But all three were shaking their heads.
“Monsieur Baumgartner worked for Taylor and Ogilvy Investments,” said Beauvoir. “As an investment adviser, I believe.”
“That’s correct,” said Caroline.
“He invested people’s money.”
“He acted as a sort of money manager,” Hugo clarified. “He’d design a portfolio, get the client’s approval, and then others would do the actual trades.”
“I see.”
An agent, off to the side, was taking notes.
“We’ll follow up, of course,” said Beauvoir, “but was there anything at his work that was unusual? An unhappy client? A bad investment? Any suggestion of impropriety?”
“None,” said Caroline.
“Was he good at his job?”
“Very,” said Adrienne.
“I’m sorry to interrupt, but do you mind if I ask a question?” said Gamache.
“Please,” said Beauvoir.
“Did any of you invest with him?”
They looked at each other, then shook their heads.
“Why not?”
“I did. A long time ago. But then it didn’t seem a good idea to mix business with family,” said Caroline.
Hugo was being uncharacteristically quiet, and Adrienne was sitting bolt upright.
“Madame?” Gamache turned to her.
“When we divorced, I moved my money over to another firm, of course.”
“Even though you remained friends?”
“Well, that took a while.”
“I see. And your children?”
“What about them?”
“I’m wondering if they have any investments, any money in trust or a college fund. That sort of thing.”
“Yes, they each have an account.”
“With their father?”
“No.”
“That too was moved?”
“Oui.”
Beauvoir noticed that Madame Fournier’s answers were getting more and more clipped. And there was not much more to be clipped before she’d lapse into silence altogether.
And, indeed, silence fell.
Where other investigators pressed and pushed during interrogations, especially when finding a weak spot, Gamache had taught his agents the power of silence.
It could be, often was, far more threatening than shouting. Though that too had its place. But not here. Not now.
Now silence filled the room.
Hugo fidgeted. Adrienne reddened.
And Caroline? She smiled.
Slight. Fleeting. But unmistakable.
Satisfaction.
Hugo made a noise, but Caroline shut him up with a small sound of her own. A quiet cross between clearing her throat and a hum.
It was as though brother and sister understood each other at a primal level, where grunts were enough.
Again the silence encroached. Enveloping them, so that even the young agent off in the corner fidgeted.
“What do you want from me?” Adrienne finally said.
“We want to know what you know,” said Gamache. “That’s all.”
“Just tell them, Adrienne,” said Hugo. “It was years ago, and they’ll find out anyway. There’s no shame.”
“For you, maybe.” Again there was silence as everyone stared at Anthony Baumgartner’s ex-wife.
“My husband was having an affair with an assistant,” she finally said. “I found out about it, and it ended our marriage. That’s why I took not only my money but our children’s money away from the company. From him.”
“How long ago was this?” asked Beauvoir.
“Three years.”
“Are they still together?”
“No. That ended.”
“And the assistant’s name?” asked Beauvoir.
“Does it matter?”
“It might. People hold grudges. Her name, please.”
And again the slight smile from Caroline. Fleeting. Smug. Cruel.
“His name was Bernard.”
Beauvoir raised his brows. “I see.”
“Do you?” asked Adrienne. “I wonder what you see? The humiliation? The lies. The little ones and then that great shitty one that was our marriage? I loved a man who didn’t, couldn’t love me. Not in the same way. Never had, he admitted. Never would. We stood over there.” She pointed to the fireplace. “That’s where our marriage ended. Right there. When I confronted him and he admitted it. Didn’t even try to soften the blow. He just seemed relieved. The bottom had fallen out of my life, and all he felt was relief. Nothing for me. Or the children. He just wanted out, he said. Out.”
“Well, he didn’t get all that far out, did he?” said Hugo.
“He never came out?” Beauvoir asked.
“No.”
“And why not?”
Adrienne was on the verge of answering when she paused. Her shoulders, which had crept up to near her ears, slowly lowered.
She looked at Hugo, who gave her a small nod of support. Her eyes traveled past Caroline, not pausing, then stopped at Beauvoir.
“I don’t really know. I never asked. I think, if I’m honest, I was just relieved he was being discreet. For the children’s sake. Maybe,” she added, “for myself too. I never stopped loving him, you know. I’d have remained with him, had he wanted. I never admitted that to anyone. I loved him, not because he was a straight man but because he was Tony.”
She looked around. “I hate this room.”
Gamache wondered if it was just the room she hated.
CHAPTER 24
“Excuse me,” said Chief Inspector Beauvoir, ceding his place to Inspector Dufresne. “I’ll leave you with the Inspector and Chief Superintendent Gamache.”
He got up, and after nodding to his inspector he caught Gamache’s eye.
Gamache, of course, knew exactly what Beauvoir was about to do. The same thing he’d done when he was head of homicide.
Beauvoir had listened to the family. Now it was time to meet the dead man. Or as close as he could come.
Beauvoir walked from room to room, looking in. Sometimes going in.
Agents were photographing. Taking samples. Opening drawers and closets.
They acknowledged him.
“Chief.”
Beauvoir nodded back but was, for the most part, silent. Watching. Taking it in. Not monitoring their activity but absorbing the surroundings.
It was always an odd feeling, walking around a person’s home uninvited. Seeing it as they’d left it in the morning. Not realizing they’d never return. Not realizing it was the day of their death.
There was something solid, comfortable, restful about this place. It was a home, not a trophy.
The colors were muted. A soft blue-gray for the walls. But there were touches that seemed almost playful.
A lime-green geometric print on the curtains in the master bedroom. Vintage Expo 67 posters were on the walls of the hallway.
Some clothes were tossed casually on a chair in the bedroom. There were balled-up tissues in the wastepaper basket. Some loose change sat on the chest of drawers, along with a framed photo of Baumgartner with his children. A boy and a girl.
On the bedside table, there was a nonfiction book about American politics and a copy of L’actualité newsmagazine.
Taking out a pen, Beauvoir pulled open the drawer. More magazines. Pens. Cough drops.
He closed the drawer and looked around for evidence of someone else living there. Or visiting. Overnight.
No one else’s clothes, or toothbrush, seemed to be there.
If Baumgartner had a partner or a lover, there was no evidence.
Beauvoir walked down the hall and turned the corner into the room Baumgartner used as a study. And stopped dead.
He didn’t know much about art. Did not recognize any artist. With one exception. And that exception was on the wall, over the fireplace in the study.
It was a Clara Morrow. And not just any “Clara,” it was a copy of her painting of Ruth. But not just Ruth.
Clara had painted the demented old poet as the aging Virgin Mary. Forgotten.
Embittered.
A clawlike hand gripped a ragged blue shawl at her neck. Her face was filled with loathing. Rage. There was none of the tender young virgin about this grizzled old thing.