When Myrna didn’t answer Lacoste clarified, in case the French phrase had been lost on the Anglophone woman. “The name she was born with or her married name?”
But Gamache could tell that Myrna understood the question perfectly well. It was the answer that confused her.
He’d seen this woman afraid, filled with sorrow, joyful, annoyed. Perplexed.
But he’d never seen her confused. And it was clear by her reaction that it was a foreign state for her too.
“Neither,” she finally said. “Oh, God, she’d kill me if I told anyone.”
“We’re not ‘anyone,’” said Gamache. The words, while carrying a mild reproach, were said softly, with care.
“Maybe I should wait some more.”
“Maybe,” said Gamache.
He got up and fed two pieces of wood into the stove in the center of the room, then brought back a mug of tea for Myrna.
“Merci,” she said, and held it between her hands. Her lunch, partly eaten, would not now be finished.
“Inspector, would you mind trying the home number once more?”
“Absolument.” Lacoste got up and Myrna scribbled the number on a piece of paper.
They heard the beep, beep, beeps from across the room as she punched in the numbers. Gamache watched for a moment, then turned to Myrna, lowering his voice.
“Who is she if not Constance Pineault?”
Myrna held his eyes. But they both knew she’d tell him. That it was inevitable.
“Pineault’s the name I know her by,” she said quietly. “The name she uses. It was her mother’s maiden name. Her real name, her nom de naissance, is Constance Ouellet.”
Myrna watched him, expecting a reaction, but Armand Gamache couldn’t oblige.
Across the room, Isabelle Lacoste was listening on the phone. Not talking. The phone rang and rang and rang, in an empty home.
The home of Constance Ouellet. Constance Ouellet.
Myrna was studying him closely.
He could have asked. Was tempted to ask. And he certainly would, if he had to. But Gamache wanted to get there on his own. He was curious to see if the missing woman lurked in his memory and, if she did, what his memory said about her.
The name did sound familiar. But it was vague, ill-defined. If Madame Ouellet lived in his memory, she was several mountain ranges away from today. He cast his mind back, moving rapidly over the terrain.
He bypassed his own personal life and concentrated on the collective memory of Québec. Constance Ouellet must be a public figure. Or had been. Someone either famous or notorious. A household name, once.
The more he looked, the more certain he became that she was in there, hiding in some recess of his mind. An elderly woman who didn’t want to come out.
And now she was missing. Either by choice, or by someone else’s design.
He brought his hand up to his face as he thought. As he got closer and closer.
Ouellet. Ouellet. Constance Ouellet.
Then he inhaled and his eyes narrowed. A faded black and white photo drifted into view. Not of a seventy-seven-year-old woman, but of a smiling, waving girl.
He’d found her.
“You know who I’m talking about,” said Myrna, seeing the light in his eyes.
Gamache nodded.
But in his search he’d stumbled over some other memory, much more recent. And more worrisome. He got to his feet and walked over to the desk just as Lacoste hung up.
“Nothing, Chief,” she said and he nodded, taking the receiver from her.
Myrna rose. “What is it?”
“Just a thought,” he said, and dialed.
“Marc Brault.” The voice was clipped, official.
“Marc, it’s Armand Gamache.”
“Armand.” The voice became friendly. “How’re you doing?”
“Fine, thank you. Listen, Marc, I’m sorry to bother you—”
“No bother at all. What can I help you with?”
“I’m in the Eastern Townships. As we crossed the Champlain Bridge this morning at about quarter to eleven”—Gamache turned his back on Myrna and lowered his voice—“we noticed your people bringing a body up from the south shore.”
“And you want to know who it was?”
“I don’t want to pry into your jurisdiction, but yes.”
“Let me just look.”
Gamache could hear the clicking of keys as the head of homicide for the Montréal police accessed his records.
“Right. Not much on her yet.”
“A woman?”
“Yes. Been there for a couple days, apparently. Autopsy scheduled for this afternoon.”
“Do you suspect murder?”
“Not likely. Her car was found up above. Looks like she tried to jump from the bridge into the water and missed. Hit the shore and rolled under the bridge. Some workers found her there this morning.”
“Do you have a name?”
Gamache prepared himself. Constance Ouellet.
“Audrey Villeneuve.”
“Pardon?” asked Gamache.
“Audrey Villeneuve, it says here. Late thirties. Husband reported her missing two days ago. Didn’t show up for work. Hmmm…”
“What?” asked Gamache.
“It’s interesting.”
“What is?”
“She worked for the Ministry of Transport, in their roads division.”
“Was she an inspector? Could she have fallen by accident?”
“Let me see…” There was a pause while Chief Inspector Brault read the file. “No. She was a senior clerk. Almost certainly suicide, but the autopsy will tell us more. Want me to send it to you, Armand?”
“No need, but thank you. Joyeux No?l, Marc.”
Gamache hung up, then turned to face Myrna Landers.
“What is it?” she asked, and he could see her bracing for what he had to say.
“A body was brought up from the side of the Champlain Bridge this morning. I was afraid it might be your friend, but it wasn’t.”
Myrna closed her eyes. Then opened them again.
“So where is she?”