Just then Olivier appeared with their dinner. Beauvoir was doubly pleased. Not only did he get his food, but it stopped the chief from reciting more poetry. Beauvoir was growing tired of pretending to understand stuff that totally went over his head. Gamache’s coq au vin filled the table with a rich, earthy aroma and an unexpected hint of maple. Delicate young beans and glazed baby carrots sat in their own white serving dish. A massive charbroiled steak smothered in panfried onions was placed in front of Beauvoir. A mound of frites sat in his serving dish.
Beauvoir could have died happily right there and then, but he’d have missed the crème brûlée for dessert.
‘Who do you think did it?’ Beauvoir asked, chomping on frites.
‘For a woman so loved we seem to have no end of suspects,’ said Gamache. ‘She was murdered by someone who had access to ephedra and who knew about the séance. But the murderer probably knew one other thing.’
‘What?’
‘That Madeleine Favreau had a heart condition.’
Gamache told Beauvoir about the coroner’s report.
‘But no one we’ve talked to has mentioned it,’ said Beauvoir, sipping his beer. ‘Is it possible the murderer didn’t know? He thought giving her ephedra and taking her to the old Hadley house would be enough.’
Gamache wiped up gravy with soft, warm bread. ‘It’s possible.’
‘But if Madeleine had a heart condition, why keep it secret?’
And what other secrets might Madeleine have had, and tried to take with her screaming into the grave?
‘Maybe the murderer just got lucky,’ said Beauvoir. But both men knew although this was a murder that had relied on many things, luck wasn’t one of them.
THIRTY-TWO
Jeanne Chauvet sat with her back to the room and tried to pretend she liked being alone. Tried to pretend she was mesmerized by the warm and lively fire. Tried to pretend she didn’t feel bruised and buffeted by the cold stares of the villagers, almost as violent as the storm outside. Tried to pretend she belonged. In Three Pines.
She’d felt immediately comfortable the moment her little car had glided down du Moulin a few short days ago, the village bathed in bright sun, the trees covered in chartreuse buds, the people smiling and nodding gently to each other. Some even bowed to each other as Gamache had just now in a courtly, courteous way that seemed only to exist in this magical valley.
Jeanne Chauvet had seen enough of the world, this and the others, to know a magical place. And Three Pines was one. She felt as though she’d been swimming all her life, but an island had risen. That night she’d lain in bed in the B. & B., snuggled into the crisp clean linen, and been sung to sleep by the frogs in the pond. Years of tired started to slip away. Not exhaustion, but a weariness as though her very bones had been fossilized, turned to stone, and were dragging her to the weedy bottom.
But that night in bed she knew Three Pines had saved her. From the moment she’d received the brochure through the mail she’d dared to hope.
But then she’d seen Madeleine that Friday night at the séance and her island had sunk, like Atlantis. She was once again in over her head.
She took a sip of Olivier’s strong, rich coffee, made a warm caramel color by the cream, and pretended the villagers, so friendly when she’d first arrived, hadn’t themselves turned to stone, cold and hard and unforgiving. She could almost see them marching toward her, with torches in the hands and terror in their eyes.
All because of Madeleine. Some things never changed. All Jeanne had ever wanted was to belong, and all Madeleine had ever done was take that from her.
‘May we join you?’
Jeanne started and looked up. Armand Gamache and Jean Guy Beauvoir were looking down at her, Gamache with a warm smile on his face, his eyes thoughtful and kind. The other looked grumpy.
He doesn’t want to be here with me, thought Jeanne, though she knew she didn’t have to be a psychic to figure that one out.
‘Please.’ She indicated the soft chairs on either side of the hearth, their faded fabrics warmed by the fire.
‘Are you planning to move anywhere else?’ Gabri huffed.
‘The night is young, patron,’ Gamache smiled. ‘May I offer you something?’ he asked Jeanne.
‘I have my coffee, thank you.’
‘We were about to order some liqueurs. It feels a night for one.’ He looked briefly at the mullioned window, reflecting the warm interior of the bistro. The old panes quivered in another blast, and a slight tinkling told them the hail wasn’t finished.
‘God,’ sighed Gabri, ‘how can we live in a country that does this to us?’
‘I’ll have an espresso and a brandy and Benedictine,’ said Beauvoir.
Gamache turned to Jeanne. For some reason she felt in the company of her father, or perhaps her grandfather, even though the Chief Inspector couldn’t be more than ten years her elder. There was something old world about him, as though he was from another age, another era. She wondered if he found it hard in this world. But she thought not.
‘Yes, please. I’d like a…’ She thought for a moment then turned to look at the row of liqueur bottles on a shelf at the back of the bar. Tia Maria, crème de menthe, cognac. She turned back to Gabri, ‘I’ll have a Cointreau, s’il vous plaît.’
Gamache ordered his own then the three of them discussed the weather, the Eastern Townships, and the conditions of the roads until their drinks arrived.
‘Have you always been psychic, Madame Chauvet?’ asked Gamache once Gabri had reluctantly left.
‘I think so, but it wasn’t until I was about ten that I realized not everyone saw the world as I did.’ She brought the tiny glass to her nose and sniffed. Orange and sweet and somehow warm. Her eyes started watering just from the smell. She brought the Cointreau to her lips and wetted them with the syrupy liquid. Then she lowered the glass and licked her lips. She wanted this to last. The tastes, smells, sights. The company.
‘How’d you find out?’
She didn’t normally talk about these things, but then people didn’t normally ask. She hesitated and looked at Gamache for a long moment. Then she spoke.
‘At a friend’s birthday party. I looked at all the wrapped presents and knew exactly what was in them.’
‘Well, as long as you didn’t say anything,’ said Gamache, then looked at her more closely. ‘But you did, didn’t you?’
Beauvoir was a little miffed by this psychic turn by the chief. After all, he was the one who was supposed to have been born with a caul. He’d spent the late afternoon, after Nichol had hightailed it back to the B. & B., surfing the web for information on cauls. Took him a while to figure out how to spell it. Cowels. Kowls. Calls. Then he remembered that Batman supposedly wore one. So he Googled Batman, and everything fell into place. Every day held its surprises.
At first he thought she meant he’d been born with a silly mask and pointy black ears. But then something even more macabre appeared on his screen.
‘Yes,’ Jeanne was saying. ‘I was about halfway through the pile, telling everyone what each parcel held, when the birthday girl burst into tears. I remember to this day looking around the room. All the little girls, my friends, were staring at me. Angry and upset. And behind them their mothers. Afraid.
‘It was never the same after that. I think I’d always seen things but I assumed everyone did. Heard voices, saw spirits. Knew what would happen next. Not for everything. It was selective. But enough.’
Her voice was cheery, but Gamache knew it couldn’t have been easy. He looked over her shoulder to the villagers at their tables, having a relaxing and quiet dinner. But not one had approached Jeanne. The weirdo, the psychic. The witch. They were kind people, he knew. But even kind people can be afraid.