SEVENTEEN
‘Success,’ Beauvoir said, striding into the warm situation room and shedding his heavy coat. He tossed his tuque onto his desk and his mitts soon followed. ‘You were right. The photographer has the pictures.’
‘Wonderful,’ said Gamache, clapping him. ‘Let’s see.’
‘Well, he doesn’t have them on him,’ said Beauvoir, as though that was really too much to expect.
‘Where are they?’ asked Gamache, his voice somewhat less thrilled.
‘He mailed the film to the lab he uses in St-Lambert. They went by priority post so they should arrive by tomorrow.’
‘At the lab.’
‘Précisément.’ Beauvoir could sense a little less enthusiasm than he would have wanted. ‘But he says he took hundreds of pictures at the breakfast and the curling.’
Beauvoir looked around. Isabelle Lacoste was engrossed in her computer and Agent Yvette Nichol sat off at the other end of the table by herself, as though on an island, watching the mainland that was Gamache.
‘Did he see anything?’ Gamache asked.
‘I asked. He claims that as a photographer he’s so focused on taking the pictures he’s not actually paying attention to what’s happening, so he was as surprised as anyone when CC keeled over. But he did say his assignment was to photograph CC, and only her, so his camera was trained on her the whole time.’
‘Then he must have seen something,’ said Gamache.
‘He might have,’ conceded Beauvoir, ‘but maybe he didn’t know what he was seeing. Had she been stabbed or bludgeoned or strangled he probably would have reacted, but this was less obvious. All CC did was get up and touch the chair in front of her. Nothing strange in that, certainly nothing threatening.’
It was true.
‘Why did she do it?’ Gamache asked. ‘It’s true what you say, though: it certainly wouldn’t attract any attention, but it’s still an odd thing to do. And we only have Petrov’s word that he was busy photographing his client and not busy electrocuting her.’
‘I agree,’ said Beauvoir, warming his hands by the woodstove and reaching for the coffee pot. ‘He seemed eager enough to help. Maybe too eager.’ In Beauvoir’s world anyone helpful was immediately suspect.
émilie Longpré set the table for three, folding and smoothing the cloth napkins more than they needed. There was something comforting in the repetitive gesture. Mother hadn’t arrived yet, but she’d be there soon. According to the clock on the kitchen wall Mother’s noon meditation class would be over soon.
Kaye was having a nap but Em couldn’t rest. Where normally she’d be sitting quietly with a cup of tea reading that day’s La Presse, instead she found herself wiping the tops of cookbooks and watering plants that were already soaked, anything to distract her racing mind.
She occupied herself with the pea soup, stirring the ham bone in the large pot, making sure the flavors combined. Henri was sitting patiently at her feet, staring up at Em with his intense brown eyes as though willpower alone could force the bone to levitate out of the pot and into his eager mouth. His tail wagged as Em bustled around the kitchen and he made sure he got in her way whenever possible.
The corn bread was ready to be put into the oven and by the time it was baked Mother would be there.
And sure enough, half an hour later Mother’s car pulled into Em’s drive and Mother waddled out, walking without hesitation on the slippery path. Her center of gravity was so low Kaye often remarked that she couldn’t fall down even if she wanted to. Nor, according to Kaye, could Mother drown. Kaye, for some reason Em couldn’t figure out, never tired of analyzing the ways Bea might meet her maker. Mother Bea returned the favor by endlessly explaining that she at least would meet Him.
Now the three old friends helped themselves to bowls of soup and slices of fresh, warm bread, the butter melting into it. They sat at the comfortable kitchen table. Henri, ordered out of the room, curled up under the table and prayed for crumbs.
Ten minutes later, when Gamache arrived, the food was still in front of each of them, cold and untouched. Had Gamache thought to sneak up to the side window and look in he would have seen the three friends holding hands, encircling the table in a prayer apparently without end.