after taking the chair Caroline had indicated, “I have some news for you. It’s not good.”
There was a snort from Hugo, who turned to Caroline when she gave him a look.
“What?” he said. “Like any news at this point could be good. It’s all shit.” He turned to Adrienne. “Sorry.”
His former sister-in-law was regarding him with something close to amusement. Certainly affection.
“You’re right, Hug. This is shit.”
Caroline turned away. Distancing herself from them. Gamache couldn’t help but see an iceberg breaking off from the mainland.
And drifting away.
Though he suspected that had actually happened long ago. Caroline might drift close but would always be separate. And vulnerable to currents and undertows. To the ebb and flow of opinions and judgments.
Probably since childhood.
Behind them he could see the photographs on the bookcase. And while it was too far away and his eyes still too blurry, he could make out the small silver frame and the vague suggestion of three grinning kids. Wet, sagging bathing suits. Tanned arms slung easily over one another’s shoulders.
Caroline in the middle, bookended by her brothers.
Had she been happy then? Happy once?
Or had the cracks already begun to form? The cooling, the hardening. The distancing.
Was it in her nature, or had something happened?
And always, always, in the background of Gamache’s thoughts, the main question.
Why was one of them dead?
“Your brother,” Beauvoir said, looking first at Caroline, then to Hugo. Before moving his gaze to Adrienne. “Your former husband.” She gave him a slight acknowledgment. “Wasn’t killed in an accident. His death was deliberate.”
He paused for a moment, then went on.
“He was murdered.”
It was a short, sharp statement.
Both Beauvoir and Gamache knew that people’s minds couldn’t easily grasp the fact of murder. It was too big, too foreign. Too monstrous. Most just stared, as they stared at him now. As the word and its meaning sank in. Then sank further, from their heads to their hearts.
And there it would live forever.
Murder.
Caroline stiffened, and Hugo, after a pause in which his pudgy face opened in shock, reached out. And took his sister’s hand.
In, it seemed to Gamache, an automatic, unscripted, instinctive act of mutual support.
Adrienne, sitting alone in a wing chair, closed her fingers over the arms of the chair. And pressed until her knuckles were as white as her face. She looked, Gamache thought, as though she might pass out.
Beauvoir got up and went to the kitchen, returning with glasses of water. But not before going to the front door and signaling Inspector Dufresne.
Gamache could hear the murmurs of voices in the front hall and the rustling as the Sûreté homicide team entered the house.
The postmortem had begun.
Hugo had abandoned his glass and gone to the bar.
“Screw water,” he said, pouring three scotches. His hands trembled as he gave them to Caroline and Adrienne.
Adrienne took a great swig of the scotch, color returning to her face. Hugo downed his in a single shot. But Caroline simply took the glass and held it, as though she’d forgotten how to do everyday things. Like drink. And breathe.
“How?” she asked.
“Why?” asked Hugo.
“Are you sure?” Adrienne asked.
This last was the most natural of questions. Even though she knew the answer. Of course Chief Inspector Beauvoir was sure. He wouldn’t have said it otherwise. But still, she had to ask.
And yet the other two had not.
They’d asked other natural questions. How? Why? But what the other two hadn’t done was question the statement that someone had murdered their brother.
“We’re sure,” said Beauvoir. “Do you know of anyone who might want him dead?”
At that moment, on another continent, Kontrollinspektor Gund sat back in his chair.
It was getting on for midnight. A quiet evening in his precinct, and he’d had time to noodle around for the senior Québec cop.
He’d thought it would be a routine search into albeit a very old will.
An elderly event. He smiled as he remembered the epic struggle that poor man had had with the language.
But his smile faded as he read his screen. Then scrolled down.
Further. Further.
It was then he’d sat back and marveled.
“No life is blameless,” Caroline began, her voice prim. “But I can’t think that Anthony hurt anyone so badly they’d want him dead.”
“It’s not necessarily that he’s hurt someone,” Chief Inspector Beauvoir explained. “Motives can be”—he searched for the word—“complex. Your brother might have had something someone else wanted, badly. He might have stood in someone’s way at work, for instance. Or have found something out.”
Gamache sat quietly on the periphery of the circle and listened. And observed. Searching for some insight. Some reaction.