“Eichmann?” asked Isabelle.
“The Nazi war criminal,” said Clara.
Isabelle stared at her for a moment, far from sure why Clara would mention a Nazi war criminal.
“Yes. Even Eichmann was a child,” agreed Isabelle, baffled but vowing not to be taken off piste again. She turned back to Myrna. “Let me start off with an easy question. They normally come in the summer. Any idea why the date for the reunion was changed?”
“I asked Lea and she said that it’s tough to fit everyone’s schedules. These were the only dates that worked this year.”
“Was it a last-minute decision?” she asked.
Myrna thought and shook her head. “No. Lea wrote me back in May that they’d be coming around Halloween.”
Isabelle nodded. “Did she ever talk about Katie?”
Myrna shifted a little. No one was comfortable giving out details of conversations that were understood to be private. But she knew this wasn’t gossip, this was a murder investigation.
“She talked about all of them, but not Katie in particular.”
“Did she like Katie?”
“Ahh, well, not at first. No one did. Like we heard last night, I think they were protective of the one who died. Edouard.”
“Did they blame Katie for what happened to him?” asked Isabelle.
“A bit, at first, I think. Katie dumped Edouard for Patrick and shortly after that he took his life. They all want to think it was an accident. He lost his balance and fell off the roof, but Lea says none of them really believe it. They think he jumped. While stoned.” She shook her head. “I doubt he really meant to kill himself. Probably momentarily overwhelmed. And the drugs took away any brakes he had. Fucking drugs.”
Off to the side, by the fire, Gamache took a breath so deep Reine-Marie looked at him. It was the sort of inhale someone takes before plunging headfirst into cold water.
“The one they really blamed was the pusher, but no one could find him after Edouard died,” said Myrna. “He took off.”
“Lea told us last night that the family did try,” said Clara. “Even hired a private investigator, but the guy had disappeared.”
Lacoste turned to Gamache. “Doesn’t that strike you as strange?”
“Which part?”
“Well, it always sounds so easy. To disappear,” she said. “But we both know it isn’t. And a good investigator should’ve been able to track him down.”
Gamache was nodding. She was right.
“Maybe he wasn’t such a good investigator,” Myrna suggested.
“And maybe,” said Reine-Marie, “it wasn’t drugs and it wasn’t an accident.” She turned to Armand. “Maybe he was pushed. You wondered that last night, didn’t you?”
“I always wonder that,” he said with a smile. But it didn’t fool her.
It was still on his mind.
Yes, it was tragically easy to imagine a distraught and fragile young man getting high and jumping in the middle of a roof party.
But it was equally easy to imagine someone, in the middle of the dancing and laughing and chaos of a rave, giving him a little push.
“We need to contact this young man’s family,” said Lacoste. “What was his name? Edouard what?”
“Valcourt,” said Gamache. “And I think that’s a good idea.”
“But that doesn’t explain the murder of Katie Evans,” said Reine-Marie.
“Non,” agreed Isabelle. She turned once again to Myrna. “Did any of them ever say anything about Katie? Something she might’ve done that could explain—”
“Her murder?” asked Myrna.
“And the cobrador. If it really was here for her, then there must be a reason. Even one from long ago.”
“Maybe he wasn’t here for her. Have you thought about that?” asked Clara. “The only reason we think that is because she was killed.”
“A pretty good indication,” said Myrna.
She looked at Armand, but he wasn’t agreeing. Or disagreeing.
He couldn’t get away from the feeling that this was far simpler than it appeared, and all this other stuff was just muddying the waters.
Something happened, perhaps long ago, to create a motive. To propel someone into killing Katie Evans.
An old inheritance.
*
“Back up, you brute,” said Jean-Guy, trying to get past the threshold of the Gamache home while tiny Gracie tried to stop him.
“What is that?” asked Anton in a whisper, so as not to offend the creature. “I’ve seen Monsieur and Madame Gamache walking the two of them.” He looked over at Henri, who was standing back and wagging his tail so furiously his entire body was swaying. “He’s a shepherd, I know that.” But even so, Anton stared at Henri for a moment. Judging by the ears, he seemed to have some satellite dish in him. Then Anton turned back to Gracie and lowered his voice even more. “Is it a piglet?”
“We have no idea what she is. Pup, pug, pig. Wolverine. Though we’re pretty sure she’s a she,” said Jean-Guy, as they took the food into the kitchen.
“Well, progress not perfection,” said Anton, and Jean-Guy paused while turning on the oven.
Anton glanced around as he unpacked the dinner, noticing the worn butcher block countertops, the open shelving with dishes and glasses.
At the far end of the kitchen, by the windows that looked onto the village green, two armchairs sat on either side of a woodstove. Books and newspapers and magazines were stacked on side tables. Not messy, but neither was it overly neat.
The room was restful and inviting. As was the living room they’d walked through.
After tossing a small piece of wood into the woodstove to get the embers going again, Beauvoir joined Anton.
“You used a phrase just now,” said Beauvoir, putting out the napkins and trying not to step on Gracie, still underfoot.
“Did I?” Anton followed him around the pine table, folding the napkins nicely.
“Progress not perfection. It’s one I recognize.” He stopped and looked at Anton. “Are you a Friend of Bill?”
“I wondered about you too,” said Anton with a smile. “Hot chocolate in a bistro? When everyone else is drinking wine or scotch. Six years’ sobriety. You?”
“Two years and three months.”
“Well done. Booze?”
“And drugs,” said Beauvoir. “Painkillers.”
It wasn’t something he ever talked about, except to other members, and people who knew. Like Annie, of course, and the Gamaches.
Friend of Bill was code. For a member of AA. Of which this Anton was clearly one. It was like finding a member of his tribe, unexpectedly.
The two men stood in the warm kitchen, the sleet hitting the windows, and realized that while they knew nothing about each other, they actually knew each other better than almost anyone else on earth.
“Drugs were my problem too,” said Anton. “Pharmaceuticals. Almost killed me. I had one foot in the grave and the other on a banana peel, as they say. Ended up in treatment, and finally kicked the drugs, but took up drinking. Seemed a sensible decision.”
Jean-Guy laughed. It was, absolutely, the logic of an addict.
“Finally kicked that too,” said Anton, putting the casserole in the oven to stay warm.