While Armand Gamache hadn’t mentioned Charlotte, Zalmanowitz suspected he knew. And he both hated the man across from him for asking this thing. And almost loved him, for asking this thing.
“I’ll do it.”
Gamache had nodded, holding his eyes. “We have to move quickly.”
And they had.
That had been months ago, in November.
Charges were laid, preliminary hearings were held.
And now it was July and they were into the second day of the murder trial.
It was almost impossible to tell if things were going their way. It seemed like such a long shot, and yet they’d made it this far. Still, the plan could fail. The ground could fall out from underneath them.
If it did, they’d go down together. But the consolation for Zalmanowitz was that at least his hands would be around Gamache’s throat when they hit bottom.
“How did Patrick Evans take the news of his wife’s death?” he asked the Chief Superintendent.
CHAPTER 18
“Tell me here,” said Patrick Evans, as his friends closed ranks beside him.
Not unlike, Gamache thought, what they had done the evening before, when protecting the cobrador.
“Non, monsieur,” said Chief Inspector Lacoste, gently but firmly. “Please come with us.”
She pointed to what she knew was a back room, reserved for private functions. Like birthdays. And homicide investigations.
“May we?” asked Lea.
“Yes, of course,” said Lacoste, allowing Matheo and Lea to stay with their friend.
They walked into the back room and Beauvoir closed the door.
There was no fireplace here to spread both warmth and cheer. The bank of French doors looked out over a bleak back garden and the Rivière Bella Bella beyond, in full flow.
The air outside seemed to have congealed, forming a heavy mist that almost obscured the forest beyond.
Beauvoir found the light switches and turned them all on, then he turned up the heat, to take the chill off the room.
Lacoste looked at Patrick Evans and saw him brace. As did Matheo Bissonette. As did Lea Roux. As though she were the firing squad and they the target.
Without preamble, she broke the news. Quietly, softly, with compassion but also with clarity.
“I’m sorry, sir, but your wife is dead.”
Isabelle Lacoste had learned long ago that simplicity was best. A short, sharp declaration of the fact. So that there could be no doubt, no back door through which denial could slip.
There was no gentle way to break news. To break hearts. And doing it slowly simply added to the trauma.
Matheo took a step closer to his friend and, placing a hand on his arm, he squeezed.
Despite the fact Patrick Evans must’ve known, it still came as a shock. Apparently.
He sat down slowly, his mouth opening as his body lowered.
There was a tap on the door and Beauvoir opened it. Olivier was there with a bottle of scotch and some glasses. And a box of tissues.
“Merci,” Jean-Guy whispered and, taking the tray, he closed the door.
Lacoste pulled a chair over so that she was sitting directly across from Patrick, their knees almost touching.
His hair was dark, short, cut in the manner of a much older man. He was clean-shaven and handsome, but his personality wasn’t strong. Even in grief, some people emanated confidence. Or, at least, a core. This man seemed hollow. Pale in every way.
“She was found in the church,” Lacoste said, holding his blue eyes, though she wasn’t sure how much he was taking in.
“How…?” he asked.
“The coroner needs to investigate, but it seems she was beaten.”
“Oh, Jesus.”
Patrick lowered his eyes, then dragged them back up. But not to Lacoste.
“How could this happen?” he asked Matheo.
“I don’t know.” Bissonette shook his head and looked incredulous.
Beside him, Lea looked sick. Physically ill.
Patrick’s lips moved, but either there were too many words, tripping over each other to get out, or no words at all.
Just a chasm in this already empty man.
“When was the last time you saw your wife?” asked Chief Inspector Lacoste.
“Last night,” he said. “Outside.”
“She was outside?” asked Lacoste. “She didn’t come to bed?”
“I thought she had. I went to sleep, and just assumed she’d come back.”
“But she didn’t,” said Lacoste, and Patrick nodded.
“What was she doing outside?” asked Lacoste.
“Katie liked to go for walks in the evening,” said Lea.
“What time did you get back from dinner?” Lacoste asked.
“Don’t know,” said Patrick.
“They were back by the time we left your place,” Matheo said to Gamache. “About ten, right?”
Gamache nodded.
“Did you see her out for her walk?” asked Lacoste.
Matheo and Lea shook their heads.
“Was the cobrador there when you walked back to the B&B?”
“The cobrador,” said Patrick, suddenly waking up. “Oh Christ, this’s because of the cobrador, isn’t it?”
He’d turned to Matheo, then looked at Lea. His eyes wide with panic.
“I don’t know,” said Lea, leaning in to him. Embracing him, awkwardly. Patrick’s arms didn’t return the hug.
“How could this happen?” he mumbled, his voice muffled by Lea’s solid body. “I don’t understand.”
But now his eyes were on Isabelle Lacoste.
There was a lot not to understand, she thought, watching them. But before this was over, she’d have answers.
She glanced at Beauvoir, who was watching Patrick Evans with those shrewd eyes of his. Then her gaze moved on to Monsieur Gamache.
His hands were clasped behind his back and he was staring out the window. A less astute observer might think he’d lost interest. But Lacoste could see, even in profile, the intense focus of the man. Listening closely to every word, every inflection.
He often said that words told them what someone was thinking, but the tone told them how they felt.
Both vital.
Yes, facts were necessary. But frankly, anyone could be trained to collect a bloodstain or find a hair. Or an affair. Or a bank balance that didn’t balance.
But feelings? Only the bravest wandered into that fiery realm.
And that’s what the chief explored. Elusive, volatile, unpredictable, often dangerous feelings. Searching out that one raw, wild emotion. That had led to murder.
And he’d taught her to do the same thing.
Gamache shifted his gaze now, from the dense forest, to Patrick, Matheo, Lea at the front of the room.
And the deep brown, thoughtful eyes came to rest. Not on Patrick Evans but on Matheo Bissonette.
“Where did you go for dinner last night?”
He shrugged, what little energy he had seeping away.
“I think it was a place in Knowlton,” said Matheo. “Le Relais. Right?”
But Patrick didn’t react.
“Were you worried when you didn’t see your wife this morning?” asked Lacoste.
He roused himself. “Not really. I thought she was with her.” He pointed to Lea.
Her.
His words were coming slower, thicker.
“And we thought she was with Patrick,” said Matheo.
“It wasn’t until the police showed up that we realized no one had seen Katie all day,” said Lea.
Lacoste leaned forward, toward Patrick Evans. “Can you think who might have done this to your wife?”
“No.” He looked at her as a child might.