“How would I know? I was a kid. What I do know is that Isidore and Marie-Harriette were good, decent people just trying to get by. Marie-Harriette wanted to be a mother more than anything, and they didn’t let her. They took that from her, and from Isidore. That Bernard book said they’d sold the girls to the government. It was bullshit, but people believed it. Killed her, you know. My sister. Died of shame.”
“And Isidore?”
“Got even quieter. Didn’t smile much anymore. Everyone whispering behind his back. Pointing him out. He stayed pretty close to home after that.”
“Why didn’t the girls visit the farm once they grew up?” Gamache asked. He’d asked before and been rebuffed, but it was worth another try.
“They weren’t welcome and they knew it.”
“But Isidore wanted them to come, to look after him,” said Gamache.
Pineault grunted with laughter. “Who told you that?”
“The priest, Father Antoine.”
“What does he know? Isidore wanted nothing more to do with the girls. Not after Marie-Harriette died. He blamed them.”
“And you didn’t keep in touch with your nieces?”
“I wrote to tell them their father was dead. They showed up for the funeral. That was fifteen years ago. Haven’t seen them since.”
“Isidore left the farm to you,” said Gamache. “Not to the girls.”
“True. He’d washed his hands of them.”
Gamache brought the tuque from his pocket and put it on the table. For the first time in quite a few minutes, he saw a genuine smile on André’s face.
“You recognize it.”
He picked it up. “Where’d you find it?”
“Constance gave it to a friend, for Christmas.”
“Funny kind of present. Someone else’s tuque.”
“She described it as the key to her home. Do you know what she might’ve meant by that?”
Pineault examined the hat, then returned it to the table. “My sister made a tuque for all the kids. I don’t know whose this is. If Constance was giving it away it probably belonged to her, don’t you think?”
“And why would she call it the key to her home?”
“Calice, I don’t know.”
“This tuque didn’t belong to Constance.” Gamache tapped it.
“Then one of the others, I guess.”
“Did you ever see Isidore wearing it?”
“You must’ve fallen harder on the ice than you think,” he said with a snort. “That was sixty years ago. I can’t remember what I wore, never mind him, except that he wore plaid shirts summer and winter, and they stank. Any other questions?”
“What did the girls call their mother?” Gamache asked, as he got up.
“Tabarnac,” Pineault swore. “Are you sure you’re all right?”
“Why do you ask?”
“You’ve started asking stupid questions. What did the girls call their mother?”
“Well?”
“How the fuck should I know? What does anyone call their mother?”
Gamache waited for the answer.
“Mama, of course,” said André.
They hadn’t gone two paces before Pineault stopped.
“Wait a minute. You said Constance died, but that doesn’t explain the questions. Why’re you asking all this?”
Gamache was wondering when Pineault would get around to asking. It had taken the older man quite a while, but then he was probably distracted by the stupid questions.
“Constance didn’t die a natural death.”
“How did she die?” He was watching Gamache with sharp eyes.
“She was murdered. I’m with homicide.”
“Maudit tabarnac,” muttered Pineault.
“Can you think of anyone who might have killed her?” Gamache asked.
André Pineault thought about that and slowly shook his head.
Before he left the kitchen, Gamache noticed Pineault’s dinner waiting on the counter.
A can of Alphagetti and hot dogs.
THIRTY-TWO
The snow plows were out, with their flashing lights, as Gamache drove over the Champlain Bridge, off the island of Montréal.
The rush hour traffic was bumper to icy bumper and Gamache could see a massive plow in his rearview mirror, also trapped in traffic.
There was nothing to do but crawl along. His face had begun to throb but he tried to ignore it. Harder to ignore was how it had happened. But, with effort, he shifted his thoughts to his interview with André Pineault, the only person alive who knew the Quints, and their parents. He’d created in Gamache’s mind an image of bitterness, of loss, of poverty beyond economics.
The Ouellet home should have been filled with screaming kids. Instead, there were just Marie-Harriette and Isidore. And a home stuffed with innuendo and legend. Of a miracle granted. Then sold. Of girls saved from grinding poverty and greedy parents.
A myth had been created. To sell tickets and films and meals at the Quint Diner. To sell books and postcards. To sell the image of Québec as an enlightened, progressive, God-fearing, God-pleasing country.
A place where the deity strolled among them, granting wishes to those on bended, bloody knee.
The thought stirred something in Gamache’s mind, as he watched impatient drivers try to cut between lanes, thinking they could get through the bumper-to-bumper traffic faster. That a miracle, reserved for the other lane, would suddenly occur and all the cars ahead would disappear.