“I asked him to do it,” said Katie.
“I found the support beam in the kitchen and gave it a couple of good whacks with a sledgehammer. Just to test it.”
“It failed the test?” asked Myrna.
“Well, yes. The place fell down. That wasn’t planned.”
Katie held his hand tightly as he looked across at Myrna, Jean-Guy, Armand.
“You came and found me,” said Benedict. “Thank you.”
“Thank you,” said Katie.
Reine-Marie saw a young man.
Jean-Guy saw the cloud of concrete and plaster and snow. And heard the roar.
And the shouting. Screaming. His own. As he fought to free himself from those who held him back.
Myrna saw the huge beams and slabs coming down all around. She felt the rubble crushing in around her and the overwhelming terror, and disbelief, as she realized she was about to die. And she felt Billy Williams holding her hand.
Armand looked at Benedict in front of the cheerful fire and felt the young body on top of his, trying to shield him, as the house of Baumgartner fell and the world came to an end.
And then he saw Benedict’s dust-covered face, with the blood. And beyond it the hand, thrust up through the rubble.
Anthony Baumgartner.
Amelia was beginning to shiver almost uncontrollably.
They’d been at it for hours now. Amelia recognized what this was. They were being deliberately worn down. Led by the nose through the freezing streets until they had no will, no fight left.
Her feet were soaked through, and beside her, Marc was weeping. Begging. She didn’t know what for. He was just begging.
Probably for this to stop. For them to stop.
But Amelia couldn’t afford to. Even as she recognized the manipulation, she had to see it through.
Up ahead the boy turned and gestured.
“I found him.”
CHAPTER 35
Murder was essentially simple, Beauvoir was thinking as he walked with his father-in-law into the kitchen.
The motives, even the method, might look complicated, until you figured it out. And they were figuring this one out.
Armand closed the door into the kitchen.
“What do you think?”
“I think it’s all bullshit. I think there was no friendship between the Baron and the Baroness, never mind love. Katie Burke’s story’s almost laughable. It sounds like a fairy tale.”
“Most fairy tales are pretty dark,” said Armand, taking the tarte Tatin out of the fridge and handing it to Jean-Guy. “Have you read any to Honoré? Rumpelstiltskin? It starts with a lie and ends with a death.”
“I’ll keep my eyes peeled for an elf,” said Jean-Guy.
“An imp,” said Armand. He plugged the kettle in and turned to watch Jean-Guy cutting the caramelized apple tart.
They were there, ostensibly, to get dessert, but when Reine-Marie came in to help them, she saw the look on her husband’s face and went back out.
“I think she’s pregnant,” said Armand. “Katie, I mean.”
“What makes you say that? Did the elf tell you?”
“Imp, and no. It was the way she put her hand over her abdomen when she talked about ending the family legacy of hate. And then he touched her in a way that was very tender. The way I saw you reach out for Annie when she was pregnant with Honoré. He loves her.”
“They love each other,” said Jean-Guy, licking his fingers and thinking. “If she is pregnant, it could be even more of a motive.”
“But for what?” asked Armand. “To end the feud or to keep it going? One keeps them happy but in poverty, the other comes with a fortune but at a price. What do they want for their child? Money or peace?”
“Money,” said Jean-Guy. “Always money. Peace is for people with a bank account. Look at them. He’s a so-called carpenter but really a janitor, and she’s a … what? Wannabe designer? She’s never gonna make money, unless it’s designing clown suits. And neither is he. And now they’re looking at a baby coming? No, their only hope, their last hope, is the judgment in Vienna.”
“She said she didn’t believe there was any money.”
“What’s she gonna say? Sure, maybe her more sane self tells her there isn’t a fortune left. But she’s been raised on a pretty dark fairy tale. Of huge wealth coming their way. Who doesn’t dream of that? No, you can’t tell me that Katie Burke doesn’t believe, deep down, that there’s a fortune. And it belongs to them.”
Delusion and madness, thought Jean-Guy. Like most fairy tales.
“Trust me,” he said. “Those two are in it up to their necks.”
Armand told him about what had happened in the truck.
“Do you think he was trying to crash?” asked Jean-Guy, shocked by what he heard.
“No, I think he felt cornered and was overcome with anger when I questioned him about Katie.”
Though they both knew that at the root of anger was fear. And fear was what propelled most murders.
“You think they killed Anthony Baumgartner?” Armand asked.
“I do. I think there was something in that letter that sent Baumgartner to the farmhouse. Benedict met him there and killed him.”
“Why kill him?” asked Armand. “If the letter is telling Baumgartner to share the fortune, why would they need to kill him?”
“Because the letter didn’t say that. Katie was lying. We have no idea what was in the letter. The Baroness might’ve dictated one thing, like Anthony should share, but Katie wrote down something else. Like Anthony should go to the old farmhouse alone the night the will was read. Which he did. Thinking it was his mother’s wish.”
“We don’t know that.”
“No, that’s my point. We have no idea what was in that letter. Katie might even be telling the truth.”
Though Beauvoir clearly did not believe that.
“All we know is that Baumgartner read it, then went to the farmhouse.”
“You make it sound like cause and effect,” said Gamache. “Something else might’ve happened to send him there.”
“That’s true.”
“It’s interesting that Katie knew about the painting of Ruth. The only way she could know about it was if the Baroness told her.”
“But that doesn’t mean it was in the letter.”
“No, no it doesn’t,” said Gamache. “So, to recap, we have two theories. One, that Katie wrote down exactly what the Baroness dictated. Two, that she did not.”
Beauvoir was nodding. “We don’t seem to be much closer.”
Though that was often the odd thing about a murder investigation. They could appear to be getting further from the truth, lost in the dust thrown up by all sorts of contradictory statements. Evidence. Lies.
But then something was said, or seen, and everything that had seemed contradictory fell into place.
“That damned painting keeps coming up,” said Jean-Guy. “Bernard Shaeffer even mentioned it today when I spoke with him.”
He told Gamache about that interview.
“So he was there when Baumgartner hung it in his study,” said Gamache. “Then he helped get the laptop up and running.”
“That was supposedly why he was there,” said Beauvoir. “But then it turned into something else.”
“Shaeffer told you that Baumgartner was trying to think of a new password? Did he find one?”
“If he did, he was smart enough not to tell Shaeffer.”
“According to Shaeffer,” said Gamache.
“True. We’re still trying to crack it. We’ve searched the home, of course. I even looked behind that damned painting, but all I saw there was the print number.”
Gamache nodded, and then his brows drew together. “What did you see there?”
“It’s a numbered print. They write the number on it, so buyers know what—”
“Yes, yes,” said Gamache. “I know. We have some here, including one of Clara’s.”