Gamache lowered his hand. He was far from certain that what he was about to do was wise. Olivier’s handsome face was turning pink in the cold, and his breath was coming in long, easy puffs.
The Chief broke eye contact and concentrated on Henri, rolling in the snow, his feet thrashing in the air.
“Will you walk with me?”
Olivier was a little surprised, and more than a little guarded. It was rarely a good sign, in Olivier’s experience, when the head of homicide asked to speak privately.
The hard-packed snow of the road squeaked as they walked with a measured pace around the village green. A tall, substantial man and a shorter, slighter, younger man. Heads bent together, sharing confidences. Not about the murder, but about something else entirely.
They stopped in front of Emilie Longpré’s home. There was no smoke from the chimney. No light at the windows. But it was filled with memories of an elderly woman Gamache had greatly admired and Henri had loved. The two men looked at the house, and Gamache explained what he wanted.
“I understand, patron,” said Olivier after listening to the Chief’s request.
“Thank you. Can you keep this to yourself?”
“Of course.”
They parted, Olivier to open his bistro, Gamache and Henri for breakfast at the B and B.
A large bowl of café au lait was waiting for the Chief on the worn pine table in front of the fireplace. After feeding Henri and giving him fresh water, Gamache settled at the table, sipping his café and making notes. Henri lay at his feet but looked up when Gabri arrived.
“Voilà.” The innkeeper put a plate with two eggs, bacon, toasted English muffins, and fresh fruit on the table, then he made himself a café au lait and joined the Chief.
“Olivier called a few moments ago from the bistro,” said Gabri. “He told me that Constance had been killed. Is it true?”
Gamache nodded and took a sip of his own café. It was rich and strong. “Did he tell you anything else?” Gamache kept his voice light, but studied Gabri.
“He said she’d been at home.”
Gamache waited, but it seemed Olivier had kept the rest of their conversation secret, as he’d promised.
“It’s true,” said Gamache.
“But why?” Gabri reached for one of the toasted English muffins.
There it was again, thought Gamache. Like his partner, Gabri hadn’t asked who, but why.
Gamache, of course, could answer neither of those questions yet.
“What did you think of her?”
“She was only here a few days, you know,” said Gabri. Then he considered the question. Gamache waited, curious to hear the answer.
“When she arrived she was friendly but reserved,” said Gabri, finally. “She didn’t like gays, that was obvious.”
“And did you like her?”
“I did. Some people just haven’t met many queers, that’s their problem.”
“And once she had met you and Olivier?”
“Well, she didn’t exactly become a fag hag, but the next best thing.”
“Which is?”
Instead of a clever quip, Gabri grew serious. “She became very motherly, to both of us. To all of us, I think. Except Ruth.”
“And with Ruth, what was she like?”
“At first Ruth wouldn’t have anything to do with her. Hated Constance on sight. As you know, it’s a point of pride for Ruth, that she hates everyone. She and Rosa kept their distance and muttered obscenities from afar.”
“Ruth’s normal reaction, then,” said Gamache.
“I’m glad Rosa’s back,” Gabri confided in a whisper, then looked around in exaggerated concern. “But does she look a little like a flying monkey to you?”
“I wonder if we can stick to the point, Dorothy,” said Gamache.
“The funny thing is, after treating Constance like something Rosa pooped, Ruth suddenly warmed to her.”
“Ruth?”
“I know. I’d never seen anything like it. They even had dinner together one night, at Ruth’s home. Alone.”
“Ruth?” Gamache repeated.
Gabri put marmalade on his muffin and nodded. Gamache studied him, but Gabri didn’t seem to be hiding anything. And the Chief realized Gabri did not know who Constance was. If he did, he’d have said something by now.
“So as far as you can tell, nothing that happened here would explain her death?” asked Gamache.
“Nothing.”
Gamache finished his breakfast, with Gabri’s help, then he got up and called Henri.
“Should I keep your room for you?”
“Please.”
“And one for Inspector Beauvoir, of course. He’ll be joining you?”
“No, actually. He’s on another assignment.”
Gabri paused, then nodded. “Ahh.”
Neither man really knew what the “ahh” was supposed to mean.
Gamache wondered how long it would be before people stopped looking at him and seeing Beauvoir standing beside him. And how long would it be before he himself stopped expecting to see Jean-Guy there? It wasn’t the ache that was so difficult to bear, thought Gamache. It was the weight.