He walked over to the wall by the long pine table. Beauvoir had seen the picture many times, including the original in Clara’s studio, when she’d first painted it.
Now he and his father-in-law stood in front of it.
Clara called it The Three Graces. But instead of showing three beautiful young women, naked and intertwined in a more than slightly erotic way, she’d painted three fully clothed elderly women from the village. Including the woman, Emilie, who used to own the Gamaches’ home.
They were wrinkled, sagging, frail. They held on to each other. Not because they were afraid or feeble. Just the opposite. These women were roaring with laughter. The work radiated joy. Friendship. Companionship. Power.
“The number of the print,” he said, reaching out to take the large painting off the wall, “is written on the back.”
“Actually—” Armand began, but it was too late. Jean-Guy had it off and had turned it around.
Something was indeed written there. But it was in Gamache’s familiar hand.
“For Reine-Marie, my Grace. With love forever, Armand.”
Jean-Guy colored, and, after quickly putting it back on the wall, he turned to look at Armand, who was watching him and smiling.
“Not exactly a secret,” said Armand. “Or a code. What I wanted to show you is that.”
Gamache pointed to the front of the painting. On the lower right corner were Clara’s signature and the numbers 7/12.
“I’ve seen that,” said Jean-Guy. “But I always thought that was the date it was finished.”
“No. It’s the number of the print. Seven of twelve.”
“She only printed twelve?”
“It was before she became successful,” said Armand. “She didn’t think she could even sell twelve.”
“So this must be worth—”
But he stopped and stared at The Three Graces. At the number. And grunted. “Huh. So what’s with the number on the back of Baumgartner’s painting?”
Gamache raised his brows, as did Jean-Guy. Who then walked quickly over to the phone in the kitchen and placed a call.
“Cloutier? The painting in Baumgartner’s study. Yes, the crazy old woman. There’s a number on the back. Did you make a note of it? Can you go over to the house and see? Better yet, bring the painting in. No, I’m not kidding. No, I don’t want it in my office. Keep it by your desk. Okay then, turn it to face the wall. I don’t care. Just get that number and try it on his laptop. I’ll be there in an hour.”
Beauvoir hung up and turned to Gamache.
“We’ll know soon. I don’t know what we’ll find on that computer, but I’m still betting those two out there”—he jerked his head toward the living room—“are in it over their ridiculous haircuts. I think Anthony Baumgartner was greedy. Scheming. Criminal. I don’t think he had any intention of sharing the wealth.”
“And you think that’s why he was killed?”
“I do. Don’t you?”
Gamache glanced toward the closed door, and Jean-Guy, who knew him well, could guess his thoughts.
“Look, patron, I know you don’t want Benedict to be the one. You like him. I like him. He saved your life. But—”
“You think that’s why I don’t believe it was Benedict?” asked Armand. “Because he did a nice thing?”
“It was a pretty nice thing,” said Beauvoir.
“True, but we’ve arrested too many nice killers to be fooled. I just don’t see any proof. That they’ve lied, yes, but if everyone who lied to us was a killer, there’d be slaughter in the streets. I just don’t believe it.”
“You don’t want to believe it.”
“Show me the proof and I will.”
“You talked about separating facts from all the lies in this case. Well, here’s a fact for you. Benedict was in the farmhouse when Baumgartner was there. He had opportunity and motive. I’m betting under all that rubble we’ll find the sledgehammer, or whatever weapon he used. And then their story will collapse, like the building. With them in it.”
The two men were used to arguing over cases. Challenging each other. Challenging theories, questioning evidence. This was nothing new. Though there was a slight edge to it, and Armand knew why.
Was he refusing to see what was so clear to Beauvoir? What would be so clear to him if he didn’t keep feeling the trembling body on top of him and hearing the crying. Of a young man terrified of dying but instinctively protecting another. A veritable stranger.
Could such a man, just hours earlier, have taken a life?
But Armand knew the answer to that. Yes. One was instinctive. The other well thought out. Premeditated. And maybe also, at a profound level, instinctive.
A parent would do a lot to provide for his child. And if that meant killing a—what had Katie called him?—filthy, greedy, cheating, and lying Baumgartner, then so be it.
Yes, Armand had to admit. It could have been Benedict.
They returned to the living room, and Jean-Guy said his goodbyes, explaining that he had to get back to Montréal.
Myrna got up. “I’ll be leaving too. Those brownies won’t eat themselves.”
“I thought you said it was soup you left behind,” said Reine-Marie, walking her to the door.
“You must’ve misheard,” said Myrna.
“What about us?” asked Katie.
“You’re free to go,” said Beauvoir.
“Me too?” asked Benedict.
Beauvoir hesitated for a moment, then nodded.
They thanked the Gamaches for their hospitality.
“And the tires,” said Benedict, with a smile that a day earlier Gamache might have found disarming but now struck him as possibly calculated. “I won’t forget.”
“And neither will I,” said Armand, shaking the young man’s hand. Then he turned to Katie. “I really do like the hat, you know.”
Beauvoir watched them leave, then said to Gamache, “Next time I see them, it’ll be with an arrest warrant.”
Gamache put on his boots and coat and hat.
“Taking the dogs for a walk?” asked Beauvoir, pulling on his mittens.
“Non. I’m going in to Montréal too.”
“Good,” said Beauvoir. “I’ll drive you. You can stay over with us, if you like.”
“Non, merci. I’ll drive myself. I’ll be coming back out.”
“Your eyes okay?”
“They’re just fine.”
Beauvoir paused, studying his father-in-law. “Are you sure?”
“You’re not accusing me of being blind again, are you?”
“Only to evidence so obvious your infant grandson could see it,” said Beauvoir. “But I think you’re okay to drive.”
Gamache laughed and said good night to his son-in-law, then went and explained to Reine-Marie that he had to go into the city but would be back later.
“Would you like me to come?” she asked.
“Non, mon coeur—”
Just then the phone rang.
“I’ll get it,” he said, and went into his study.
When he reached for the phone, he paused. The number lit up on the handset was one he recognized.
He glanced out into the living room, then, with his foot, swung the door closed.
“Oui, allô,” he said.
His voice sounded strange in his own ears. Oddly calm, while his heart pounded.
“Monsieur Gamache?” asked the man at the other end. “Arnold Gamache?”
“Armand. Oui.”
“My name is Dr. Harper. I’m one of the coroners in Montréal. I’m afraid I have some bad news for you.”
Gamache felt light-headed. Physically sick.
Annie? He thought. Honoré? Had there been an accident?
He stood straight but put out his hand to steady himself against the desk. Preparing for the blow.
“Go on.”
“We found your name and phone number on a body that was just brought in. There was no other identification.”
“Go on,” said Armand. He felt his extremities going cold and tingling. He wondered if he might pass out.