“But?”
“If he killed Laurent in a fit of rage he might try to hide it, but it would be simpler, I think. He’d bury the boy somewhere. Or take the body into the woods and leave it there. Let nature do the rest. If it was murder, then someone put some thought and effort into making it look like an accident.”
“People do, of course,” said Jean-Guy. “The best way to get away with murder is to make sure no one knows it’s murder.”
They’d wandered into the kitchen and were pouring coffees. They sat at the pine table, hands cupped around the mugs.
Beauvoir missed this. The hours and hours with Chief Inspector Gamache. Poring over evidence, talking with suspects. Talking about suspects. Comparing notes. Sitting across from each other in diners and cars and crappy hotel rooms. Picking apart a case.
And now, sitting at the kitchen table in Three Pines, Inspector Beauvoir wondered if he was humoring the Chief by agreeing to investigate a case that almost certainly only existed in Gamache’s imagination. Or maybe he was humoring himself.
“If it was murder, why not just bury him in the forest?” asked Jean-Guy. “It would be almost impossible to find him. And as you said, the wolves and bears…”
Gamache nodded.
He looked across at Jean-Guy, the younger man’s brows furrowed, thinking. Following a line of reason. How often, Gamache wondered, in small fishing villages, in farmers’ fields, in snowed-in cabins in the wilderness, had the two of them struggled through the intricacies of a case? Trying to find a murderer, who was desperately trying to hide?
He missed this.
Was that why he was doing it? Had he turned a little boy’s tragic death into murder, for his own selfish reasons? Had he bullied Jean-Guy into seeing what didn’t exist? Because he was bored? Because he missed being the great Chief Inspector Gamache?
Because he missed the applause?
Still, Jean-Guy had asked a good question. If someone had in fact murdered Laurent, why not just hide the body in the deep, dark forest? Why go through the “accident” charade?
There was only one answer to that.
“Because he wanted Laurent to be found,” said Jean-Guy, before Gamache could say it. “If Laurent remained missing we’d keep looking for him. We’d turn the area upside-down.”
“And we might find something the murderer didn’t want us to find,” said Gamache.
“But what?” Jean-Guy asked.
“What?” Gamache repeated.
An hour later Reine-Marie returned from visiting Clara to find the two of them in the kitchen, staring into space.
She knew what that meant.
Laurent Lepage’s funeral was held two days later.
The rain had stopped, the skies had cleared and the day shone bright and unexpectedly warm for September.
The minister, who did not appear to know the Lepages, did his best. He spoke of Laurent’s kindness, his gentleness, his innocence.
“Who exactly are we burying?” Gabri whispered, as they got down once again to pray.
Laurent’s father was invited to the front by the minister. Al walked up, dressed in an ill-fitting black suit, his hair pulled back tightly, his beard combed. He held a guitar and sat on a chair set out for him.
The guitar rested on his lap, ready. But Al just sat there, staring at the mourners. Unable to move. And then, helped by Evie, he returned to his seat in the front pew.
The interment, in the cemetery above Three Pines, was private. Just Evelyn and Alan Lepage, the minister and the people from the funeral home.
In the church basement, Laurent’s teachers, classmates, neighborhood children picked at food brought by the villagers.
“Can I speak with you, patron?” asked Jean-Guy.
“What is it?” asked Armand when he and Jean-Guy had stepped a few paces from the group.
“We’ve gone over it and over it. There’s no evidence it was anything other than an accident.”
Beauvoir studied the large man in front of him, trying to read his face. Was there relief there? Yes. But there was also something else.
“You’re still troubled,” said Jean-Guy. “I can show you our findings.”
“No need,” said Gamache. “Merci. I appreciate it.”
“But do you believe it?”
Gamache nodded slowly. “I do.” Then he did something Beauvoir did not expect. He smiled. “Seems Laurent wasn’t the only one with a vivid imagination. Seeing things that aren’t there.”
“You’re not going to report an alien invasion now, are you?”
“Well, now that you mention it…”
Gamache tilted his head toward the buffet and Beauvoir smiled.
Ruth was pouring something from a flask into her waxed cup of punch.
“Merci, Jean-Guy. I appreciate what you’ve done.”
“Thank Lacoste. She approved it and even put a team on it. The boy died in an accident, patron. He fell off his bike.”
Once again Gamache nodded. They walked back to the others, passing Antoinette and Brian on the way.
Brian said hello, but Antoinette turned away.
“Still mad, I see,” said Jean-Guy.
“And it’s only getting worse.”
“What’re you two talking about?” asked Reine-Marie, as Armand and Jean-Guy rejoined her.
“Antoinette,” said Jean-Guy.
“She looked at me with loathing,” said Myrna.
“Me too,” said Gabri, walking over with a plate filled with apple pie while Olivier’s was stacked with quinoa, cilantro, and apple salad.
“Play not going well?” asked Jean-Guy.
“Once they found out who wrote it, most of the other actors also quit,” said Gabri. “I think Antoinette was genuinely surprised.”
Myrna was looking at Antoinette and shaking her head. “She really doesn’t seem to understand why anyone would be upset.”
“So the play’s canceled?” asked Jean-Guy.
“No,” said Clara. “That’s the weird thing. She refuses to cancel it. I think Brian is now playing all the parts. She just can’t accept reality.”
“Seems to be going around,” said Armand.
“You mean Laurent?” asked Olivier. “Now there was someone whose understanding of reality was fluid.”
“Remember when he claimed there was a dinosaur in the pond?” said Gabri, laughing.
“He almost had you convinced,” said Olivier.
“Or the time he saw the three pines walking around?” asked Myrna.
“They walk all the time,” said Ruth, shoving in between Gabri and Olivier.
“Fueled by gin,” said Clara. “Funny how that works.”
“Speaking of which, there’s no gin. Someone must’ve drunk it all. Get some more,” she said to Myrna.
“Get your own—”
“Church,” Clara interrupted Myrna.
“We’re at a child’s funeral,” Olivier said to Ruth. “There is no alcohol.”
“If there ever was an occasion to drink, this is it,” said Ruth.
She was holding Rosa in much the same way Evelyn Lepage had held Laurent. To her chest. Protectively.
“He was a strange little kid,” said Ruth. “I liked him.”
And there was Laurent Lepage’s real eulogy. Stories of his stories. Of the funny little kid with the stick, causing havoc. Creating chaos and monsters and aliens and guns and bombs and walking trees.
That was the boy they were burying.
“How many times did we look out at the village green and see Laurent hiding behind the bench, firing his ‘rifle’ at invaders,” asked Clara as they left the church and wandered down the dirt road into the village.
“Lobbing pine cones like they were grenades,” said Gabri.
“Bambambam.” Olivier held an imaginary machine gun and made the sounds they’d heard as Laurent engaged the enemy.