‘No medication in her medicine cabinet,’ said Gamache. ‘We won’t have the coroner’s report until later today.’
‘I wonder how many people have heard of ephedra?’ said Beauvoir. ‘I hadn’t, but then I don’t diet. Presumably most people who diet have heard of it, is that fair to say?’ He turned to Lacoste, who thought about it. She dieted every now and then. Like most women she owned a fun-house mirror that one day showed her fat, the next slim.
‘I think anyone who diets habitually would know about it,’ she said, slowly, trying to figure it out. ‘Dieters become obsessed with losing weight and any product that promises to do it without effort would be noticed.’
‘So we’re looking for a dieter?’ asked Nichol, confused.
‘But there’s a problem,’ said Lemieux. ‘You can’t buy it here. Or in the States.’
‘That is a problem,’ conceded Gamache.
‘Except,’ came a voice behind them. The technician who’d downloaded the information was sitting at one of their desks, looking out from behind a flat screen. ‘You can order ephedra on-line.’ He pointed to the screen in front of him. Getting up, they moved to his station.
There on the screen was a long list of Googled sites, all offering to ship perfectly safe ephedra to anyone desperate and stupid enough to want it.
‘Still,’ said Armand Gamache, straightening up. ‘The ephedra alone wouldn’t do it. Once the ephedra was in her body the potential was there, but the murderer needed one more thing. An accessory. The old Hadley house.’ To everyone’s amazement he turned to Nichol. ‘You were right. She was scared to death.’
NINETEEN
Clara leaned back and reached for her mug. In front of her were the remains of breakfast. Crumbs. The plate looked so forlorn she popped a couple of slices of bread into the teepee toaster and closed the doors.
She and Myrna had stayed with Agent Lacoste at the old Hadley house while she did whatever she needed to do. Not nearly fast enough in their opinion. Most of the time Clara had stood just inside the room and stared at the little bird, curled on its side, legs up to its chest, not unlike Madeleine, though smaller. And with feathers. Well, maybe not so much like Madeleine. Still, there was a similarity. They were both dead.
But while Clara felt terrible about Madeleine, she carried no guilt. Unlike this little creature. She knew she’d helped kill it. They’d all known there was a bird. In fact, that was why they’d decided to use this particular room, in hopes of maybe saving it.
Had she even tried? No. Instead she’d been terrified the bird would attack out of the shadows. Far from trying to save the bird Clara had hated it. Wanted it to die, or at least go away, or failing that attack someone else.
And now it was here. Dead. A baby. A tiny, frightened robin, which probably fell down the chimney from its nest and only wanted to find its mother and its home again.
Finally Agent Lacoste had been ready. The three women had held hands and stared at the salt circle. And each sent silent thoughts out to Madeleine. While Agent Lacoste had seen only the grotesque shell, Clara and Myrna remembered her alive. It was liberating, seeing Madeleine smiling and laughing. Glowing. Listening and taking everything in with those interested eyes. The living Madeleine became more real. As it should be.
Then Clara thought of the bird, and apologized to it, and promised to do better next time.
It was the most peaceful few moments in the old Hadley house Clara had ever spent. Still, none of them protested when it was time to leave.
Chief Inspector Gamache had been driving by just as they’d left and Agent Lacoste flagged him down. Myrna and Clara said hello then walked back to the loft. While Myrna put the bacon back on, Clara called Peter to tell him where she was.
‘Have you seen the paper?’ he asked.
‘No, we were too busy doing an exorcism.’
‘You’re at Myrna’s? Wait there. I’ll be right over.’
Myrna put on more bacon and ground some coffee while Clara set the table and cut the bread for the teepee toaster. By the time Peter arrived breakfast was ready.
‘From Sarah’s.’ He held a paper bag. Clara kissed him and took it.
Croissants.
Twenty minutes later Peter licked his finger and wiped a bit of butter from Clara’s cheek. Not even close to her mouth. How does she do it, he marveled. It was like a superpower without purpose.
‘I dropped by Monsieur Béliveau’s store too,’ he said, pouring coffees.
‘Is he open?’ Myrna asked. ‘I didn’t notice.’
‘As always. He came over for dinner last night, you know,’ said Peter, opening some jam jars. One still had the wax on top and he needed to dig it out with a knife. ‘Hardly ate anything.’
‘Not surprised,’ said Myrna. ‘I think he loved her.’
The other two nodded. Poor man. To lose two women he loved within a few years. He’d been so sweet over dinner the night before. Even bringing a pie from Sarah’s Boulangerie. But his energy had flagged and within half an hour he just sat there, moving food about on his plate. Peter kept filling his wine glass, and Clara prattled on about getting the garden ready. That was the beauty of friends, she knew. Nothing was expected of Monsieur Béliveau, and he knew it. Sometimes it’s just nice not to be alone. He’d left early, right after supper. And he’d seemed a little livelier. Clara and Peter had taken Lucy and walked with Monsieur Béliveau across the village green to his home. On the veranda Clara and Peter had hugged him but offered no easy words of comfort. To do that would be to simply comfort themselves. What Monsieur Béliveau needed was to feel bad. And then he’d feel better.
Now, over breakfast Clara and Myrna told Peter about their morning so far. He listened, amazed by their courage to go back into that house and astonished by their stupidity. Did they really believe Madeleine’s spirit was hovering around the room and could hear them? Never mind the supposed spirit of a dead bird. And, even more disconcerting, did an officer with the Sûreté believe it? But that reminded him. He reached for the paper he’d brought and opened it.
‘Listen to this.’
‘Golf scores?’ Myrna asked, pouring more coffee and offering some to Clara. Peter was hidden behind La Journée, the Montreal paper.
‘This is in the city column.’ Peter poked his head round the paper to find Myrna pouring cream into her coffee and Clara opening the doors of the toaster to gingerly remove the bread. Giving one piece to Myrna, Clara reached for the marmalade and started speading it thick upon her toast. They were paying absolutely no attention. He ducked back behind the paper with a smile. That would soon change, he knew. He started to read out loud.
‘It is a matter of some concern that a senior officer in the Sûreté du Québec is living way beyond his means. According to my sources a man in his position should be making no more than ninety-five thousand dollars. Even that, in my opinion, is far too much. Still, even on that overly generous salary his lifestyle exceeds his apparent income. Wearing high-end clothing, mostly from England. Taking vacations in France. Living in style in Outremont. And, just recently, buying a Volvo.’
Peter slowly lowered the paper to see a tableau. Myrna and Clara were staring at him, their eyes almost as wide as their mouths. Toast arrested halfway up.
He lifted the paper again, to read the last line. The knife thrust. The twist as it struck home.
‘And all this since the sad case of Superintendent Pierre Arnot. What did he have to do to earn this money?’
Gabri watched as his guest sipped the last of her herbal tea and replaced the cup. He was peeking from the kitchen side of the swinging door, and through the crack he could see her getting up.