When the Chief Inspector and Henri arrived at the bistro, it was full with the breakfast rush, though “rush” might have been the wrong word. No one seemed in much of a hurry.
Many of the villagers were lingering over coffee, settling into seats by the fires with their morning papers, which came in a day late from Montréal. Some sat at the small round tables, eating French toast or crêpes or bacon and eggs.
The sun was just coming up on what would be a brilliant day.
As he walked through the door, all eyes turned to him. He was used to that. They would, of course, know about Constance. They knew she was missing, and now they’d know she was dead. Murdered.
The eyes that met his, as he scanned the open room, were curious, some pained, some searching, some simply inquisitive, as though he carried a sack of answers slung over his shoulder.
As he hung up his parka, Gamache noticed a few smiles. The villagers had recognized his companion, he of the ears. A returning son. And Henri recognized them, and greeted them with licks and wags and inappropriate sniffs as they walked through the bistro.
“Over here.”
Gamache saw Clara standing by a group of armchairs and a sofa. He returned the wave and threaded his way between tables. Olivier joined him there, a tea towel slung over his shoulder and a damp cloth in his hand. He wiped the table as the Chief greeted Myrna, Clara, and Ruth.
“Do you mind if Henri stays, or would you rather I leave him in the B and B?” Gamache asked.
Olivier looked over at Rosa. The duck was sitting in an armchair by the fire, a copy of the Montréal Gazette beneath her and La Presse slung over the arm, waiting to be read.
“I think it’ll be fine,” said Olivier.
Ruth whacked the seat beside her on the sofa, in what could only be interpreted as an invitation. It was like receiving a personalized Molotov cocktail.
Gamache sat.
“So, where’s Beauvoir?”
The Chief had forgotten that, against all odds and nature, Jean-Guy and Ruth had struck up a friendship. Or, at least, an understanding.
“He’s on another assignment.”
Ruth glared at the Chief and he held her eyes, calmly.
“Finally saw through you, did he?”
Gamache smiled. “Must have.”
“And your daughter? Is he still in love with her, or did he make a balls-up of that too?”
Gamache continued to hold the cold, old eyes.
“I’m happy to see Rosa back,” he said at last. “She looks well.”
Ruth looked from Gamache to the duck, then back to the Chief. Then she did something he’d rarely seen before. She relented.
“Thank you,” she said.
Armand took a deep breath. The bistro smelled of fresh pine and wood smoke and a hint of candy cane. A wreath hung over the mantel and a tree stood in the corner, decorated with mismatched Christmas ornaments and candies.
He turned to Myrna. “How’re you this morning?”
“Pretty awful,” she said with a small smile. And indeed, she looked as though she hadn’t had much sleep.
Clara reached out and held her friend’s hand.
“Inspector Lacoste will get all the hard evidence this morning from the Montréal police,” he told them. “I’ll drive into the city and we’ll go over the interviews. One main question is whether the person who killed Constance knew who she really was.”
“You mean, was it a stranger?” asked Olivier. “Or someone who targeted Constance on purpose?”
“That’s always a question,” admitted Gamache.
“Do you think they meant to kill her?” asked Clara. “Or was it a mistake? A robbery that got out of control?”
“Was there mens rea, a guilty mind, or was it an accident?” said Gamache. “Those are questions we’ll be asking.”
“Wait a minute,” said Gabri, who’d joined them, but been uncharacteristically quiet. “What did you mean, ‘who she really was’? Not ‘who she was,’ but ‘who she really was.’ What did you mean by that?”
Gabri looked from Gamache to Myrna, then back again.
“Who was she?”
The Chief Inspector sat forward, about to answer, then he looked over at Myrna, sitting quietly in her chair. He nodded. It was a secret Myrna had kept for decades. It was her secret to give up.
Myrna opened her mouth, but another voice, a querulous voice, spoke.
“She was Constance Ouellet, shithead.”
ELEVEN
“Constance Ouellet-Shithead?” asked Gabri.
Ruth and Rosa glared at him.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” muttered the duck.
“She’s Constance Ouellet,” Ruth clarified, her voice glacial. “You’re the shithead.”
“You knew?” Myrna asked the old poet.
Ruth picked up Rosa, placing the duck on her lap and stroking her like a cat. Rosa stretched her neck, straining her beak upward toward Ruth, and making a nest of the old body.
“Not at first. I thought she was just some boring old fart. Like you.”
“Wait a minute,” said Gabri, waving his large hand in front of him as though trying to clear away the confusion. “Constance Pineault was Constance Ouellet?”
He turned to Olivier.
“Did you know?” But it was clear his partner was equally amazed.