But Chief Superintendent Gamache remained on suspension. Though Beauvoir had been confident that was about to end.
“One last meeting,” he’d said to his wife that morning as they fed their son, “and your father will be cleared.”
“Uh-huh,” said Annie.
“What?”
He knew his wife well. Despite the fact she was a lawyer, a less cynical person would be hard to find. And yet he could tell there was doubt there.
“It’s taken so long. I’m just worried it’s become political. They need a scapegoat. Dad let a ton of opioids through his hands. Drugs he could’ve stopped. Someone has to be blamed.”
“But he’s got most of it back. And he had no choice. Really.” He stood up and kissed her. “And it wasn’t quite a ton.”
A clump of oatmeal Honoré had flung hit Jean-Guy’s cheek, then dropped onto the top of Annie’s head.
Picking the glop out of her hair, Jean-Guy looked at it, then put it into his mouth.
“You’d have made a great gorilla,” said Annie.
Jean-Guy started searching her scalp, aping a gorilla grooming its mate, while Annie laughed and Honoré flung more oatmeal.
Jean-Guy supposed he knew that Annie would never be the most beautiful woman in any room. A stranger wouldn’t look at her twice.
But if one did, he might discover something it had taken Jean-Guy many years and one failed marriage to see. How very beautiful happiness was. And Annie Gamache radiated happiness.
She would always be, he knew with certainty, not just the most intelligent person in any room but also the most beautiful. And if anyone didn’t see it, it was their loss.
He unbuckled Honoré and walked to the door with him in his arms.
“Have fun today,” he said, kissing both of them.
“Just a moment,” said Annie.
She took off Jean-Guy’s bib, wiped his face, and said, “Be careful. I think this might be a two-holer.”
“Deep merde?” Jean-Guy shook his head. “Non. This’s the last of it. I think they just have to make it clear that there was a thorough investigation. And there was. But believe me, after looking at the facts, they’ll be thanking your father for what he did. They’ll understand that he faced a shitty choice and did what had to be done.”
“Please, no swearing in front of the kid. You’d hate his first word to be ‘shit,’” she said. “I agree with you. Dad had no choice. But they might not see it that way.”
“Then they’re blind.”
“Then they’re human,” said Annie, taking Honoré. “And humans need a place to hide. I think they’re hiding behind him. And preparing to shove Dad to the predators.”
Beauvoir walked briskly to the subway and what he knew would be the final internal-affairs interview before all returned to normal.
His head was down, and he concentrated on the sidewalk and the soft, light snow hiding the ice below.
One misstep and bad things happened. A turned ankle. A wrist broken trying to break the fall. Or a fractured skull.
It was always what you couldn’t see that hurt you.
And now, sitting in the interview room, Jean-Guy Beauvoir was wondering if Annie had been right and he had, in fact, missed something.
CHAPTER 4
“Who are you?” Gamache asked, leaning forward and staring at the man at the head of the table.
“We already know, sir,” said Benedict.
He spoke slowly. Patiently. Myrna had to drop her head to hide her amusement and delight.
“He’s. A. Notary.” The young man all but patted Armand’s hand.
“Oui, merci,” said Armand. “I did just get that. But Laurence Mercier died six months ago. So who are you?”
“It says it right there,” said Mercier. He pointed to the illegible signature. “Lucien Mercier. Laurence was my father.”
“And are you a notary?”
“I am. I’ve taken over my father’s practice.”
In Québec, Gamache knew, notaries were more like solicitors than clerks. Doing everything from land transactions to marriage contracts.
“Why’re you using his stationery?” asked Myrna. “It’s misleading.”
“It’s economical and environmental. I hate waste. I use my father’s letterhead when I’m doing business that was his. Less confusing for the clients.”
“Can’t say that’s true,” muttered Myrna.
Lucien brought four file folders from his briefcase and handed them around. “You’re here because you’re named in the last will of Bertha Baumgartner.”
There was silence as they absorbed that, then Benedict said, “Really?” at the same time both Armand and Myrna said, “Who?”
“Bertha Baumgartner,” the notary repeated. And then said the name a third time when the two older invités continued to stare at him.
“But I’ve never heard of her,” said Myrna. “Have you?”
Armand thought for a moment. He met a lot of people and felt fairly certain he’d remember that name. But he was drawing a blank. It meant absolutely nothing.
Armand and Myrna turned to Benedict, whose handsome face was curious, but not more.
“You?” Myrna prompted, and he shook his head.
“Did she leave us money?” Benedict asked.
It wasn’t said with greed, Gamache thought. More amazement. And yes, perhaps some hope.
“No,” Mercier was happy to report, and then unhappy to see that the young man didn’t seem at all disappointed.
“So why’re we here?” asked Myrna.
“You’re the liquidators of her estate.”
“What?” said Myrna. “You’re kidding.”
“Liquidator? What’s that?” asked Benedict.
“It’s called ‘executor’ in most places,” Mercier explained.
When Benedict continued to look confused, Armand explained. “It means Bertha Baumgartner wants us to oversee her will. Make sure her wishes are carried out.”
“So she’s dead?” asked Benedict.
Armand was about to say yes. That much seemed obvious. But “dead” had already proved less than obvious that day, so perhaps Madame Baumgartner …
He turned to the notary for confirmation.
“Oui. She died just over a month ago.”
“And she was living here until then?” asked Myrna, looking up at the sagging ceiling and calculating how long it would take to get out the door if the sag became a collapse. Or maybe she could just fling herself through the window.
Between the new snow and the fact she was made almost entirely of gummy bears, it would probably be a soft landing.
“No, she was in a seniors’ home,” said Mercier.
“So is it like jury duty?” asked Benedict.
“Pardon?” asked the notary.
“You know, people whose names just come up. Our civic duty, that sort of thing. To be … what did you call it?”
“A liquidator,” said Mercier. “No. It’s not at all like jury duty. She chose you specifically.”
“But why us?” asked Armand. “We didn’t even know her.”
“I have no idea, and, sadly, we can’t ask her,” said Mercier, who did not look at all sad.
“Your father didn’t say anything?” asked Myrna.
“He never spoke about his clients.”
Gamache looked down at the brick of papers in front of him and noticed the red stamp in the upper left corner. He was familiar with wills. You didn’t generally get into your late fifties without having read a few. And Gamache had read a few, including his own.
This was indeed a legitimate, registered will.
Scanning the top page quickly, he noted that it had been written two years earlier.
“Turn to page two, please,” said the notary. “You’ll see your names in section four.”
“But wait a minute,” said Myrna. “Who was Bertha Baumgartner? You have to know something.”
“All I know is that she’s dead and my father looked after the estate. And now I have it. And now it’s yours. Page two, please.”
And sure enough, there they were. Myrna Landers of Three Pines, Québec. Armand Gamache of Three Pines, Québec. Benedict Pouliot of 267 rue Taillon, Montréal, Québec.