‘May I see that?’ Gamache took the book and looked at the cover. ‘I know this poet. I’ve met her. It’s Ruth Zardo.’ He looked at the cover. I’m FINE.
‘The one from that small village you liked so much? She’s one of your favorite poets, isn’t she?’
Gamache nodded and flipped to the beginning of the book. ‘It’s one I don’t have. Must be new. I don’t think Elle even read it.’ He looked up the publication date and noticed the inscription: ‘You stink, love Ruth.’
Gamache went to the phone and made a call.
‘Is this the Ogilvy bookstore? I’m calling to find out about – yes, I’ll hold.’ He cocked his head at Reine-Marie and smiled. She was putting on evidence gloves and reaching for a small wooden box that had also come out of the evidence box. It was simple and worn. Reine-Marie turned it over and found four letters stuck to the bottom.
‘What do you make of that?’ she asked, showing it to Armand.
B KLM
‘Does it open?’
She gently pried the top off and looked inside, and her face grew even more puzzled.
It was full of letters of the alphabet.
‘Why don’t you – yes, hello?’ He raised his eyebrows in apology. ‘I’m calling about Ruth Zardo’s latest book. That’s right. Many people? I understand. Well, merci.’ He hung up. Reine-Marie had turned the contents of the box onto his desk and was organizing the letters into neat piles.
Five of them. Bs, Cs, Ms, Ls and Ks.
‘The same as the bottom, except the Cs,’ she said. ‘Why these letters and why capitals?’
‘Do you think it’s significant they’re all capital letters?’ Gamache asked.
‘I don’t know, but I know from the documents I handle at work when a series of capital letters is used it’s because each letter represents a word.’
‘Like RCMP or DOA.’
‘Always a cop, but that’s the idea. For instance, I’m FINE,’ she pointed to Ruth’s book now on Gamache’s desk. ‘I bet that stands for something else. What did the bookstore say?’
‘Ruth Zardo launched this book a few days ago, at the Ogilvy store. December twenty-second.’
‘The day Elle died,’ said Reine-Marie.
Gamache nodded. Why would Ruth give a copy to a vagrant and sign it ‘love Ruth’? He knew the old woman well enough to know she didn’t toss around the word ‘love’. He reached for the phone again, but it rang just as he touched it.
‘Oui, all?? Gamache here.’
There was silence for a moment on the other end.
‘Oui, bonjour?’ He tried again.
‘Chief Inspector Gamache?’ A voice came down the line. ‘I didn’t think you’d answer your own phone.’
‘I’m a man of many parts.’ He laughed disarmingly. ‘How may I help you?’
‘My name is Robert Lemieux. I’m the duty officer at the Cowansville police station in the Eastern Townships.’
‘I remember. We met during the Jane Neal investigation.’
‘Yes sir.’
‘What can I do for you, son?’
‘There’s been a murder.’
After getting the information Gamache hung up and looked at his wife. She sat in the chair composed and calm.
‘Do you have your long underwear?’ she asked.
‘I do, madame.’ He slid open his top desk drawer to reveal a lump of deep blue silk.
‘Don’t most officers keep guns there?’ she asked.
‘I find long underwear protection enough.’
‘I’m glad.’ She gave him a hug. ‘I’ll leave you, my dear. You have work to do.’
At the door she watched as he made his calls, his back to her, staring out the window at the Montreal skyline. She watched him move in ways she knew, and she noticed how his hair curled slightly at his neck and she watched his strong hand as it held the phone at his ear.
Within twenty minutes Armand Gamache was on his way to the scene, his second in command Inspector Jean Guy Beauvoir at the wheel as they drove over the Champlain bridge and onto the autoroute for the hour and a half trip into the heart of the Eastern Townships.
Gamache stared out the window for a few minutes then opened the book once again, finishing the poem Reine-Marie had begun reading to him.
When my death us do part
Then shall forgiven and forgiving meet again,
Or will it be, as always was, too late?