“Nothing,” said Gabri. He would never admit what he was now thinking, what he thought every time the phone rang, every time there was a knock on the door or an unfamiliar car arrived.
Gabri looked down at the coffee table, with their drinks and a plate of chocolate chip cookies and the thick Diane de Poitiers writing paper with its partly finished message. The same one he wrote every day and mailed, along with a licorice pipe.
Why would Olivier move the body? he’d written. Then added, Olivier didn’t do it. He would mail it that afternoon, and tomorrow he’d write another one to Chief Inspector Gamache.
But now a man was walking, almost creeping, toward the bistro out of the thickly falling snow. In just the twenty yards from his car snow had already gathered on his hat, his scarf, his slender shoulders. Olivier had slender shoulders.
The snowman arrived at the bistro and opened the door. The outside world blew in and people looked over, then went back to their meals, their conversations, their lives. Slowly the man unveiled himself. His scarf, his boots, then he shook his coat, the snow falling to the wooden floor and melting. He put on a pair of slippers, kept in a basket by the door for people to grab.
Gabri’s heart thudded. Behind him Myrna and Clara were continuing to discuss whether, for a few thousand more, it might be worth upgrading all the way, to the Queen Suites.
He knew it couldn’t be Olivier. Not really. But, well, maybe Gamache had been convinced by all the letters, maybe he’d let him out. Maybe it had been last-minute, like the travel deals, a last-minute escape that instead of taking him away had brought Olivier home.
Gabri stepped forward, unable to help himself now.
“Gabri?” Peter asked, standing up.
Gabri got halfway across the bistro.
The man had taken off his hat and turned into the room. Slowly, as recognition dawned, the conversation died out.
It wasn’t Olivier. It was one of the men who’d taken him away, arrested Olivier, put him in prison for murder.
Inspector Jean-Guy Beauvoir surveyed the room and smiled, uncertainly.
When the phone call had come that morning from the Chief Inspector, Beauvoir had been in his basement making a bookcase. He didn’t read but his wife Enid did, and so he was making it for her. She was upstairs, singing. Not loudly and not well. He could hear her cleaning up the breakfast dishes.
“You okay down there?” she’d called.
He wanted to tell her he wasn’t. He was bored stupid. He hated woodwork, hated the damned crossword puzzles she shoved on him. Hated the books she’d piled up next to the sofa, hated the pillows and blankets that followed him around, in her arms as though he was an invalid. Hated how much he owed her. Hated how much she loved him.
“I’m fine,” he called up.
“If you need anything, just call.”
“I will.”
He walked over to the workbench, pausing for breath at the counter. He’d done his exercises for the day, his physio. He hadn’t been very disciplined until the doctor had pointed out that the more he did them the sooner he could get out from under Enid’s crushing concern.
The doctor didn’t exactly put it that way, but that’s what Beauvoir heard and it had been motivation enough. Morning, noon and night he did his exercises to regain his strength. Not too much. He could tell when he did too much. But sometimes he felt it was worth it. He’d rather die trying to escape than be trapped much longer.
“Cookie?” she sang down.
“Yes, Cupcake?” he replied. It was their little joke. He heard her laugh and wondered how much it would hurt to cut his hand off with the jigsaw. But not his gun hand, he might need that later.
“No, do you want a cookie? I thought I’d do a batch.”
“Sounds great. Merci.”
Beauvoir had never particularly wanted children, but now he was desperate for them. Maybe then Enid would transfer her love to them. The kids would save him. He felt momentarily bad for them, being dragged under by her unconditional, undying, unrelenting love, but, well, sauve qui peut.
Then the phone rang.
And his heart stopped. He’d thought, hoped, with time it would stop doing that. It was inconvenient having a heart that halted every time there was a call. Especially annoying when it was a wrong number. But instead of going away it seemed to be getting worse. He heard Enid hurrying to answer it and he knew she was running because she knew how much the sound upset him.
And he hated himself, for hating her.
“Oui, all??” he heard her say and immediately Beauvoir was back there, to that day.
“Homicide.” The Chief’s secretary had answered the phone in the office. It was a large, open space taking an entire floor of the S?reté du Québec headquarters in Montreal. There were, however, a few enclosed spaces. There was a private conference room with Beauvoir’s beloved Magic Markers, and long sheets of paper on the walls, and blackboards and corkboards. All neatly organized.
He had his own office, being the second in command.
And the Chief had a large office in the corner, with windows looking out over Montreal. From there Armand Gamache ran the province-wide operation, looking into murders in a territory that stretched from the Ontario border to the Atlantic Ocean, from the frontier with Vermont and New York to the Arctic Circle. They had hundreds of agents and investigators in stations across the province and special teams that went into areas without a homicide squad.
All coordinated by Chief Inspector Gamache.
Beauvoir had been in Gamache’s office discussing a singularly gnarly case in Gaspé when the phone had rung. Gamache’s secretary had answered it. Inspector Beauvoir glanced at the clock on the Chief”s wall just as the phone rang. 11:18 A.M.
“Homicide,” he’d heard her say.
And nothing had been the same since.