“You have a moment?” Beauvoir asked, indicating the chairs by the woodstove.
One of the problems with investigations was being away from his sponsor and meetings. It was helpful to talk to another member. Someone who knew the terrain.
“When did you start?” asked Beauvoir, taking a seat. Lifting Gracie onto his lap, he wrapped her in his sweater to keep her warm.
“Using? A bit in high school but it really got out of control at university. I’m not sure I was ever cut out for higher education, but the drugs sure hurried along the inevitable.”
“Flunked out?”
“Left just before that happened.” Anton shook his head. “You know, some kids could handle it, but some, like me, it was like putting nitro in my system.”
“Did you ever deal?” asked Beauvoir.
Anton brought his hand up to his mouth and regarded Beauvoir as he gnawed on his nails.
“I won’t arrest you,” smiled Jean-Guy. “Besides, it must’ve been years ago.”
“Not that long,” Anton protested, then smiled. “Yeah, I dealt, but not as much as some. I ended up using most of it myself. Big mistake. What a shit storm.” Anton shook his head at the memory. “Flunking out became the least of my worries. You know what a supplier does to a dealer who becomes a junkie?”
“I’ve seen.”
“So have I. That’s really why I left. I ran away and hid. Put shit up my nose and my head up my own ass. And hoped no one would find me.”
“So how’d you get straight?”
“Family sent me to treatment. They’d had enough.”
He glanced into the fire and put his stocking feet up on the hassock, taking a small book off it first.
Opening the book, he flipped through it, then stopped and gave a single harrumph and looked up at Beauvoir.
“Have you read this?”
Jean-Guy sighed. “I have.”
“Not a fan?”
“Between us?” He leaned toward Anton. “I am. But don’t tell anyone.”
Anton went back to the book and read out loud,
“From the public school to the private hell
of the family masquerade,
where could a boy on a bicycle go
when the straight road splayed?”
Beauvoir smiled. He recognized those lines, and he recognized how a straight road could splay.
“Ruth Zardo,” he said, cradling Gracie as though she were Honoré.
It was a comfort, feeling the little body, the little heart, next to his.
“Oui. Madame Zardo,” said Anton, closing the book and looking at the back cover, where the author’s photo looked like something he’d seen when his head was up his ass. “Who’d have thought an eighty-year-old madwoman would know the heart of a little boy.”
“Pain is universal,” said Beauvoir.
Anton nodded. “That she knows.”
“That she causes,” said Jean-Guy, and Anton laughed, one burst of genuine amusement.
“So your family put you into treatment?” asked Beauvoir.
Anton tossed the book back onto the hassock. “Yeah. I hated them for it for a long time, but whatever their motives, they did me a huge favor. I finally got clean and sober, but something else happened. After treatment I went into a halfway house. We had to take turns doing chores. When it came my time to cook, I discovered I love it. Never knew it before. All I ate at university was Kraft Macaroni and Cheese. It was amazing, to discover that passion. And legal too.”
He grinned.
The kitchen was filling with proof of Anton’s passion. The subtle scents of the casserole he’d made for them—garlic, onions, herbs, slight musky mushrooms and beef—mixed with the fragrance of the maple logs on the fire.
If the Gamaches and Isabelle didn’t return soon, thought Beauvoir, he’d start without them.
“That’s how you became a chef?” he asked Anton.
“Oui. Couldn’t get a job in a restaurant, but did find one with that family.”
“They didn’t care about your history?” asked Beauvoir.
“I didn’t tell ’em,” said Anton. “If you provide a good enough service, and work for cash, people don’t ask.”
“What was it like, working for the Ruizes?”
“It was okay. He was a little weird. Very guarded, like he was dealing with state secrets.”
“Was he?”
Anton guffawed dismissively. “Please. His job was looking after plants that make cheap toys. Knockoffs, probably.”
He stopped and looked at Beauvoir. “I shouldn’t be telling you this. I signed a confidentiality agreement.”
“Toys and cooking? You can’t talk about that? You met Jacqueline there, right?”
“Yes.”
“Became friends?”
“Well, kinda had to. There was no one else.”
“More than friends?” asked Jean-Guy.
Anton laughed. “Why does everyone think that? No, she’s more like a sister than anything. Great baker. Have you tried her brownies? My God.”
Poor Jacqueline, thought Beauvoir. And wondered if she realized he only loved her brownies. Though that love did seem profound.
“It was nice when Monsieur Ruiz was gone. More relaxed.”
“Did he travel a lot?” asked Beauvoir.
“Fortunately, yes. His territory was all of North America and into Central America. I think he got the job because he could speak Spanish. Couldn’t have been his winning personality.”
“He was Spanish, wasn’t he?”
“That’s right.”
Beauvoir contemplated his companion. The fire crackled, and the cast-iron stove threw gentle heat, enveloping the two men in a sense of well-being. Of safety. Their own little world.
Beauvoir cradled Gracie, who was snoring in the crook of his arm. As he waited for his companion to speak, he tapped his fingers, counting to himself. Two, three.
Seven, eight. Then decided Anton needed help. A prod.
“You knew what it was, didn’t you?” he said. “On the village green. From your time with that family. You knew it was a cobrador.”
Anton compressed his lips. “I promised Jacqueline I wouldn’t say anything. She wanted to be the one to tell you. But we’re both afraid.” He lowered his voice in a way that would have been laughable, had his eyes not looked so desperate. “You have no idea what that man was like.”
“Ruiz? You’re afraid of him? But he’s back in Spain, isn’t he?”
“Yeah, well…”
“Who is he?”
Anton looked around.
“He isn’t here,” Beauvoir assured him.
“I wasn’t looking for him. I was looking for a computer. Monsieur Gamache must have one.”
“He does. In the study.”
He placed Gracie carefully in the hollow of Henri’s belly, as he lay curled and sleeping in front of the fire.
“Follow me.”
The two men walked through the kitchen to the living room, and into the study.
Jean-Guy woke up the computer, making sure there was nothing private or sensitive on it, while Anton stood at the door.
Only when he’d brought up a fresh search engine did he motion Anton forward.
Anton sat, hit a few keys, clicked on a few links. Waited. Waited.
Eventually he pushed his chair back so Beauvoir could get a better look.
There on the screen was a report from a Spanish news program. A man was being scrummed on the steps of what looked like a courthouse.
“Is that Antonio Ruiz?” Beauvoir asked.