‘Of course. I should have known.’
‘Why? Do you know me?’ he asked, hopeful.
‘No, I know Madame Martin was killed.’
He was disappointed. He wanted her to know him. To explain this familiarity he suddenly felt. It was disquieting.
Beauvoir looked at the woman who had done this to him. She must have been almost sixty, was built like an oak, moved like a trucker, spoke as if she’d swallowed a tuba.
‘Who are you?’ he managed to get out.
‘I’m the chef here. Veronique Langlois.’
Veronique Langlois. It was a lovely name but it meant nothing. He felt sure he knew her.
‘What can I do to help?’ she asked.
What could she do to help? Think, man, think.
‘The maitre d’. I’m looking for him.’
‘He’s probably through there.’ She pointed to swinging double doors from the kitchen. Beauvoir thanked her and walked out in a daze.
Through the French doors he saw the maitre d’ talking to one of the waiters on the deserted terrasse outside.
‘You think this job is so difficult? Try planting trees or working in a mine, or cutting lawns at a cemetery all summer.’
‘Look, I don’t care what you did at my age. It doesn’t interest me. All I know is Julia Martin’s dead and someone here did it.’
‘Do you know anything about her death, Elliot?’
There was silence.
‘Don’t be foolish, boy. If you know something—’
‘You think I’d tell you? She was a decent person and someone killed her. That’s all I know.’
‘You’re lying. You spent time with her, didn’t you?’
‘Time? What? All the spare time you give us? I work twelve hours a day, when would I have time to spend with anyone?’
‘Are you going to go through life complaining?’
‘Depends. Are you going to go through life bending over?’
Elliot turned and stomped away. Beauvoir held back, curious to see what the maitre d’ would do when he thought no one was watching.
Pierre Patenaude stared after Elliot, grateful no one had heard their conversation. It’d been a mistake to tell Elliot about his own summer jobs, he could see that. But it was too late now. Then he remembered his father’s words, spoken in the boardroom, surrounded by ancient, serious men.
‘Everyone gets a second chance. But not a third.’
He’d fired a man that day. Pierre had seen it. It was horrible.
This was Elliot’s third chance. He’d have to fire Elliot. Once the investigation was over and the police gone. It was no use doing it before that, since Elliot had to hang around anyway. The maitre d’ hadn’t had to fire many people, but every time he did he thought of that day in the boardroom, and his father. And he thought of what his father did later.
Years after the firing his father had quietly invested hundreds of thousands of his own dollars in helping the man he’d fired start his own company.
He’d given him a third chance after all. But then he suspected his father was kinder than he was.
Turning round, Pierre was startled to see a man watching through the doors. Then he waved as the Inspector joined him on the stone terrasse.
‘I’ve arranged accommodations for you and the other officer. We’ve put you in the main building, not far from the Chief Inspector.’
Beauvoir swatted a mosquito. More swarmed.
‘Merci, Patron. Quite a kid.’ Beauvoir gestured towards Elliot’s retreating back.
‘You heard that? I’m sorry. He’s just upset.’
Beauvoir had thought the maitre d’ heroic for not punching the kid but now he wondered if Pierre Patenaude wasn’t just weak, letting others, even kids, walk all over him. Beauvoir didn’t like weakness. Murderers were weak.
They left the maitre d’ and the technicians to sort out the electrical problems while Gamache, Reine-Marie and Beauvoir headed to Three Pines. Beauvoir sat in the back seat. Behind Mom and Dad. He quite liked the thought. Ever since his encounter with the chef he’d felt strangely relaxed.
‘Do you know the chef at the Manoir?’ he asked casually.
‘I don’t think I’ve met him,’ said Reine-Marie.
‘Her,’ said Beauvoir. ‘Veronique Langlois.’ Just saying her name calmed him. It was the oddest sensation.
Reine-Marie shook her head. ‘Armand?’
‘I met her for the first time this morning.’
‘Strange that we haven’t met her,’ said Reine-Marie. ‘I thought chefs loved to take bows. Maybe we met her and forgot.’
‘Believe me, she’s not easily forgotten,’ said Gamache, remembering the massive, confident woman. ‘Agent Lacoste will have interviewed the staff by the time we get back. She’ll know more about her then. You know, I had the feeling I knew her.’
‘Me too.’ Beauvoir sat forward between the two front seats. ‘Have you ever been walking down the street and smelled something, and suddenly you’re someplace else? It’s as if the smell transports you.’
With anyone other than the Chief Inspector he’d feel foolish saying that.
‘I do. But it’s more than that,’ said Gamache. ‘A feeling goes with it. I’ll suddenly feel melancholy or at ease or calm. For no reason, except the scent.’
‘Oui, c’est ca. Especially an emotion. That’s what I felt when I walked into the kitchen.’
‘Was it just the smells of the kitchen, do you think?’ Reine-Marie asked.
Beauvoir considered. ‘No. I didn’t have that feeling until I saw the chef. It was her. It’s frustrating. It’s as if it’s just beyond my grasp. But I know her.’
‘And how did you feel?’ asked Madame Gamache.
‘I felt safe.’
He’d also felt an almost overwhelming desire to laugh. A sort of joy had bubbled up in his chest.
He thought about that as the Volvo splashed along the muddy roads towards the village of Three Pines.
FIFTEEN
The Volvo came to rest on the crest of the hill. All three got out and walked to the edge, looking down on the tiny village. It sat in a gentle valley, surrounded by forested hills and mountains.
Gamache had never seen Three Pines in summer. The leaves of the maple, apple and oak trees obscured slightly the old homes round the village green. But that made them all the more magical, as though half hiding their beauty only added to it. Three Pines revealed itself slowly, and only to people with the patience to wait, to sit quietly in one of the faded armchairs in the bistro, sipping Cinzano or cafe au lait, and watch the changing face of the venerable village.
To their right the white spire of the chapel rose, and the Riviere Bella Bella tumbled down from the millpond then meandered behind the homes and businesses.
In a semicircle at the far end of the village green the shops sat in a small brick embrace. Myrna’s new and used bookstore, Olivier’s Bistro, with its bold blue and white umbrellas protecting the assortment of chairs and tables on the sidewalk. Next to that Sarah’s Boulangerie. An elderly, erect woman was just leaving, limping and carrying a sagging net bag. She was followed by a duck.
‘Ruth.’ Gamache nodded. Rosa the duck was a dead giveaway. They watched as the embittered old poet went into the general store. Rosa waited outside.
‘If we hurry we can miss her,’ said Beauvoir, turning for the car.
‘But I don’t want to miss her,’ said Reine-Marie. ‘I called her from the Manoir. We’re having tea together this afternoon.’
Beauvoir stared at Madame Gamache, as though for the last time. She was about to be devoured by Ruth Zardo, who ground up good people and turned them into poetry.
Villagers walked dogs and ran errands or, more precisely, strolled errands. Some could be seen with their floppy gardening hats and gloves and rubber boots kneeling in the moist gardens, snipping roses for bouquets. Each home had an abundant perennial bed. Nothing designed, no new species, none of the latest horticultural offerings. Nothing that wouldn’t have been found in gardens by soldiers returning home from the Great War. Three Pines changed, but it changed slowly.