“Why was the bat removed from the scene?” he asked. “And then replaced? At great risk.”
It was a question that had plagued them.
There were a few reasons the murderer might do that. He was panicked. Or distracted. The way people sometimes walked out of a shop with an unpaid article in their hands. By mistake.
And when the murderer realized what he’d done, how very incriminating the bat was, he’d returned it.
That was the most likely reason.
But still, why not just burn it? Why risk returning it?
And that brought them to the other reason. The killer wanted the bat to be found.
“To manipulate the results,” said Beauvoir. “To plant DNA evidence.”
“Maybe,” said Gamache. “And if that’s what’s happened, it might be helpful to let the real murderer think he’s fooled us.”
“More incompetence, patron?” asked Beauvoir. He smiled.
And yet Beauvoir felt a creeping concern that they weren’t simply pretending to be incompetent, but that they actually were. That these decisions would lead them in the wrong direction and a killer would go free.
“We need more evidence,” he said.
Gamache was nodding. It wasn’t enough to find out who’d murdered Katie Evans. They had to be able to prove it.
“Been a long day,” he said. “We need to eat.”
There was no challenging that last statement at least.
*
Anton hadn’t been lying about his skills as a chef.
The beef casserole, with hints of herbs, and wild garlic and succulent mushrooms he’d gathered in the fall and dried, was unlike anything they’d ever tasted.
“Does Olivier know what he has in Anton?” Reine-Marie asked.
She’d been trying to put on a cheerful face, though she was clearly exhausted, wrung out by the events of the day.
“I don’t think so,” said Armand, clearing the table while Jean-Guy got out the dessert.
“Panna cotta with raspberry coulis,” Beauvoir read from the note attached to the ramekins. “Anton told me he learned how to cook in treatment. Clearly I went into the wrong treatment program.”
“Never,” said Gamache. “We love our macramé plant hangers.”
“That’s good, because Christmas is coming up.”
“Come on,” Armand said to Reine-Marie, who had dark circles under her eyes and was fading fast. “Time for bed. We’ll save a dessert for you.”
“I’m all right,” she said.
“I know you are.”
He helped her up, and when Isabelle and Jean-Guy had said their good-nights, he walked with her upstairs, but not before taking Jean-Guy and Isabelle aside.
“Call Myrna and Ruth. See who else they told about the Prohibition story. And see what you can find out about Anton.”
The dishwasher chef had admitted to a lot, including knowing both the cobrador and the victim. But it wasn’t really anything the investigators wouldn’t have found out on their own eventually.
Were his admissions the act of an innocent man, clearing his conscience, or the preemptive act of a killer?
“When I come down, we’ll go over to the B&B.”
“Oui, patron.”
After getting Reine-Marie settled in bed, he returned a few minutes later only to find her fast asleep. Tucking the hot water bottle under the covers, he kissed her softly, so as not to wake her, and left the tea on the bedside table. The scent of chamomile, he knew, would be soothing.
As he went downstairs, he could hear Jean-Guy on the phone.
“Listen, you old hag, it’s a simple question.”
He could even hear Ruth’s scratchy reply.
“You call in the middle of the night to ask about Prohibition, numbnuts? Isn’t it a little late, in every way?”
“It’s nine thirty, and I need to know.”
“It’s 2017, and Prohibition has been repealed, or hadn’t you heard, asshat.”
“I’m not calling for a history lesson…”
Their conversation, if that’s what it could be called, continued as Gamache looked into his study and saw Lacoste on his computer, entering Anton’s name into the S?reté records.
“That’ll take a while. I’m going to take Henri and Gracie for a walk. Need some fresh air?” he asked, as more filth floated in from the room next door.
“Good idea.”
Once outside, they looked at the B&B. Lights were still on.
They walked, heads bowed into the wind, while the dogs played and did their business, oblivious to the driving sleet.
“Patron, about the cellar. Why don’t you want us—” Lacoste began before Gamache stopped her by raising his hand, palm toward her, in warning.
“But we’re alone,” she shouted, above the wind.
Without a word, he pointed toward the shops.
A light had gone on in the loft above Myrna’s bookstore. Jean-Guy must have moved on to the next person on his list. No doubt a more pleasant conversation.
But that wasn’t what Gamache was indicating.
In the bistro, patrons could be seen through the mullioned windows chatting and having dessert and coffee in front of the fireplace, before heading home.
A figure walked past the window, dark against the lights. Bundled up, so that it was impossible to see if it was a man or a woman.
Gamache and Lacoste watched as the person went directly toward the B&B.
And then kept going.
To the Gamaches’ home.
Armand scooped up Gracie and walked swiftly in that direction. Henri ran right past them, straight for the dark figure, now on the Gamaches’ porch.
The person stopped dead when confronted with the German shepherd. Either not noticing the furiously wagging tail and ball in his mouth, or not wanting to risk it.
Gamache arrived a moment later and, taking the visitor by the arm, he turned him to face the light.
Staring for just a moment, Gamache said, “You have something to tell us?”
“I do,” said Jacqueline. “I’ve come to confess.”
*
Isabelle Lacoste turned from watching Olivier, mixing a pitcher of sangria at the bar, to look out the window.
Lea Roux, in sundress and sandals, and Matheo Bissonette, in slacks and light shirt, were walking down the wide steps of the porch at the B&B, and heading in their direction.
“Were they expected?” she asked.
“Non. They called late this afternoon and just arrived.”
The two guests by the hearth, an older and a younger man, were again glancing in her direction. Anton had probably told them that she was the head of homicide for the S?reté. That always brought stares.
Once again she raised her glass to them, and when they lifted theirs in a salute, she took a sip, hoping they couldn’t see from across the room that the liquid only went as far as her lips. But not through them.
But Olivier saw. And frowned. And said nothing.
Lacoste turned away and leaned against the bar. Casually looking out the mullioned window at the pleasant gardens in full bloom.
Her face was placid, even slightly vacant, but her mind was racing.
When Olivier left to take the sangria to a table, she leaned across the bar and took another licorice pipe from the jar. The older man saw this and raised his brows.
Lacoste grinned and put a finger to her lips. He smiled and nodded.
Then she left the bar and walked to the bathrooms, carefully palming the handset she’d taken from behind the bar.