Gamache said his goodbyes and the three of them walked across the now familiar village green. Instinctively, they kicked their feet slightly as they walked through the fallen leaves, sending up a slight flutter and a musky autumn scent.
The bed and breakfast was kitty-corner to the row of commercial buildings, at the comer of the Old Stage Road, another route out of Three Pines. It had once served as a stagecoach stop on the well-traveled route between Williamsburg and St Rémy. Long since unnecessary, it had, with the arrival of Olivier and Gabri, rediscovered its vocation of housing weary travelers. Gamache told Beauvoir he intended to get both information and reservations.
‘For how long?’ Beauvoir asked.
‘Until this is solved, or we’re taken off the case.’
‘That must have been one hell of a good baguette.’
‘I’ll tell you, Jean Guy, had he put mushrooms on it I would have bought the damned bistro and moved right in. This’ll be a whole lot more comfortable than some places we’ve found ourselves.’
It was true. Their investigations had taken them far from home, to Kuujjuaq and Gaspé and Shefferville and James Bay. They had had to leave home for weeks on end. Beauvoir had hoped this would be different, being so close to Montreal. Apparently not.
‘Book me in.’
‘Nichol?’ he called over his shoulder. ‘Want to stay too?’
Yvette Nichol felt she’d just won the lottery.
‘Great. I don’t have any clothes but that’s not a problem, I could borrow some and wash these in the tub tonight—’
Gamache held up his hand.
‘You weren’t listening. We’re going home tonight and starting here tomorrow.’
Damn. Every time she showed enthusiasm it kicked her in the ass. Would she never learn?
Carved pumpkins squatted on each step up to the sweeping veranda of the B. & B. Inside, worn oriental rugs and overstuffed chairs, lights with tassels and a collection of oil lamps gave Gamache the impression of walking into his grandparents’ home. To add to the impression, the place smelled of baking. Just then a large man in a frilly apron that said, ‘Never Trust a Skinny Cook’ made his entrance through a swinging door. Gamache was startled to see more than a passing resemblance to his grandmother.
Gabri sighed hugely and put a wan hand up to his forehead in a gesture not often seen this side of Gloria Swanson.
‘Muffins?’
The question was so unexpected even Gamache was thrown off guard.
‘Pardon, Monsieur?’
‘I have carrot, date, banana and a special tribute to Jane called “Charles de Mills”.’ And with that Gabri disappeared and reappeared a moment later with a platter holding rings of muffins marvelously decorated with fruit and roses.
‘They aren’t Charles de Mills roses, of course. They’re long dead,’ Gabri’s face dissolved into tears and the platter lurched perilously. Only Beauvoir’s quick action, fueled by desire, save the food. ‘Desolé. Excusez-moi. I’m just so sad’ Gabri collapsed on to one of the sofas, arms and legs flopping. Gamache had the feeling that for all the dramatics, the man was sincere. He gave Gabri a moment to compose himself, fully realising it was possible Gabri had never been composed. He then asked Gabri to spread the word about the public meeting the next day, and to open the church. He also booked rooms in the bed and breakfast.
‘Bed and brunch,’ Gabri corrected. ‘But you may have your brunch at breakfast, if you like, since you’re helping bring the brute to justice.’
‘Any idea who might have killed her?’
‘It was a hunter, wasn’t it?’
‘We don’t actually know. But if it wasn’t, who comes to mind?’
Gabri reached for a muffin. Beauvoir took that as permission to take one himself. They were still warm from the oven.
Gabri was silent for two muffins, then said softly, ‘I can’t think of anyone, but,’ he turned intense brown eyes on Gamache, ‘am I likely to? I mean, isn’t that what’s so horrible about murder? We don’t see it coming. I’m not saying this very well.’ He reached for another muffin and ate it, rose and all. ‘The people I’ve been angriest at probably never even realised. Does that make sense?’
He seemed to be pleading with Gamache to understand.
‘It does. It makes perfect sense,’ said Gamache, and he meant it. Few people understood so quickly that most premeditated murders were about rancid emotions, greed, jealousy, fear, all repressed. As Gabri said, people don’t see it coming, because the murderer is a master at image, at the false front, at presenting a reasonable, even placid exterior. But it masked a horror underneath. And that’s why the expression he saw most on the faces of victims wasn’t fear, wasn’t anger. It was surprise.
‘Who knows what evil lurks in the hearts of men?’ Gabri asked and Gamache wondered if he knew he was quoting an old radio drama. Then Gabri winked.
Gabri disappeared again, and returned, handing Gamache a small bag of muffins.
‘One more question,’ said Gamache at the door, the bag of muffins in one hand and the door handle in the other. ‘You mentioned the Charles de Mills rose.’
‘Jane’s favorite. He’s not just any rose, Chief Inspector.
He’s considered by rosarians to be one of the finest in the world. An old garden rose. Only blooms once a season but with a show that’s spectacular. And then it’s gone. That’s why I made the muffins from rose water, as a homage to Jane. Then I ate them, as you saw. I always eat my pain.’ Gabri smiled slightly. Looking at the size of the man, Gamache marveled at the amount of pain he must have. And fear perhaps. And anger? Who knows, indeed.