Jeanne Chauvet had returned to the B. & B. after dinner the night before. Gabri had smiled, given her the key to her room and discreetly called Gamache at home.
‘She’s back,’ he’d whispered.
‘Pardon?’
‘She’s back,’ he’d said, with more vigor.
‘Who is this?’
‘Oh, for Christ’s sake, the witch is back,’ Gabri yelled into the phone.
‘Gabri?’
‘No, Glinda. Of course it’s me. She came back five minutes ago. What should I do?’
‘Nothing, patron. Not tonight, but make sure she doesn’t leave until I get there tomorrow. Merci.’
‘When will you be here? How do I stop her? Allô? Gamache, allô?’
He’d stared at the ceiling all night, trying to figure out how to contain the little woman downstairs. And now the moment had come. She was rising from the table.
Was this mousy little woman a murderer? He thought she probably was. She was certainly responsible for that séance, and that séance had killed Madeleine. Had almost killed him, come to that. Was that her intention? Was this awful woman trying to kill him? Was he the real target? But who’d want him dead?
Suddenly a very long list appeared, from the little girl he’d tormented in grade two to the friends whose recipes he’d stolen, to the deliberately hurtful remarks he’d made about people behind their backs but within earshot. So clever and cutting. People had laughed and Gabri had eaten it up and had tried not to notice the look of pain, of confusion and hurt, on the faces of people who’d considered him a friend.
Wasn’t that why he and Olivier had decided to move here? Partly to get away from the mountain of crap they’d created in their old lives, but mostly to live in a place where kindness trumped cleverness.
He’d begun again here, but had his old life found him? Had one of those old fags found him and hired this witch to get him?
Yes, it was the only reasonable explanation. If she didn’t kill him now, and she might not what with Gamache here, she would at the very least curse him. Make something wither and fall off. He hoped it wasn’t his hair.
Jeanne looked around the dining room then slowly walked down the corridor to her room.
Is she climbing out the window at the far end? Gabri wondered. Just the sort of tricky thing she was likely to do. He opened the door a little wider and poked his head out. The cat escaped and walked nonchalantly into the dining room.
‘Looking for your mistress, you little shit?’ whispered Gabri, now convinced Olivier’s damned cat had become Jeanne’s familiar. Whatever that was. But Gabri knew it wasn’t good. Craning his neck to look through the crack in the door he saw the coast was clear. He squeezed his bulk through the narrowest possible opening in the door, which was actually wide open by the time he was halfway through, then tiptoeing along he peeked down the corridor. The window was open, but the screen was still in place.
Gabri decided the most strategic position would be the front desk. After about thirty seconds of intense vigilance he decided maybe he should play free cell on the computer while he waited for either Gamache to arrive or the witch to kill him. No need to be bored. As he moved the mouse a picture popped up on the screen.
Ephedra, it said. Gabri read, considered placing an order, then decided to call Olivier instead.
‘I wonder if he’s seen it,’ Clara said, lowering her toast. She was finally full, if not fed up.
‘He looked perfectly relaxed when we ran into him this morning,’ said Myrna.
‘He’d hardly show it, would he?’ said Peter, taking Clara’s toast.
‘What is it with that Arnot case? That was years ago,’ said Myrna.
‘Five at least,’ agreed Peter. He sat up and put his hands on the table in a studied, relaxed manner. He’d once been snapped at by Ruth for being pompous and pedantic. Both unfair, he knew, but still it had stung. Since then he’d been careful not to appear too formal or superior when telling people things they might not know. Like how to cut a tomato properly or hold a newspaper, or giving them information, like the Arnot case.
Peter had read about it at the time. It was all over the news, the cause célèbre for months.
‘I remember now.’ Myrna turned to Peter. ‘You became obsessed with it.’
‘I did not become obsessed. It was an important case.’
‘It was interesting,’ agreed Clara. ‘Of course, we didn’t know Gamache yet, but everyone had heard of him.’
‘He was one of the stars of the Sûreté,’ said Myrna.
‘Until the Arnot case,’ said Peter. ‘The defense made Gamache out to be a self-serving hypocrite. Happy to take the honors that went with power but fundamentally weak. Driven by jealousy and pride.’
‘That’s right,’ agreed Myrna, remembering more as she cast her mind back. ‘Didn’t the defense imply he’d set Arnot up?’
Peter nodded. ‘Arnot was a superintendent in the serious crimes squad. At the trial it came out that Arnot had ignored some violent crimes, even murder. Just let it happen.’
‘Especially when it involved natives,’ said Myrna, nodding.
‘I was just about to say that. Eventually, Pierre Arnot had ordered his most trusted officers to actually kill.’
‘Why?’ Clara asked, trying to remember back that far.
Peter shrugged. ‘The notion put forward by papers like this,’ he held up his copy of La Journée, ‘was that Arnot was just allowing the criminals to kill each other instead of innocent people. A community service.’
There was silence in Myrna’s loft as the three remembered the shocking revelations. All the more shocking since the Québécois, French and English, had respect, even affection for the Sûreté. Until this. The trial had ended all that.
Peter remembered watching the news. Watching the senior Sûreté officers arriving grim-faced every day. The microphones and cameras thrust into their faces. At first they’d arrived together, a show of unity. But in the end two were cut out of the herd.
Gamache and his immediate superior. A Superintendent someone. The Superintendent had been the only one to publicly stand beside Gamache. It was almost touching to watch the two men growing wearier and more drawn as the revelations and accusations and bitterness increased.
But still Gamache had smiled when asked the same stupid, leading, insulting questions by reporters. He’d been calm, old-fashioned in his courtesy. Even when he’d been accused of disloyalty. Even when, finally, he’d been accused of being an accomplice. Of knowing about the murders and giving his tacit approval. After all, Arnot had implied, how could the head of homicide not have known?
‘It was awful,’ said Clara. ‘Like watching the Hindenburg crash over and over in slow motion. Something noble had been wrecked.’
Peter wondered whether Clara was thinking of Gamache or the Sûreté itself.
‘The papers were sure torn,’ he said. ‘Most supported Gamache, but some called for his resignation.’
‘That paper,’ Myrna jutted her head toward La Journée, folded next to Peter, ‘ran editorials saying Gamache should be in the same cell as Arnot. Let the two kill each other.’
‘What happened to Arnot and the others?’ Clara asked.
‘In some penitentiary somewhere. It’s a wonder they haven’t been killed by the inmates yet.’
‘I bet that asshole Arnot is running the place,’ said Myrna. She balled up her napkin and threw it with as much force as a paper napkin could achieve onto the table. The other two stared at her, surprised by her sudden anger.
‘What is it?’ asked Clara.
‘Don’t you get it? We’ve just talked about that case as though it was some episode on a TV drama. It was real. That man Arnot killed people. Killed the very people he was supposed to help. Why? Because they were natives, full of despair and sniff. And the one man who put a stop to it, who had the balls to stand up to Arnot and the entire Sûreté hierarchy, they tried to destroy too. Arnot’s psychotic, and I don’t say that lightly. I know the signs. I’ve diagnosed and worked with psychotic people for years. Don’t you get it?’