TWENTY-SEVEN
“We’re getting more results from the lab,” said Lacoste.
Upon his return the Chief had gathered his team at the conference table and now Agent Lacoste was handing around the printouts. “The web was made of nylon fishing line. Readily available. No prints, of course, and no trace of DNA. Whoever made it probably used surgical gloves. All they found was a little dust and a cobweb.” She smiled.
“Dust?” asked Gamache. “Do they have any idea how long it was up?”
“No more than a few days, they guess. Either that or the Hermit dusted it daily, which seems unlikely.”
Gamache nodded.
“So who put it there?” asked Beauvoir. “The victim? The murderer?”
“There’s something else,” said Lacoste. “The lab’s been looking at the wooden Woo. They say it was carved years ago.”
“Was it made by the Hermit?” Gamache asked.
“They’re working on it.”
“Any progress on what woo might mean?”
“There’s a film director named John Woo. He’s from China. Did Mission Impossible II,” said Morin seriously, as though giving them vital information.
“Woo can stand for World of Outlaws. It’s a car-racing organization.” Lacoste looked at the Chief, who stared back blankly. She looked down hurriedly at her notes for something more helpful to say. “Or there’s a video game called Woo.”
“Oh, no. I can’t believe I forgot that,” said Morin, turning to Gamache. “Woo isn’t the name of the game, it’s the name of a character in a game. The game is called King of the Monsters.”
“King of the Monsters?” Gamache thought it unlikely the Hermit or his tormentor had a video game in mind. “Anything else?”
“Well, there’s the woo cocktail,” suggested Lacoste. “Made from peach schnapps and vodka.”
“Then there’s woo-woo,” said Beauvoir. “It’s English slang.”
“Vraiment?” said Gamache. “What does it mean?”
“It means crazy.” Beauvoir smiled.
“And there’s wooing a person. Seducing them,” said Lacoste, then shook her head. They weren’t any closer.
Gamache dismissed the meeting, then walking back to his computer he typed in a word.
Charlotte.
Gabri chopped the tomatoes and peppers and onions. He chopped and he chopped and he chopped. He’d already chopped the golden plums and strawberries, the beets and pickles. He’d sharpened his knife and chopped some more.
All afternoon and into the evening.
“Can we talk now?” asked Olivier, standing in the doorway to the kitchen. It smelled so comforting, but felt so foreign.
Gabri, his back to the door, didn’t pause. He reached for a cauliflower and chopped that.
“Mustard pickles,” said Olivier, venturing into the kitchen. “My favorite.”
Clunk, clunk, clunk, and the cauliflower was tossed into the boiling pot to blanch.
“I’m sorry,” said Olivier.
At the sink Gabri scrubbed lemons, then cutting them into quarters he shoved them into a jar and sprinkled coarse salt on top. Finally he squeezed the leftover lemons and poured the juice over the salt.
“Can I help?” asked Olivier, reaching for the top of a jar. But Gabri put his body between Olivier and the jars and silently sealed them.
Every surface of the kitchen was packed with colorful jars filled with jams and jellies, pickles and chutneys. And it looked as though Gabri would keep this up forever. Silently preserving everything he could.