‘Ever heard of Terry Harris?’
‘The running back?’
‘Or Seamus Regan?’
‘The outfielder? Played for the Lions? They both died. I remember reading about it in Allô Sport.’
‘They took ephedra. It’s used in diet pills.’
‘That’s it. Harris collapsed during practice and Regan was actually playing. I was watching on TV. It was a hot day and everyone thought it was heat stroke. But it wasn’t?’
‘They were told by their coaches to lose weight fast, so they were taking diet pills.’
‘That was a couple of years ago,’ said Beauvoir. ‘Ephedra’s banned now, isn’t it?’
‘As far as I know, but I might be wrong. Can you check it out?’ Gamache asked Lemieux.
‘Absolutely.’
Gamache smiled as he walked to the attractive B. & B. He liked Lemieux’s enthusiasm. It was one of the reasons he’d asked the young man to join the team. Lemieux had been with the Cowansville detachment when Gamache was last down investigating a murder and had impressed him.
The victim in that case had lived in the old Hadley house.
They stepped onto the sweeping veranda of the B. & B. The three-story brick building had once been a stop on the stage coach route between Williamsburg and St-Rémy and sat on what was now called the Old Stage Road. Olivier had once told him that Gabri had made him buy it so he could tell friends he was ‘on the stage’.
Stepping inside he was met with wood floors, rich Indian rugs, and genteel faded fabrics. It felt like an old country house and invited relaxation.
But he wasn’t there to relax. He was there to find out what had killed Madeleine Favreau. Was it a simple heart attack brought on by excitement or fear? Had she taken the ephedra herself? Or was something more sinister at work, hidden behind the pleasant facade of Three Pines?
Olivier said Jeanne Chauvet was in the small bedroom on the main floor.
‘Stay here,’ Gamache ordered Lemieux while he and Beauvoir walked down the short corridor.
‘Think she might overpower us?’ Beauvoir whispered with a smile.
‘I think she might,’ said Gamache, seriously, and knocked on the door.
FOURTEEN
Silence.
Gamache and Beauvoir waited. Sunlight and fresh air wafted through the slightly open window at the end of the corridor, the simple white sheers moving slightly in the breeze.
Still they waited. Beauvoir was itching to knock again. Harder this time, as though insistence and impatience could conjure a person. Would that it were true. He was anxious to meet this woman who socialized with ghosts. Did she like them? Is that why she did it? Or perhaps no real person wanted to be with her? Maybe the only company she could find was the dead, who might not be as picky as the living. She had to be crazy, he knew. After all ghosts weren’t real. They don’t exist. Except maybe the Holy Ghost. But if— No. He wouldn’t go down that road. He looked over at Gamache’s patient profile, as though this was exactly how he wanted to spend his day. Standing in a corridor staring at a closed door.
‘Madame Chauvet? This is Armand Gamache, of the Sûreté. I’d like to speak to you.’
Beauvoir smiled a little. It looked as though the Chief Inspector was addressing the door.
‘I see that smile, monsieur. Perhaps you’d like to try?’ Gamache stepped aside and Beauvoir stepped up to the door, pounding it with the heel of his hand.
‘Sûreté, open up.’
‘Brilliant, mon ami. Just what will appeal to a woman on her own.’ Gamache turned and walked down the corridor, looking back at Beauvoir. ‘I only let you do that because I know she’s not in there.’
‘And I only did it because I knew you’d be amused.’
‘There’s a key on the peg,’ Lemieux pointed out when they returned. ‘Couldn’t we let ourselves in?’
‘Not yet,’ said Beauvoir. ‘Not without a warrant and not until we know it’s murder.’ Still, he liked Lemieux’s thinking. ‘What now?’ he asked Gamache.
‘Search the place.’
While Beauvoir and Lemieux searched the dining room, gourmet kitchen, bathrooms and basement, Gamache walked into the living room and sat in the oversized leather chair.
He closed his eyes and cleared his mind. He was worried. Where was Jeanne Chauvet? What was she doing? What was she feeling? Guilt? Remorse? Satisfaction?
Was the séance a tragic failure or a spectacular success?
Agent Robert Lemieux stood on the threshold between the living and dining rooms watching the Chief Inspector.
At times young Agent Lemieux was racked with doubt. A kind of crisis of faith that his parents talked of suffering decades ago. But his church was the Sûreté, the place that had taken him in, given him purpose. While his parents eventually left their church, he’d never leave his. Never leave it, and never, ever betray it. His parents had raised him, fed him, disciplined and loved him. But the Sûreté had given him a home. He loved his parents and sisters, but only other officers knew what it was like to be in the Sûreté. To walk out of the door, all cocky and swaggering, but being careful to tell his cat he loved her, just in case.
Watching Chief Inspector Gamache, eyes closed, head tilted back exposing his throat, so trusting, Lemieux wondered just for an instant. Had what he’d been told about Gamache really been true? Once, not so long ago, Lemieux had worshipped Gamache. On his first visit to headquarters as a recruit he’d seen the famous man striding down the hall, junior officers in tow, decoding the most intricate and brutal of cases. And yet he’d had time to smile and nod a greeting. They’d studied his cases. They’d watched and cheered as Armand Gamache had brought down the dirty Superintendent Arnot. And saved the Sûreté.
But things weren’t always as they seemed.
‘Nothing.’ Beauvoir brushed by Lemieux into the living room. Gamache opened his eyes and looked at the two men, his gaze resting on Lemieux. Their eyes held.
Then Gamache blinked and he rocked himself out of the chair.
‘You’ve had enough rest. Time to work. Agent Lemieux, please stay here in case Jeanne Chauvet comes back. You and I’, he said to Beauvoir as they made for the door, ‘are going to see Hazel Smyth.’
As he watched Gamache and Beauvoir walk to their car Lemieux hit the speed dial on his cell phone.
‘Superintendent Brébeuf? It’s Agent Lemieux.’
‘Anything?’ the confident voice came down the line.
‘A couple of things I think might be helpful.’
‘Good. Any sign of Agent Nichol?’
‘Not yet. Should I ask?’
‘Don’t be a fool, of course you shouldn’t. Tell me everything.’
There was a pause at the other end of the line. Brébeuf clenched his jaw. He was not a patient man, though he’d waited this long to get Gamache. They’d grown up together, joined up together, risen through the ranks together. They’d both gone after the Superintendent’s job, Brébeuf remembered with satisfaction. It was the little gift he kept in the back of his mind and unwrapped in moments of stress. Now he did it again. Unfolding the layers of his smiling, nodding, forelocktugging manner toward his best friend. And then he reached the great and unexpected gift. He’d prevailed. He’d won the promotion over the great Armand Gamache. And it had been enough, for a while. Until the Arnot case. Quickly he replaced the wrapping and shoved the comforting thought to the back of his mind. He needed to focus, to be careful now.
‘You know, son, why we’re doing this.’
‘Yes sir.’
‘Don’t be charmed by him, don’t be fooled. Most are. Superintendent Arnot was, and look what happened to him. You need to focus, Lemieux.’
When Lemieux had related the events of the day Brébeuf paused, thinking.
‘There’s something I want you to do. It’s a risk, but not, I think, a very big one.’ He gave Lemieux his instructions. ‘This will all be over soon,’ he said kindly, ‘and when it is, the officers with the courage to stand up for what they believe in will be rewarded. You’re a brave young man and, believe me, I know how difficult this is.’