*
Chief Inspector Gamache opened drawers and closets and cupboards, examining the contents of Constance Ouellet’s home. In the front hall closet he found a coat, a small collection of hats, and a pair of gloves.
No hoarding here.
He looked at the bookshelves and mantelpiece. He got on his hands and knees and looked under furniture. From what the Montréal police could tell, Constance hadn’t been robbed. Her purse was still there, money and all. Her car sat on the road. There were no blank spots on the walls where a painting might have once hung, or gaps in the curio cabinet where a surprisingly valuable knickknack might have sat.
Nothing was taken.
But still he looked.
He knew he was going over territory the Montréal police had already covered, but he was looking for something different. Their initial search was for clues to the killer. A bloody glove, an extra key, a threatening note. A fingerprint, a footprint. Signs of theft.
He was looking for clues to her life.
“Nothing, Chief,” said Lacoste, wiping her hands of the dust from the basement. “They didn’t seem a sentimental lot. No baby clothes, no old toys, no sleds or snowshoes.”
“Snowshoes?” asked Gamache, amused.
“My parents’ basement is full of that sort of stuff,” Lacoste admitted. “And when they die, mine will be.”
“You won’t get rid of it?”
“Couldn’t. You?”
“Madame Gamache and I kept a few things from our parents. As you know, she has three hundred siblings so there was no question of it all coming to us.”
Isabelle Lacoste laughed. Every time the Chief described Madame Gamache’s family, the number of siblings grew. She supposed for an only child like the Chief, it must have been overwhelming to suddenly find himself in a large family.
“What was downstairs?” he asked.
“A cedar chest with summer clothing, the outdoor furniture brought in for the winter. Mostly that cheap plastic stuff. Garden hoses and tools. Nothing personal.”
“Nothing from their childhood?”
“Nothing at all.”
They both knew that, even for people who were rigorously unsentimental, that was unusual. But for the Quints? Whole industries had been built around them. Souvenirs, books, dolls, puzzles. He was fairly sure if he looked hard enough in his own home he’d find something from the Quints. A spoon his mother collected. A postcard from Reine-Marie’s family with the girls’ smiling faces.
At a time when the Québécois were just beginning to turn from the Church, the Quints had become the new religion. A fantastic blend of miracle and entertainment. Unlike the censorious Catholic Church, the Quints were fun. Unlike the Church, whose most powerful symbol was of sacrifice and death, the lingering image of the Ouellet Quints was of happiness. Five smiling little girls, vibrant and alive. The world fell to its knees before them. It seemed the only ones not enamored of the Quints were the Quints themselves.
Gamache and Lacoste walked down the hall, each one taking a bedroom. They met up a few minutes later and compared notes.
“Nothing,” said Lacoste. “Clean. Tidy. No clothing and no personal effects.”
“And no photographs.”
She shook her head.
Gamache exhaled deeply. Had their lives really been so antiseptic? And yet, the home didn’t feel cold. It felt like a warm and inviting place. There were personal possessions, but no private ones.
They walked into Constance’s bedroom. The bloodstained carpet was still there. The suitcase sat on the bed. The murder weapon had been taken away, but there was police tape indicating where it had been dropped.
Gamache walked over to the small suitcase and lifted items out, putting them neatly on the bed. Sweaters, underwear, thick stockings, a skirt and comfortable slacks. Long underwear and flannel nightgown. All the things you’d pack for Christmas in a cold country.
Packed between warm shirts he found three gifts, covered in candy cane wrapping paper. He squeezed and the paper crinkled. Whatever was inside was soft.
Clothing, he knew, having received his share of socks and ties and scarves from his children. He looked at the tags.
One for Clara, one for Olivier, and one for Gabri.
He handed them to Lacoste. “Can you unwrap these, please?”
While she did he felt around the suitcase. One of the sweaters didn’t give as much as it should. Gamache picked it up and unrolled the wool.
“A scarf for Clara,” said Lacoste, “and mittens for Olivier and Gabri.”
She wrapped them up again.
“Look at this,” said Gamache. He held up what he’d found in the center of the sweater. It was a photograph.
“That wasn’t listed in the search by the Montréal cops,” said Lacoste.
“Easy to miss,” said Gamache. And he could imagine their thinking. It was late, it was cold, they were hungry, and this would soon not even be their case.
They hadn’t been so much incompetent as less than thorough. And the small black and white photo was almost hidden in the thick wool sweater.
He took it over to the window, and he and Lacoste examined it.
Four women, in their thirties Gamache guessed, smiled at them. Their arms were around each other’s waists, and they looked directly at the camera. Gamache found himself smiling back, and noticed Lacoste was as well. The girls’ smiles weren’t big, but they were genuine and infectious.
Here were four happy people.
But while their expressions were identical, everything else about them was different. Their clothes, their hair, their shoes, their style. Even their bodies were different. Two were plump, one skinny, one average.
“What do you think?” he asked Lacoste.
“It’s obviously four of the sisters, but it looks like they’ve done all they can to make sure they’re not alike.”
Gamache nodded. That was his impression as well.
He looked at the back of the picture. There was nothing there.
“Why only four?” Lacoste asked. “What happened to the other one?”
“I think one died quite young,” he said.
“Shouldn’t be hard to find out,” said Lacoste.
“Right. Sounds like a job for me, then,” said Gamache. “You can look after the hard stuff.”
Gamache put the photograph in his pocket and they spent the next few minutes searching Constance’s room.
A few books were stacked on the bedside table. He went back to the suitcase and found the book she was reading. It was Ru by Kim Thúy.