“It is.”
And he believed her. But he wasn’t so sure about his own.
*
Chief Inspector Isabelle Lacoste sat in the bistro, her back to Matheo Bissonette and Lea Roux. Avoiding their stares. Partly because of the accusation their glare contained. That an innocent woman was being tried for a murder she hadn’t committed. And that Lacoste knew it.
Yes, there was no mistaking the ire in their eyes.
But also because she needed to concentrate on the American and his lieutenant. Sitting there so confidently, in full view.
Was he there for a friendly parlez? Dividing territory with his Québec counterpart, now that the S?reté was out of the equation? Celebrating the launch of their new commodity, krokodil?
Or was he staking his claim? Why share, when he could have it all?
Was this a meeting of confrères, or the start of a brutal, short-lived, bloody turf war?
And they were sitting in the middle of the turf, the middle of the war.
Isabelle looked at Madame Gamache, and Annie, and Honoré. And she knew something that Chief Superintendent Gamache must’ve realized as soon as she’d told him the head of the American cartel was in Three Pines.
If the battle was fought in this little border village, whoever won would make an example of the villagers. And mostly of Monsieur Gamache and his family.
They would lay waste to Three Pines, so that the population of other border villages would be in no doubt what would happen to them if they didn’t play along. The cartels would never rule by loyalty and affection. It would always be terror.
She could feel the long, slow progress of perspiration down her spine.
CHAPTER 32
“What’re you doing?” asked Beauvoir.
Though it was obvious what Gamache was doing. The question Jean-Guy was really asking was why.
As the car slowed down to a reasonable, even leisurely, pace and descended into the village of Three Pines, Gamache twisted in his seat and came away with the automatic pistol in its leather holster, taken off his belt. Opening the glove compartment, he put it in, first removing the bullets.
“You can be seen with a gun,” said Gamache, as he locked it and put the key in the pocket of his slacks. “I can’t. Reine-Marie and Annie will notice, and ask. We can’t have that.”
The sun was still up, though the unrelenting sheen of the summer day had softened. The village had never looked more beautiful. More at peace with itself. The gardens in full bloom. The children, having eaten dinner, were playing on the village green. Squeezing out every last moment of a perfect summer day.
“And what happens if the exchange is made in the bistro and you’re standing there with a spoon in your hand?”
“I hope I’d at least grab a fork,” said Gamache, but Beauvoir didn’t smile.
“I have this,” he said, his face serious again as he showed Jean-Guy what he’d taken out of the glove compartment, in exchange for the gun.
In his palm was what appeared to be a piece of wood. But Beauvoir knew it wasn’t. It was a Swiss Army knife, for hunters. Its hidden blade designed to gut animals.
Jean-Guy looked from Gamache’s steady hand into his steady eyes.
It was one thing to shoot a person. A horrific act that could never be forgotten. Nor should it be. As Beauvoir knew all too well. But it was something else altogether to stab someone. To drive the blade in.
Jean-Guy had never considered it.
But Gamache had. And was. And would. If necessary.
*
“Great,” said Ruth, as Gamache and Beauvoir strolled into the bistro. “It’s Rocky and Boo-Boo.”
Gamache looked at Beauvoir and shook his head in despair.
“Isn’t that Rocky and Bullwinkle?” asked Gabri, putting a beer down in front of Clara, as Beauvoir kissed Annie and took Honoré in his arms.
“Moose and squirrel.” Clara nodded and took a long sip of the cold Farnham Blonde Ale.
“It’s Yogi and Boo-Boo,” said Reine-Marie, greeting Armand with a hug.
“Et tu, Brute?” asked Gamache, and Reine-Marie laughed.
“Honoré,” Jean-Guy whispered in the little boy’s ear, and smelled the scent of him. A combination of baby powder and Annie.
And Jean-Guy understood why the Chief Superintendent had asked that Ruth be there when they arrived. So she could publicly mock them. It was a tiny, telling detail. Like Clara’s portraits, made up of small strokes, and dabs. Deliberately placed. For effect.
To those who knew them, Ruth’s insults were simply a ritual. A kind of calling card. But to strangers it would sound like the derisive mocking of two people so incompetent even an old woman could see it. And felt free to say it.
It added to the picture of Gamache as friendly, warm, easygoing. Soft. A man more suited to insults in a country inn than the cold, serrated edges of police work.
Beauvoir could see Matheo Bissonette and Lea Roux sitting in a corner. Listening. Lea’s smile so tight her lips had disappeared. She looked like a viper.
The American visitors were staring at them openly. Not even bothering to pretend not to be interested.
They would know who Gamache was, of course.
This was a critical moment.
Would they get up and leave, afraid the S?reté had bumbled onto their plans?
Would they pull out their weapons and open fire on the S?reté officers and everyone else in the bistro? It would be far from the first time the cartel had done something like that.
But the two men just sat there, as though watching a not very interesting talk show.
“I didn’t know you were here,” Jean-Guy said to Annie, surprised and relieved that his voice sounded so normal.
“I left a text on your phone,” said Annie. “We decided to come down, to get out of the heat of the city.”
Though it wasn’t much better in the country. The air was ripe with humidity. It felt one degree short of becoming water. There was no breeze and no letup in sight. People scrambled for shade, and prayed for the sun to go down.
Everyone except the children, now holding hands and dancing in a circle on the green. Two boys were wrestling over a ball.
The bistro was filling up, many of the seats already taken.
Gamache walked over to the table with the two Americans. There was a slight scraping of wood on wood as the older man pushed his chair away from the table and dropped his hand to his lap.
Every hair on Jean-Guy’s arms and the back of his neck stood on end, his skin tingling. As though a November breeze had come through the room. But he had Honoré in his arms and couldn’t do anything, even if the man pulled a gun. And shot the chief.
Beauvoir forced himself to turn away. Shielding Honoré with his body, he stepped in front of Annie.
While the others had resumed their conversation, about Clara’s show at the Musée des beaux-arts in Montréal, now just a week away, Ruth was watching Jean-Guy. A curious look in her curious eyes.
Gamache smiled at the two men. “Do you mind?” he asked in French. When there was no answer, he said, “Anglais? English?”
“Yes.”
“Are these chairs taken?”