From there the conversation went south.
Myrna’s heart wasn’t in it, and neither was her mind, though she had paused for a moment on the Trudeau image before her thoughts went back to the letter folded in her pocket.
What would happen if she didn’t show up?
The sun was turning the snow outside pink and blue. Shrieks of children could be heard, giddy with that intoxicating mix of fun and fear as their toboggans plunged down the hill.
It looked so idyllic.
But.
But if, by chance or fate, you got caught too far from home as clouds rolled in, as a flurry blew into a blizzard, then all bets were off.
A Québec winter, so cheerful and peaceful, could turn on you. Could kill. And each winter did. Men, women, children alive in the autumn did not see the blizzard coming and never saw the spring.
In the countryside, winter was a gorgeous, glorious, luminous killer.
Québécois with gray in their hair and lines in their faces got there by being wise enough and sensible enough and prudent enough to get back home. And watch the blizzard from beside a cheery hearth, with a hot chocolate, or a glass of wine, and a good book.
While there were few things more terrifying than being outside in a blizzard, there were few things more comforting than being inside.
As with so much in life, it was, Myrna knew, a matter of inches between safe and sorry.
While Gabri and Clara debated the merits of all-inclusives versus other resorts versus cruises, Myrna thought about the letter and decided to leave it up to fate.
If it was snowing, she’d stay home. If it was clear, she’d go.
And now, as she sat in the off-kilter kitchen, with the off-kilter table, and the off-kilter notary, and the wacky young builder, Myrna looked out at the worsening snow and thought—
Fucking fate. Tricked again.
“Myrna’s right,” said Armand, laying a large hand on the will. “We need to decide if we even want to do it.” He turned to the other two. “What do you think?”
“Can we read the thing first?” said Benedict, patting the will. “Then decide?”
“No,” said the notary.
Myrna got up. “I think we should talk about it. In private.”
Armand walked around the table and bent down beside Benedict, who was still sitting there, and whispered, “You’re welcome to join us.”
“Oh great, yes. Good idea.”
CHAPTER 5
As Gamache passed from the kitchen into the dining room, he paused to look at the doorframe and the marks.
Bending closer, he noted faint names beside the lines.
Anthony, aged three, four, five, and so on up the doorjamb.
Caroline, at three, four, five …
And then there was Hugo, three, four, five, and so on. But his lines were denser. Like the rings of some old oak that wasn’t growing very fast. Or very tall.
Hugo lagged far behind where his brother and sister were at the same age. But, uniquely, beside his name, at each faint line, there was a sticker. A horse. A dog. A teddy bear. So that while little Hugo might not stand tall, he did stand out.
Armand looked back into the kitchen, stripped bare. Then into the empty dining room, its wallpaper stained with moisture.
What happened here? he wondered.
What happened in Madame Baumgartner’s life that she had to choose strangers to enact her will? Where were Anthony and Caroline and Hugo?
“Roof leaking,” said Benedict, splaying his large hand on a stain on the dining-room wall. “It’s getting between the walls. Rotting. A shame. Look at these floors.”
They did. Old pine. Warping.
Benedict walked around, inspecting the room, staring up at the ceiling.
He’d unzipped his winter coat to reveal a sweater that was alternately fuzzy and tight-knit, and one section looked like it was made of steel wool.
Myrna could not believe it was comfortable, but she could believe it was made by his girlfriend.
He must love her, she thought. A lot. And she him. Everything she created was for him. The fact it was awful didn’t take away from the thought. Unless, of course, she did it on purpose. To not only make him look foolish but to cause him actual pain, as the steel-wool sweater scratched and rubbed the young flesh beneath.
She either loved Benedict a lot or despised him. A lot.
And he either didn’t see it or was drawn to pain, to abuse, as some people were.
“So,” said Myrna. “Do you want to be a liquidator?”
“What’s involved?” asked Benedict. “What do we have to do?”
“If the will’s simple, not much,” said Armand. “Just make sure the taxes and bills are paid and any bequests get to the right people. Then wrap up the estate. The notary helps with that. Liquidators are generally family members and friends. People who’re trusted.”
They looked at each other. They were none of those things to Bertha Baumgartner. And yet here they were.
Armand glanced around for a photograph left behind on the damp walls or fallen to the floor. Something that might tell them who this Bertha Baumgartner was. But there was nothing. Just the smudged lines on the door. And the horsey, doggy, teddy bear.
“That doesn’t sound so bad,” said Benedict.
“That’s if it’s simple,” said Armand. “If it isn’t, it could take a lot of time. A long time.”
“Like days?” asked Benedict. When there was no answer, he added, “Weeks? Months?”
“Years,” said Armand. “Some wills take years, especially if there’re any arguments between the heirs.”
“And there often are,” said Myrna. She turned full circle. “Greed does that. But it looks like they’ve already stripped the place. And I can’t imagine there’s much left to divide.”
Beside her, Armand made a noise like a rumble.
She looked at him and nodded. “I know. It might not seem like much to us, but to people who have little, a little more can seem a fortune.”
He remained silent.
That wasn’t exactly what he was thinking. A will, an estate, could become about more than money, property, possessions. Who was left the most could be interpreted as who was loved the most. There were different sorts of greed. Of need.
And wills were sometimes used as a final affront, the last insult delivered by a ghost.
“Do we get paid?” asked Benedict.
“Maybe a little. It’s normally done as a favor,” said Armand.
Benedict nodded. “So how do we know if this’s simple?”
“We can’t know until we read the will,” said Myrna.
“But we can’t read the will until we decide,” Benedict pointed out.
“Catch-22,” said Gamache, to the young man’s blank face. “I think we have to assume the worst and decide if we still want to do it.”
“And if we don’t?” asked Myrna. “What happens?”
“The courts will appoint other liquidators.”
“But she wanted us,” said Benedict. “I wonder why. She must’ve had a reason.” He stopped, deep in thought. They could almost hear the wheels grinding. Finally he shook his head. “Nope. Can’t think what it would be. You two know each other, don’t you?”
“We’re neighbors,” said Myrna. “Live in the same village about twenty minutes away.”
“I live in Montréal with my girlfriend. I’ve never even been out this way. Maybe she meant another Benedict Pouliot.”
“You live on rue Taillon in Montréal?” asked Armand, and when the young man nodded, he went on. “She meant you.”
Benedict focused on Armand, as though really seeing him for the first time. He brought his hand up to his own temple, placing a finger there. “That looks nasty. What happened? An accident?”
Armand raised his hand and brushed it along the furrow of the scar. “Non. I was hurt once.”
More than once, Myrna thought, but didn’t say it.
“It was a while ago,” Armand assured the young man. “I’m fine now.”