“Hold on,” said Armand, and pressed his foot on the gas.
“Are you sure?” said Benedict as they headed straight for the wall of snow.
“Oh shit,” said Myrna, bracing herself.
And then they hit.
The snow exploded, plastering itself against the windshield and blinding them as the car skewed violently one way, then the other.
And then, to Benedict’s horror, Armand leaned back in his seat.
“Hit the brake,” Benedict screamed.
Benedict reached for the wheel, but Armand grabbed his wrist in a grip so tight the young man flinched.
A chunk of snow flew off the windshield, and they could see the forest—trees, trunks—heading toward them.
Benedict gasped and put his hands against the dashboard while Armand stared ahead, waiting. Waiting. And then, just when it appeared too late, he gently, gently, pumped the brakes.
The car slowed. Then stopped. Its nose just touching the other bank.
There was complete silence, then long exhales.
They were right across the road, blocking it. Armand quickly looked left and right, to see if there were any oncoming cars. But the road was empty.
Only fools would be out in a blizzard.
There was quiet, giddy laughter.
“Oh shit,” sighed Myrna.
Armand backed the car up and pointed it toward home. Putting on the warning flashers, he got out to inspect for damage.
“What the fuck was that?” demanded Benedict, marching around the car to confront Armand. “You gave up. You almost killed us.”
Armand gestured with both hands toward the car.
“Yeah,” shouted Benedict. “Dumb luck.”
“There was that.” Had there been another vehicle coming or the plow returning—
“You froze,” shouted Benedict as Armand began digging snow out of the grille of the car. “I saw you.”
“What I did and what you saw seem to be two different things. Sometimes the best thing we can do is nothing.”
“What sort of Zen bullshit is that?”
Snow whipped around Benedict, his fists clenched as he stared at Gamache.
“You want to know why I did what I did?”
“You panicked.”
“Did no one teach you how to drive in snow?” Gamache shouted into the blizzard.
“I can do it better than you.”
“Then you can give me a lesson. But perhaps not today.”
They got back into the car, and Gamache put it in gear.
“And,” he said, concentrating on the road, “just so you know. I never give up.”
“Where’re we going?” asked Lucien from the backseat.
“Home,” said Myrna.
CHAPTER 6
“Are we there?” asked the notary. Again.
“Oui.”
“Really?”
The answer was so unexpected it silenced him. Lucien used his sleeve to wipe the condensation from the car window and peered out. And saw … nothing.
And then the blowing snow momentarily shifted, and for a split second, through a tear in the blizzard, he could see a house. A home.
It was made of fieldstone, and there was soft light coming through the mullioned windows.
And then it was gone, swallowed by the storm. The sighting was so brief, Lucien wondered if desperation and imagination had conjured a fairy-tale cottage.
“Are you sure?” he asked.
“Pretty sure.”
Less than an hour later, Armand and his guests were showered and changed into clean, dry clothing. Except Lucien, who’d refused all offers.
They were seated at the long pine table in the kitchen while the woodstove pumped out heat at the far end of the room. Snow had piled up on the frames of the windows on either side of the fireplace, making it difficult to see out.
Benedict wore a borrowed T-shirt, sweater, and slacks and had calmed down since the drive. The hot shower and the promise of food had lulled him.
He looked around.
This place didn’t shudder, the windows didn’t rattle, despite the fury outside. It had been built to last, and lasted it had. He figured it was more than one hundred, perhaps even two hundred years old.
Even if he tried, if he really, really tried, he doubted he could build a home this solid.
He looked across the room, at Madame Gamache serving up soup and Armand cutting bread. Occasionally consulting. Their bodies just touching in an act both casual and intimate.
Benedict wondered if he tried, really, really tried, if he could build a relationship that solid.
He scratched his chest and winced.
A few minutes earlier, while standing under the hot stream of the shower, Armand had asked Reine-Marie, “Does the name Bertha Baumgartner mean anything to you?”
“Wasn’t she a cartoon character?” said Reine-Marie. “No, that was Dagwood. Was she a villain in Doonesbury?”
He turned off the shower and stepped out, taking the towel she handed him.
“Merci.” As he rubbed his hair dry, he looked at her, amused, but then saw she was serious. “No, she was a neighbor, sort of.”
He put on cords, a clean shirt, and a sweater and told her why he’d been summoned to the remote farmhouse.
“A liquidator? But you must’ve known her, Armand. Why else would she choose you?”
“I have no idea.”
“And Myrna doesn’t know her?”
“Neither does the young fellow. Benedict.”
“How do you explain that?” she asked.
“I can’t.”
“Huh,” said Reine-Marie.
When they had their soups and sandwiches and beer, Reine-Marie left them at the kitchen table, taking her own lunch into the living room.
Sitting by the fireplace with Gracie, their little foundling, beside her, Reine-Marie stared into the flames and repeated:
Bertha Baumgartner. Bertha Baumgartner.
Still the name meant nothing.
“Now,” said Lucien, adjusting his glasses. “You’ve all agreed to be liquidators of the estate of Bertha Baumgartner. Is that correct?”
What sounded like “Yes” came from Benedict, but his mouth was so full of roast-beef sandwich it came out as a muffled “Woof.”
Henri, lying at Armand’s feet, perked up his ears, his tail swishing slightly.
“That is correct,” said Myrna, using the same tone as the notary, though he didn’t seem to notice.
The chair creaked as she sat back, a warm mug of pea soup in her hands. She longed to reach for the beer, but the mug was so comforting she didn’t want to let it go.
Armand had dropped her at the door into the bistro, her bookstore being snowed in, so she could have a hot shower and change before heading to their place.
“Oh for Christ’s sake,” said Clara as she hugged her friend. “We were so worried.”
“I wasn’t,” said Gabri, though he also hugged her tight. “You okay?” he said. “You look like shit.”
“Could be worse.”
“Where were you?” asked Olivier.
Myrna saw no reason not to tell them.
“Bertha Baumgartner?” said Gabri. “Bertha Baumgartner? Really? There was someone around here named Bertha Baumgartner and I didn’t know her? Who was she?”
“You don’t know?” asked Myrna. Gabri and Olivier knew everyone.
“Don’t you?” asked Clara, following her to the door connecting the bistro to the bookstore.
“No. Not a clue.” She stopped and looked at their astonished faces.
“You say that Armand is also a liquidator?” asked Olivier. “He must know her.”
“No. None of us do. Not even the notary.”
“And she lived just down the road?” asked Clara.
“Well, about twenty minutes from here. You sure the name doesn’t sound familiar?”
“Bertha Baumgartner,” said Gabri again, clearly enjoying the sound of it.
“Don’t you dare,” said Olivier. He turned to Clara and Myrna. “He’s been looking for another name to sign to the letter inviting Prime Minister Trudeau to the carnival. We suspect Gabri Dubeau is on the straight-to-garbage list.”