She took a handful of mixed nuts.
“Ah, here’s Gilles,” said Clara, getting up and waving a large, red-bearded man over. He was in his late forties and dressed casually. “I’ve invited him and Odile for dinner,” she said to the Chief Inspector. “You’re coming too.”
“Merci,” he said, shoving himself off the sofa to greet the newcomer.
“Been a while,” said Gilles, shaking Gamache’s hand, then taking a seat. “I was sorry to hear about the Quint.”
Gamache noticed that it wasn’t even necessary to say Ouellet Quints. The five girls had lost their privacy, their parents, and their names. They were just the Quints.
“We’re trying to keep that quiet for now,” said the Chief.
“Well, Odile’s writing a poem about them,” Gilles confided. “She’s hoping to get it into the Hog Breeder’s Gazette.”
“I think that’ll be all right,” said Gamache, and wondered if that was further up the food chain from her previous publishers. Her anthology, he knew, had been published, almost without edits, by the Root Vegetable Board of Québec.
“She’s calling it ‘Five Peas in a Gilded Pod,’” said Gilles.
Gamache was grateful Ruth wasn’t there. “She knows her market. Where is Odile, by the way?”
“At the shop. She’ll try to make it later.”
Gilles made exquisite furniture from fallen trees and Odile sold it from the front of their shop. And wrote poetry that, Gamache had to admit, was barely fit for human consumption, despite the opinion of the Root Vegetable Board.
“Now”—Gilles whacked a huge hand onto Gamache’s knee—“I hear you want me to install a satellite dish? You know they don’t work here, right?”
The Chief stared at him, then over at the Brunels, who were also slightly perplexed.
“You asked me to get in touch with the guy who puts up satellite dishes in the area,” said Clara. “That’s Gilles.”
“Since when?” asked Gamache.
“Since the recession,” said the large, burly man. “The market for handmade furniture tanked, but the market for five hundred television channels has skyrocketed. So I make extra bucks putting up the dishes. It helps that I have a head for heights.”
“To put it mildly,” said Gamache. He turned to Thérèse and Jér?me. “He used to be a lumberjack.”
“Long time ago,” said Gilles, looking into his drink.
“I have to put the casserole in the oven.” Clara rose to her feet.
Gamache got up and they all followed.
“Maybe we can continue this discussion over at Clara’s,” said the Chief, and Gilles rocked himself out of the sofa. “Where it’s a little more private.”
“So,” said Gilles as they walked the short distance to Clara’s home, their feet crunching on the snow. “Where’s your little buddy?”
A few kids were skating on the frozen pond. Gabri scooped up some snow, made it into a ball and tossed it for Henri, who sailed over the snow bank after it.
“Gilligan?” asked Gamache, keeping his voice light. In the darkness he heard Gilles guffaw.
“That’s right, Skipper,” said Gilles.
“He’s on another assignment.”
“So he finally made it off the island,” said Gilles, and Gamache could hear the smile in his deep voice. But the words came as a bit of a shock.
Had he inadvertently made the famed homicide department of the S?reté an island? Far from saving the careers of promising agents, had he in fact imprisoned them, kept them from the mainland of their peers?
The kids on the pond saw Gabri’s snowball and stopped to make some of their own, throwing them at Gabri, who ducked but too late. Snowballs rained down on all of them and Henri was almost hysterical with excitement.
“You gol’darned kids,” said Gabri. “Dagnabbit.” He shook his fist at them in such a parody of anger that the kids almost peed themselves with laughter.
*
Jean-Guy Beauvoir couldn’t be bothered to shower. He wanted one, but it was just too much effort. As was laundry. He knew he reeked, but he didn’t care.
He’d come in to the office but had done no work. He only wanted to get away from his dreary little apartment. From the piles of dirty clothing, from the rotting food in the fridge, from the unmade bed and food-encrusted dishes.
And from the memory of the home he’d had. And lost.
No, not lost. It had been taken from him. Stolen from him. By Gamache. The one man he’d trusted had taken everything from him. Everyone from him.
Beauvoir got to his feet and walked stiffly to the elevator, then to his car.
His body ached and he was alternately famished and nauseous. But he couldn’t be bothered to pick up anything from the cafeteria or any of the fast food joints he passed on his way.
He pulled into a parking spot, turned the car off, and stared.
Now he was hungry. Starving. And he stank. The whole car reeked. He could feel his clammy undershirt sticking to him. Molding itself there, like a second skin.