*
Jean Guy Beauvoir picked up the ringing phone.
“Inspector Beauvoir? It’s Clara Morrow.”
Her voice was low. A whisper.
“What is it?” Beauvoir also, instinctively, lowered his voice. Agent Lacoste, at her own desk, looked over.
“There’s someone in our back garden. A stranger.”
Beauvoir got to his feet. “What’re they doing?”
“Staring,” whispered Clara. “At the place Lillian was killed.”
*
Agent Lacoste stood on the edge of the village green. Alert.
To her left, Inspector Beauvoir was quietly making his way around the Morrows’ cottage. To her right, Chief Inspector Gamache was walking softly on the lawn. Careful not to disturb whoever was back there.
Villagers paused as they walked their dogs. Conversations grew hushed and petered out, and soon Three Pines was standing still. Waiting and watching as well.
Lacoste’s job, she knew, was to save the villagers, if it came to that. If whoever was back there got past the Chief. Got past Beauvoir. Isabelle Lacoste was the last line of defense.
She could feel her gun in the holster on her hip, hidden beneath the stylish jacket. But she didn’t take it out. Not yet. Chief Inspector Gamache had drilled into them time and again, never, ever draw your gun unless you mean to use it.
And shoot to stop. Don’t aim for a leg, or arm. Aim for the body.
You don’t necessarily want to kill, but you sure as hell don’t want to miss. Because if a weapon was drawn it meant all else had failed. All hell had broken loose.
And again, unbidden, an image came to mind. Of leaning in as the Chief lay on the floor, trying to speak. His eyes glazed. Trying to focus. Of holding his hand, sticky with blood, and looking at his wedding ring, covered in it. So much blood on his hands.
She dragged her mind back, and focused.
Beauvoir and Gamache had disappeared. All she could see was the quiet little cottage in the sunshine. And all she could hear was her heart thudding, thudding.
*
Chief Inspector Gamache rounded the corner of the cottage, and stopped.
Standing with her back to him was a woman. He was pretty sure he knew who it was, but wanted to be certain. He was also pretty sure she was harmless, but also wanted to be certain, before he dropped his guard.
Gamache glanced to his left and saw Beauvoir standing there, also alert. But no longer alarmed. The Chief raised his left hand, a signal to Beauvoir to stay where he was.
“Bonjour,” said Gamache, and the woman leapt and yelped and spun around.
“Holy shit,” said Suzanne, “you scared the crap out of me.”
Gamache grinned slightly. “Désolé, but you scared the crap out of Clara Morrow.”
Suzanne looked over to the cottage and saw Clara standing in the kitchen window. Suzanne gave a little wave and an apologetic smile. Clara gave a hesitant wave back.
“Sorry,” said Suzanne. Just then she noticed Beauvoir, standing a few feet away, at the other side of the garden. “I really am harmless, you know. Foolish, perhaps. But harmless.”
Inspector Beauvoir glared at her. In his experience foolish people were never harmless. They were the worst. Stupidity accounted for as many crimes as anger and greed. But he relented, walking toward them and whispering to the Chief.
“I’ll let Lacoste know it’s all right.”
“Bon,” said the Chief. “I’ll take it from here.”
Beauvoir looked over his shoulder at Suzanne and shook his head.
Foolish woman.
“So,” said Gamache when they were alone. “Why are you here?”
“To see where Lillian died. I couldn’t sleep last night, the reality of it just kept getting stronger and stronger. Lillian was killed. Murdered.”
But she still looked as though she barely believed it.
“I had to come down. To see where it’d happened. You said you’d be here and I wanted to offer my help.”
“Help? How?”
Now it was Suzanne’s turn to look surprised. “Unless it was a mistake or a random attack, someone killed Lillian on purpose. Don’t you think?”
Gamache nodded, watching this woman closely.
“Someone wanted Lillian dead. But who?”
“And why?” said the Chief.
“Exactly. I might be able to help with the ‘why.’”
“How?”
“When?” asked Suzanne and smiled. Then her smile drifted away as she turned to look back at the hole in the garden, surrounded by yellow, fluttering tape. “I knew Lillian better than anyone. Better than her parents. Probably better than she knew herself. I can help you.”
She stared into his deep brown eyes. She was defiant, prepared for battle. What she wasn’t prepared for was what she saw there. Consideration.
He was considering her words. Not dismissing them, not marshaling arguments. Armand Gamache was thinking about what she’d said, and he’d heard.
The Chief Inspector studied the energetic woman in front of him. Her clothing was too tight, and mismatched. Was this creative, or just clumsy dressing? Did she not see herself, or not care how she looked?
She looked foolish. Even declared herself to be that.
But she wasn’t. Her eyes were shrewd. Her words even shrewder.
She knew the victim better than anyone. She was uniquely placed to help. But was that the real reason she was there?
“Hello,” said Clara, tentatively. She was walking toward them from the kitchen door.
Suzanne immediately turned and stared, then she walked toward Clara, her hands out.
“Oh, I am sorry. I should have knocked on your door and asked permission instead of just barging into your garden. I don’t know why I didn’t. My name’s Suzanne Coates.”