The next morning the team had reassembled in the incident room, been briefed on the latest developments, and given their assignments. At Gamache’s desk he found a little paper bag and inside it an éclair. A note, in large childish letters, said, ‘From Agent Nichol.’
Nichol watched him open the bag.
‘Agent Nichol, a word please.’
‘Yes, sir.’ The éclair had obviously worked. He couldn’t possibly continue his unreasonable behavior.
Gamache pointed to a desk at the far end of the room, well away from the others.
‘Thank you for the éclair. Did you make sure Ma?tre Stickley held the latest will for Jane Neal?’
That was it? All that effort to go across to Sarah’s boulangerie early and buy the pastry? For one line? And now he’s cross-examining me again? Her mind raced. This was patently unfair, but she had to think fast. She knew the truth, but that would get her into trouble. What to say? Maybe she should mention the pastry again? But no, he was expecting an answer to his question.
‘Yes sir, I did. He confirmed that Ma?tre Stickley has the latest will.’
‘And who was “he”?’
‘He was the guy at the other end of the phone.’
Gamache’s calm face changed. He leaned forward, stern and annoyed.
‘Stop using that tone with me. You’ll answer my questions thoroughly, respectfully and thoughtfully. And more than that -’ his voice grew quiet, almost to a whisper. People who had heard this tone rarely forgot it. ‘You will answer my questions truthfully.’ He paused and stared into her defiant eyes. He was tired of this dysfunctional person. He’d done his best. Against good advice he’d kept her on but now she’d actually lied not once, but twice.
‘Stop slouching in that chair like a petulant child. Sit up straight when you talk to me. Eyes on me.’
Nichol responded immediately.
‘Who did you call to ask about the will, Agent?’
‘I called headquarters in Montreal and told the person who answered to check it for me. He called back with this information. Was it wrong, sir? If it was it wasn’t my fault. I believed him. I trusted him to do the job properly.’
Gamache was so amazed by her response he would have felt admiration if he hadn’t been so repelled.
The truth was, she hadn’t called anyone because she had had no idea whom to call. The least Gamache could have done was give her guidance. He was so big on bragging how he loved to take young people under his wing and then do fuck all for them. It was his own fault.
‘Who at headquarters?’
‘I don’t know.’
Gamache was tired of this, it was a waste of time. She was a waste of time. But there was one more thing he might try. He could show her her future, if she wasn’t careful. ‘Come with me.’
Ruth Zardo’s home was tiny and cramped, full of papers and magazines and work books, piled high. Books lined every wall, and camped on the footstools and coffee table and kitchen counter. They were stacked in the closet where she threw their coats.
‘I just had the last cup of coffee and don’t intend to make anymore.’
What a bitch, thought Nichol.
‘We just have a few questions,’ said Gamache.
‘I’m not going to invite you to sit down, so you can hurry up.’
Nichol couldn’t believe the discourtesy. Really, some people.
‘Did Jane Neal know you’d told her parents about Andreas Selinsky?’ Gamache asked, and a stillness settled on the home.
Ruth Zardo might have had a very good reason to want Jane Neal dead. Suppose Ruth thought if her ancient betrayal of Jane came to light her friendships in Three Pines would end. These people who loved her despite herself might suddenly see her for what she really was. They’d hate her if they knew of this horrible thing she’d done, then she’d be alone. An angry, bitter, lonely old lady. She couldn’t risk it, there was too much at stake.
Gamache knew from years of investigating murders there was always a motive, and the motive often made absolutely no sense to anyone other than the murderer. But it made absolute sense to that person.
‘Come in,’ she said, motioning to the kitchen table. It was a garden table surrounded by four metal Canadian Tire garden chairs. Once seated she saw him looking around and volunteered, ‘My husband died a few years ago. Since then I’ve been selling bits and pieces, mostly antiques from the family. Olivier handles them for me. It keeps my head above water, just.’
‘Andreas Selinsky,’ he reminded her.
‘I heard you the first time. That was sixty years ago. Who cares now?’
‘Timmer Hadley cared.’
‘What do you know about that?’
‘She knew what you’d done, she overheard you talking to Jane’s parents.’ As he spoke he studied Ruth’s fortress face. ‘Timmer kept your secret, and regretted it the rest of her life. But maybe Timmer told Jane, in the end. What do you think?’
‘I think you make a lousy psychic. Timmer’s dead, Jane’s dead. Let the past lie.’
‘Can you?
Who hurt you, once, so far beyond repair that you would greet each overture with curling lip?’