“Or her,” said Lacoste.
“—there.”
“There’s another problem,” said Lacoste. “The convenience of the building falling down.”
“But was it convenient?” asked Beauvoir. “It meant Baumgartner’s body was found, maybe sooner than the killer expected. If it hadn’t fallen, it’s possible his body wouldn’t have been found for a long time.”
“I guess it’s also possible Baumgartner didn’t arrange to meet this person at the farmhouse,” said Lacoste. “Maybe he was followed there and killed.”
“What do you mean?” asked Beauvoir.
“Suppose Baumgartner got in touch with the person he suspected and arranged to … meet them the next day, at the office. The person, knowing they were in trouble, drives over to Anthony Baumgartner’s … home, maybe to kill him there, but then sees him leaving. He follows him to the abandoned house and kills him there.”
“Bit convenient for the killer, non?” asked Beauvoir.
“But it fits, and it explains the timing, with the will,” said Lacoste, warming to her just-discovered theory. She turned to Gamache. “You and Myrna and Benedict read them their mother’s will. While … ridiculous, it was very much the Baroness. It stirs feelings of childhood, and Anthony decides to drive out and see the old … place before it’s torn down or sold.”
Beauvoir snorted, but Gamache tilted his head. He drove, every now and then, past the house he grew up in. And after Reine-Marie’s mother died and before they sold the family home, she’d wanted one last walk around.
What Lacoste was describing was emotionally valid. Though Beauvoir was also right. It did seem a bit too convenient for the murderer. That Baumgartner would just happen to be in a remote farmhouse, designed for quiet murder.
“Bon,” he said. “Let’s move on to the more likely theory. That Anthony Baumgartner not only knew about the money being stolen but was responsible. Who killed him then?”
“One of his targets,” said Beauvoir. “Someone who found out.”
“But why kill him? Why not just tell someone at his company or, better still, go to the police?” asked Lacoste.
“Because the company had been told once and nothing happened to him,” said Beauvoir. “A slap on the wrist. Why trust Taylor and Ogilvy to do something this time, when they did nothing last time?”
“Okay, but my question stands,” said Lacoste. “Why not go to the police or a lawyer? Why not sue his … ass? Why confront Baumgartner?”
“Because they weren’t sure,” said Beauvoir. “Most people can’t believe someone they trust is stealing. They’d ask first, and if they didn’t like the answer, then they’d take the next step.”
“Right,” said Lacoste. “A lawyer or the police. Plan B surely isn’t to kill the guy. But you’re saying that’s what … happened. What would that achieve?”
“It was a bang on the head,” said Beauvoir. “Has the makings of a sudden rage, not something planned out. As much as Baumgartner didn’t expect to be killed, I’m betting whoever did this didn’t expect to kill.”
Gamache was listening. But there remained one big problem with that theory. A familiar one.
“Why the farmhouse?” Lacoste asked. “Would Baumgartner really agree to meet a client, someone he was stealing from, there? Even if he didn’t know … what it was about, that’s a long way to go. Out in the middle of nowhere. And a pretty personal space. I just don’t buy it.”
Gamache was listening to this and thinking that it wasn’t so easy to find a place to kill someone. Even in rural Québec. A forest would make sense, but how do you lure a client, who’s already suspicious, into the woods?
“Come on,” said Lacoste, following the same line of thought. “Would the client really agree to meet in an isolated, abandoned home? I wouldn’t.”
“Why not?” Beauvoir turned to Gamache. “You did. When you got the letter from the notary.”
Gamache gave a short laugh. “True, but I wasn’t going there to confront someone. And I didn’t realize it was abandoned until I got there.”
“And there you have it,” said Beauvoir. “The client who’s being screwed wouldn’t know either. He’d gone that far, and I’m sure Baumgartner explained it was his mother’s house. It sounded okay. Safe.”
It was possible, thought Gamache. But far from probable. Though it did explain why those statements were still in Baumgartner’s study. He was doing the stealing. And the killing. And he expected to be home.
“So,” said Lacoste. “We have two theories. That Anthony Baumgartner was doing the stealing and that he wasn’t.”
“Doesn’t feel like progress to me,” admitted Beauvoir.
“Let’s move from theories to facts,” said Gamache.
“D’accord,” said Beauvoir, putting a slip of paper on the kitchen table. “I have information on the assistant who was fired. His name’s Bernard Shaeffer. Taylor and Ogilvy had his address from when he worked for them, but nothing since.”
“Bernard Shaeffer,” repeated Lacoste. She took the paper and entered his name in her laptop. “His address is the same,” she said, reading from the government files. “Looks like he’s now working for the … Caisse Populaire du Québec.”
She looked over the screen of her laptop at her colleagues. Her brows rose.
“A bank?” asked Jean-Guy. “The Caisse hired him after what he did at Taylor and Ogilvy?”
“Let me make a quick call,” said Gamache, picking up his iPhone.
He dialed, waited, then gave his name and asked for Jeanne Halstrom. The president of the Caisse Populaire. After inquiring about her family, he asked a few other questions, listened, thanked her, then hung up.
“Bernard Shaeffer was hired as a financial adviser eighteen months ago. He had Anthony Baumgartner down as a reference. According to the personnel file, Monsieur Baumgartner vouched for him and said he’d been an outstanding employee. They’ll start an investigation into Shaeffer’s activities, including if he’s set up any unusually large accounts in his or Baumgartner’s name. We’ll need a warrant, but she’ll get things started.”
“We might’ve just found out where the client’s money went,” said Beauvoir. “Looks like Baumgartner didn’t break off contact with Bernard. Just the opposite.”
“He wouldn’t be so stupid as to have the accounts in his own name, would he?” asked Isabelle.
“We’ll find out,” said Gamache. “Even if it’s offshore, the Caisse can probably track Shaeffer’s activity.”
“And I’ll go visit young Monsieur Shaeffer right after this.” Beauvoir thought for a moment. “Better still, I’ll have Agent Cloutier bring him in for questioning.”
He made a call, then hung up. “She’s on her way.”
“Good,” said Isabelle. “She’s found her … footing?”
“Yes. Finally. But she’s frustrated about not being able to get into Baumgartner’s laptop and get at his personal files. We all are. We’re still trying, of course. Put in the names of his children, and his mother. And father. All the obvious ones.”
“Maybe it’s not a name,” said Gamache, “but a number.”
“We’ve tried the children’s birth dates. His birthday. But you asked for facts, patron. There is something else I found out from Bernice Ogilvy,” said Beauvoir. “Not about Baumgartner this time. It’s about Kinderoth. An elderly couple by that name had an account at Taylor and Ogilvy.”
There was a beat while they took that in.
“With Baumgartner?” asked Lacoste.
“Non.”
She deflated a bit. It was probably too much to ask.
But Gamache was leaning forward. He knew Jean-Guy well. Very well. And he could see this wasn’t some aside. This was, perhaps, the main course.
“Go on,” he said.
And Beauvoir told them what Madame Ogilvy had said about the Kinderoths. And their will.
Beauvoir watched for their reaction and wasn’t disappointed. Gamache smiled, and Lacoste was almost throbbing with excitement.
The three sat around the kitchen table, as they’d sat around so many tables, across Québec, across the years. Sipping strong teas and coffees and discussing terrible crimes.