Rain, hail and snow? Where’re the frogs?
Just then a phone rang. It was the tinny tune of a cell phone. A familiar tune, but not one Beauvoir could place. It certainly wasn’t his. He looked at Nichol who finally had some blood in her face. She looked made up by a vindictive mortician, great red splotches on her cheeks and forehead. The rest remained waxy.
‘I believe your phone is ringing.’
‘Not mine. Lacoste must have left hers.’
‘It’s yours.’ Beauvoir stepped toward her. He had a pretty good idea who would be on the other end of the line. ‘Answer it.’
‘It’s a wrong number.’
‘If you won’t I will.’ He advanced on her and she backed up.
‘No. I’ll get it.’ She opened it slowly, obviously hoping the ringing would stop before she had to hit the button. But the phone kept ringing. Beauvoir advanced. Nichol jumped back but wasn’t quick enough. In a flash Beauvoir had grabbed the phone.
‘Bonjour?’ he said.
The line was dead.
The bistro was nearly empty. The fire crackled softly in the grate, sending amber and crimson light spilling into the room. It was warm and comfortable, and quiet, except for the occasional thud as the storm produced a particularly violent blast.
Beauvoir brought a book from his satchel.
‘Wonderful,’ said Gamache, reaching for the yearbook. He leaned back in his chair, put on his glasses, reached for his red wine and disappeared. Beauvoir didn’t think he ever saw the chief as happy as when he had a book in his hands.
Beauvoir took a slice of crisp baguette, smeared it thickly with paté and ate. Outside the wind howled. Inside all was calm and relaxed.
A few minutes later the door opened and Jeanne Chauvet blew in, her hair and a look of shock plastered to her face. Gamache rose from his seat and bowed to her slightly. She chose a table well away from them.
‘What do you want to bet Nichol chased her out of the B. & B. and into the storm? Only she could scare a woman who raises the dead for a living.’
Their starters arrived. Gabri put a lobster bisque in front of Gamache and a French onion soup before Beauvoir.
The two men ate and continued their conversation. This was Beauvoir’s favorite part of any investigation. Putting his head together with the Chief Inspector. Tossing around thoughts, ideas. Nothing formal, no notes taken. Just thinking out loud. With food and drink.
‘What struck you?’ asked Gamache, tapping the yearbook. His soup was smooth with a rich taste of lobster and lightly flavored with cognac.
‘I thought her grad photo caption might be significant.’
‘That Tanguay prison remark. Yes, I caught that too.’
Gamache turned once more to the grad photos, this time looking at Hazel. She’d obviously just been to the beauty shop before the picture. Her hair was puffy, her eyes black with too much liner and bulging. Her inscription read, Hazel enjoyed sports and the drama club. She never got mad.
She never got mad, thought Gamache and wondered whether that was an example of equanimity or indifference. Who never got mad?
He turned to the Drama Society page. And there was Hazel, smiling, her arm round a heavily made-up actress. Underneath the picture was written, Madeleine Gagnon as Rosalind in As You Like It. A description of the school play, a singular success, was written by its producer. Hazel Lang.
‘Wonder how Madeleine had time for it all. Sports, school play,’ said Beauvoir. ‘She was even a cheerleader.’ He flipped through the book until he found the page. ‘Here, see? There she is.’
Sure enough, there was Madeleine, full smile, hair gleaming even in the black and white photo. All wore short kilts. Tight little sweaters. Fresh and cheerful faces. All young, all lovely. Gamache read the names of the squad. Monique, Joan, Madeleine, Georgette. And one missing. A girl named Jeanne. Jeanne Potvin.
‘Did you notice the name of the missing cheerleader?’ Gamache asked. ‘Jeanne.’
He turned the book around for Beauvoir then looked over at the solitary woman at her table.
‘You don’t really think…’ Beauvoir jerked his head in that direction.
‘Stranger things have happened.’
‘Like séances and ghosts? You think maybe she magically transformed herself from a beautiful cheerleader into that?’
Both men looked at the mousy woman dressed in a drab sweater and slacks.
‘I have seen flowers come in stony places, And kind things done by men with ugly faces,’ Gamache said, watching Jeanne Chauvet.
Just then Olivier appeared with their dinner. Beauvoir was doubly pleased. Not only did he get his food, but it stopped the chief from reciting more poetry. Beauvoir was growing tired of pretending to understand stuff that totally went over his head. Gamache’s coq au vin filled the table with a rich, earthy aroma and an unexpected hint of maple. Delicate young beans and glazed baby carrots sat in their own white serving dish. A massive charbroiled steak smothered in panfried onions was placed in front of Beauvoir. A mound of frites sat in his serving dish.
Beauvoir could have died happily right there and then, but he’d have missed the crème br?lée for dessert.
‘Who do you think did it?’ Beauvoir asked, chomping on frites.
‘For a woman so loved we seem to have no end of suspects,’ said Gamache. ‘She was murdered by someone who had access to ephedra and who knew about the séance. But the murderer probably knew one other thing.’
‘What?’
‘That Madeleine Favreau had a heart condition.’
Gamache told Beauvoir about the coroner’s report.
‘But no one we’ve talked to has mentioned it,’ said Beauvoir, sipping his beer. ‘Is it possible the murderer didn’t know? He thought giving her ephedra and taking her to the old Hadley house would be enough.’
Gamache wiped up gravy with soft, warm bread. ‘It’s possible.’
‘But if Madeleine had a heart condition, why keep it secret?’
And what other secrets might Madeleine have had, and tried to take with her screaming into the grave?
‘Maybe the murderer just got lucky,’ said Beauvoir. But both men knew although this was a murder that had relied on many things, luck wasn’t one of them.