‘You’re not welcome on my team, Agent Nichol.’ Gamache looked into the scarred, scared face a few minutes later. He was done with her manipulation, her arrogance, her anger. He’d had enough of that during the last case.
‘I understand, sir. It wasn’t my idea either. I know what a mess I made of the last assignment with you. I’m so sorry. What can I do to prove I’ve changed?’
‘You can leave.’
‘I wish I could.’ She looked miserable. ‘I really do. I knew you’d feel like this and honestly I don’t blame you. I don’t know what I was thinking last time. Stupid. Arrogant. But I think I’ve changed. A year in narcotics.’ She looked into his face to see whether this was making any impact.
It wasn’t.
‘Goodbye, Agent Nichol.’
He walked out of the room, put his coat back on and got into his car without looking back.
‘I’m sorry, Chief Inspector, but Kaye Thompson isn’t here right now. She spent the night at her friend’s home. émilie Longpré.’
The matron of the seniors’ home in Williamsburg looked kindly and efficient. The home itself was in a converted mansion, the rooms large and gracious, though perhaps a little tired and definitely smelling of talcum. Like the residents themselves.
Armand Gamache at least had the sense to laugh at himself. Madame Longpré lived in Three Pines and might even have been one of the anonymous figures he’d watched walking across the village green. He’d been so angry at Agent Nichol he’d stormed out like the petulant child he believed her to be, gotten in his car and zoomed away. So there. And here he was, kilometers away from the witness who had in fact been just meters away in the first place. He smiled and the matron was left to wonder what the large man found so funny.
Instead of going straight back to Three Pines, Gamache parked the car at the Legion and walked in. It wasn’t locked. Most places weren’t. He wandered around the hall, his boots echoing slightly in the large, empty room. One wall was opened up to form a cafeteria-style pass-through from the kitchen. He imagined the bustle of the Boxing Day breakfast, the shouted greetings, the calls for more tea or coffee. Beatrice Mayer offering her noxious brew.
Now, why was she called Mother? Clara had seemed to think he could figure it out without even meeting her. Beatrice Mayer? Mother Bea? He shook his head, but knew he’d get it, eventually. It was the sort of little puzzle he enjoyed.
He went back to his imagination, joining these people for Boxing Day breakfast. The place warm and cheery and festooned with the tackiest Christmas decorations imaginable. He didn’t have to spend energy imagining them. They were still up. The plastic and crepe paper stars and snowflakes. The fake tree, missing at least half its plastic and wire branches. The paper bells and crayoned green and blue snowmen made by the excited and exhausted, and not overly gifted, daycare children. The upright piano in the corner almost certainly had pounded out carols. The room must have been full of the aroma of pancakes and maple syrup, drawn from trees surrounding the town. Eggs and cured Canadian back bacon.
And CC and her family? Where had they sat? Had anyone joined her for her final meal? Had any of them known it was her final meal?
One of them had. Someone had sat in this very room, eating and drinking and laughing and singing Christmas carols on Boxing Day, and planned a murder.
Outside Gamache paused to get his bearings, then, checking his watch, he set out for Lac Brume. He’d always liked Williamsburg. It was quite different from St-Rémy, which was more French while Williamsburg was traditionally more English, though this was changing as the two languages and cultures mixed. As he walked he noticed the lovely homes and shops, all covered in pure white snow. It was quiet: that peace and calm that came in winter as though the earth was resting. Cars barely made any noise on the cushion of snow. People walked silently along the sidewalks, their steps making not a sound. Everything was muffled and mute. It was very, very peaceful.
Four and a half minutes it had taken him to get from the Legion to the lake. He’d not hurried, but he had long legs and he knew most people would take slightly longer. But it was a pretty good average.
He stood at the side of the road looking down over the lake, empty and obscured now by the snow. The curling rink was almost invisible and the only real evidence anything had happened here were the stands, empty and lonely as though waiting for company that would never come.
What to do about Yvette Nichol? The peace of the place gave him a moment to mull the problem. And problem she was. He knew that now. He’d been fooled by her once, but Armand Gamache wasn’t a man to be fooled twice.
She was there for a reason, and the reason wasn’t necessarily CC de Poitier’s murder.