But it came from Morin.
Beauvoir left the Chief in the living room speaking to his daughter and walked upstairs. As he climbed he hummed an old Weavers tune and hoped Gamache didn’t notice the stuffed animal clutched in his hand.
When Monsieur Béliveau arrived to open his general store the next morning he had a customer already waiting. Agent Paul Morin stood up from the bench on the veranda and introduced himself to the elderly grocer.
“How can I help you?” Monsieur Béliveau asked as he unlocked the door. It wasn’t often people in Three Pines were so pressed for his produce they were actually waiting for him. But then, this young man wasn’t a villager.
“Do you have any paraffin?”
Monsieur Béliveau’s stern face broke into a smile. “I have everything.”
Paul Morin had never been in the store before and now he looked around. The dark wooden shelves were neatly stacked with tins. Sacks of dog food and birdseed leaned against the counter. Above the shelves were old boxes with backgammon games. Checkers, Snakes and Ladders, Monopoly. Paint by numbers and jigsaw puzzles were stacked in neat, orderly rows. Dried goods were displayed along one wall, paint, boots, birdfeeders were down another.
“Over there, by the Mason jars. Are you planning on doing some pickling?” he chuckled.
“Do you sell much?” Morin asked.
“At this time of year? It’s all I can do to keep it in stock.”
“And how about this?” He held up a tin. “Sell many of these?”
“A few. But most people go into the Canadian Tire in Cowansville for that sort of thing, or the building supply shops. I just keep some around in case.”
“When was the last time you sold some?” the young agent asked as he paid for his goods. He didn’t expect an answer really, but he felt he had to ask.
“July.”
“Really?” Morin suspected he’d have to work on his “interrogation” face. “How’d you remember that?”
“It’s what I do. You get to know the habits of people. And when they buy something unusual, like this,” he held up the tin just before placing it in the paper bag, “I notice. Actually, two people bought some. Regular run on the market.”
Agent Paul Morin left Monsieur Béliveau’s shop with his goods, and a whole lot of unexpected information.
Agent Isabelle Lacoste started her day with the more straightforward of the interviews. She pressed the button and the elevator swished shut and took her to the top of the Banque Laurentienne tower in Montreal. As she waited she looked out at the harbor in one direction and Mont Royal with its huge cross in the other. Splendid glass buildings clustered all around downtown, reflecting the sun, reflecting the aspirations and achievements of this remarkable French city.
Isabelle Lacoste was always surprised by the amount of pride she felt when looking at downtown Montreal. The architects had managed to make it both impressive and charming. Montrealers never turned their back on the past. The Québécois were like that, for better or worse.
“Je vous en prie,” the receptionist smiled and indicated a now-opened door.
“Merci.” Agent Lacoste walked into a quite grand office where a slender, athletic-looking middle-aged man was standing at his desk. He came round, extending his hand, and introduced himself as Yves Charpentier.
“I have some of the information you asked for,” he said in cultured French. It delighted Lacoste when she could speak her own language to top executives. Her generation could. But she’d heard her parents and grandparents talk, and knew enough recent history to know had it been thirty years earlier she’d probably be speaking to a unilingual Englishman. Her English was perfect, but that wasn’t the point.
She accepted the offer of coffee.
“This is rather delicate,” said Monsieur Charpentier, when his secretary had left and the door was closed. “I don’t want you to think Olivier Brulé was a criminal, and there was never any question of laying charges.”
“But?”
“We were very happy with him for the first few years. I’m afraid we tend to be impressed by profit and he delivered on that. He moved up quickly. People liked him, especially his clients. A lot of people in this business can be glib, but Olivier was genuine. Quiet, respectful. It was a relief to deal with him.”
“But?” Lacoste repeated, with a slight smile she hoped took the edge off her insistence. Monsieur Charpentier smiled back.
“Some company money went missing. A couple of million.” He watched for her response but she simply listened. “A very discreet investigation was launched. In the meantime more money disappeared. Eventually we tracked it down to two people. One of them was Olivier. I didn’t believe it, but after a couple of interviews he admitted it.”
“Could he have been covering for the other employee?”
“Doubtful. Frankly, the other employee, while bright, wasn’t smart enough to do this.”
“Surely it doesn’t take brains to embezzle. I’d have thought you’d have to be quite stupid.”
Monsieur Charpentier laughed. “I agree, but I haven’t made myself clear. The money was gone from the company account, but not stolen. Olivier showed us what he’d done. The trail. Seems he’d been following some activity in Malaysia, saw what he thought were some fantastic investment opportunities and took them to his boss, who didn’t agree. So Olivier did it on his own, without authorization. It was all there. He’d documented it, intending to put it back, with the profits. And he’d been right. Those three million dollars turned into twenty.”
Now Lacoste reacted, not verbally, but her expression made Charpentier nod.
“Exactly. The kid had a nose for money. Where is he now?”
“You fired him?” asked Lacoste, ignoring the question.
“He quit. We were trying to decide what to do with him. The executives were torn. His boss was apoplectic and wanted him dangled from the top of the building. We explained we don’t do that. Anymore.”
Lacoste laughed. “Some of you wanted to keep him on?”
“He was just so good at what he did.”
“Which was making money. Are you convinced he was going to give it back?”
“Now, you’ve hit on the problem. Half of us believed him, half didn’t. Olivier finally resigned, realizing he’d lost our trust. When you lose that, well . . .”
Well, thought Agent Lacoste. Well, well.
And now Olivier was in Three Pines. But like everyone who moved, he took himself with him.
Well, well.
The three Sûreté officers gathered round the table in the Incident Room.
“So where are we?” asked Beauvoir, standing once again by the sheets of paper tacked to the walls. Instead of answers to the questions he’d written there, two more had been added.
WHERE WAS HE MURDERED?
WHY WAS HE MOVED?
He shook his head. They seemed to be moving in the wrong direction. Even the few things that seemed possible in this case, like the fire irons being the weapons, turned out to be nothing.
They had nothing.
“We actually know a great deal,” said Gamache. “We know the man wasn’t killed in the bistro.”
“That leaves the rest of the world to eliminate,” said Beauvoir.
“We know paraffin and Varathane are involved. And we know that somehow Olivier’s involved.”
“But we don’t even know who the victim was.” Beauvoir underlined that question on his sheet in frustration. Gamache let that sit for a moment, then spoke.