*
Jér?me Brunel sat on the arm of Myrna’s chair. Everyone leaned forward, to catch the story. Of miracles, and myth, and murder.
Everyone except Thérèse Brunel. She stood at the window, listening to the words, but looking out. Scanning the roads into the village.
The sun was bright and the skies clear. A beautiful winter day. And behind her, a dark story was being told.
“The girls were taken from their mother and father when they were still infants,” said Myrna. “It was at a time when the government didn’t need a reason, but they provided one anyway, by having the good doctor intimate that, though good people, the Ouellets were a little slow. Perhaps even congenitally so. Fit to raise cows and pigs, but not five little angels. They were a gift from God, Frère André’s last earthly miracle, and as such they belonged to all of Québec, and not some subsistence farmer. Dr. Bernard also hinted that the Ouellets were well paid for the girls. And people believed it.”
Clara looked at Gabri, who looked at Olivier, who looked at Ruth. They’d all believed that the Quints had been sold by their greedy parents. It was an essential part of the fairy tale. Not just that the Quints were born, but that they were saved.
“The Quints were sensations,” said Myrna. “All over the world people crushed by the Depression clamored for news of the miracle babies. They seemed proof of good in a very bad time.”
Myrna held the envelope containing the pages Armand Gamache had painstakingly written the night before. Twice. Once for his colleague. Once for Myrna. He knew Myrna had loved Constance, and deserved to know what had happened to her. He had no Christmas gift to give her, but he gave her this instead.
“To Bernard and the government it was clear that a fortune could be made from the girls. From films, to merchandise, to tours. Books, magazine articles. All chronicling their gilded life.”
Myrna suspected Armand would not be thrilled to know she was telling everyone what he’d written. In fact, he’d printed Confidential across the first page. And now she was blabbing it freely. But when she’d seen the anxiety in their faces, felt the gravity of the situation pressing down on them, she knew she had to take their minds off their fears.
And what better way than a tale of greed, of love, both warped and real. Of secrets and rage, of hurt beyond repair. And finally, of murder. Murders.
She thought the Chief Inspector might forgive her. She hoped she’d get a chance to ask for it.
“And it was a gilded life for the five girls,” she continued, looking around the circle at the wide, attentive eyes. “The government built them a perfect little cottage, like something out of a storybook. With a garden, a white picket fence. To keep the gawkers out. And the girls in. They had beautiful clothes, private tutoring, music lessons. They had toys and cream cakes. They had everything. Except privacy and freedom. And that’s the problem with a gilded life. Nothing inside can thrive. Eventually what was once beautiful rots.”
“Rots?” Gabri asked. “Did they turn on each other?”
Myrna looked at him. “One sibling turned on the others, yes.”
“Who?” asked Clara quietly. “What happened?”
*
Gamache pulled into the driveway and got out of the car, almost slipping on the icy pavement underfoot. The door was opened before he could ring, and he stepped inside.
“The girls are at a neighbor’s,” said Villeneuve. He’d obviously realized the importance of this visit. He led the way back to the kitchen, and there on the table were two purses, one for everyday use and the other a clutch.
Without a word, Gamache opened the clutch. It was empty. He felt around the lining, then tipped it toward the light. The lining had been recently sewn back in place. By Audrey or the cops who’d searched it?
“Do you mind if I take out the lining?” he asked.
“Do whatever you have to.”
Gamache ripped and felt around inside but came up empty. If there’d been anything there, it was gone. He turned to the other purse and quickly searched it but found nothing.
“Is that all there was in your wife’s car?”
Villeneuve nodded.
“Did they give you back her clothes?”
“The ones she was wearing? They offered to, but I told them to throw them away. I didn’t want to see.”
While disappointed, Gamache wasn’t surprised. He’d have felt the same way. And he also suspected whatever Audrey had hidden wasn’t in her office clothes. Or, if it was, it had been found.
“The dress?” he asked.
“I didn’t want it either, but it showed up with the other things.”
Gamache looked around. “Where is it?”
“The garbage. I probably should’ve given it to some charity sale, but I just couldn’t deal with it.”
“Do you still have the garbage?”
Villeneuve led him to the bin beside the house, and Gamache rummaged through until he found an emerald green dress. With a Chanel tag inside.
“This can’t be it,” he showed Villeneuve. “It says Chanel. I thought you said Audrey made her dress.”
Villeneuve smiled.
“She did. Audrey didn’t want anyone to know she made some of her own clothes or dresses for the kids, so she’d sew designer labels in.”
Villeneuve took the dress and looked at the label, shaking his head, his hands slowly tightening over the material, until he was clutching it and tears were streaming down his face.
After a couple of minutes, Gamache put his hand on Villeneuve’s, and loosened his grip. Then he took the dress inside.
He felt along the hem. Nothing. He felt the sleeves. Nothing. He felt the neckline. Nothing. Until. Until he came to the short line at the bottom of the semi-plunging neckline. Where it squared off.
He took the scissors Villeneuve offered and carefully unpicked the seam. This was not machine-stitched like the rest of the dress, but done by hand with great care.
He folded back the material and found a memory stick.