This seemed to surprise her. ‘Do I need a reason?’
‘It would help. If there’s a pressing need then I’ll ask the Inspector to get to you first. Is there one?’
Sandra, deflated and compressed by far too many pressing needs all her life, was silent.
‘We don’t want to speak to the Inspector,’ said Thomas. ‘We want to speak to you.’
‘Flattering as that is, I’m afraid it’ll be Inspector Beauvoir who’ll interview you. Unless you’d prefer Agent Lacoste.’
‘Then why does he get you?’ Thomas jerked his head towards Peter.
‘This isn’t a competition.’
Thomas Morrow stared at Gamache with a look designed to wither. A look practised and perfected on secretaries who’d traded self-respect for a salary and trainees too young to know a bully from a boss.
As he headed out of the screen door Gamache looked back at the Morrows, staring after him like a tableau vivant. Out of that tableau, Gamache knew, a murderer would one day walk. And Gamache would be waiting for him.
Agent Isabelle Lacoste organized the officers from the local Surete detachment and handed out assignments. One team would search the staff rooms and outbuildings, another would search the Manoir and her team would handle the guest rooms.
She’d warned them to be careful. They were looking for evidence, but they were also looking for a murderer. It was possible he was hiding on the grounds. Unlikely, but possible. Agent Lacoste was a cautious woman, by nature and by training. And now she conducted the search, always with the expectation that the monster was indeed under the bed or waiting in the wardrobe.
‘Mariana Morrow?’
Inspector Beauvoir stepped into the Great Room, feeling a bit like a dental assistant. Time for your filling. And they looked at him with those same dental-patient eyes. Fear for those chosen, annoyance for those left to wait.
‘What about us?’ asked Sandra, standing up. ‘We were told we could go first.’
‘Oui?‘ said Beauvoir. No one had told him, and he thought he knew why. ‘Well, I think I’ll take Mademoiselle Morrow so she can get back to her …’ Beauvoir looked over at the attractive blond child on the window seat, reading. ‘Her child.’
He led Mariana into the library and sat her on a hard chair he’d brought in. Hardly torture, but he didn’t like his suspects too comfortable. Besides, he wanted the big leather chair for himself.
‘Mademoiselle Morrow—’ he began.
‘Oh, look, you have sandwiches. We’ve run out.’ She got up and took a large tomato and thick-sliced maple ham sandwich without asking.
‘I’m sorry about your sister,’ he said, timing the barb so that her fat, greedy mouth was too full to answer. Clearly, you’re not, he’d hoped to imply. But watching her shove the food into her mouth he thought his insult too subtle. He didn’t like this woman. Of all the Morrows, even that impatient one, this one he liked least. Sandra he understood. He hated to wait too. He didn’t like seeing others served first, especially when he’d arrived before them. He didn’t like it when people butted into grocery lines, or cut in on the highway.
He expected people to play fair. Rules meant order. Without them they’d be killing each other. It began with butting in, with parking in disabled spaces, with smoking in elevators. And it ended in murder.
True, he had to admit, it was a bit of a stretch but it was descended from the same line. Trace it back far enough and a murderer probably always broke the rules, thinking himself better than the rest. He didn’t like rule-breakers. And he especially didn’t like them when they came wrapped in purple and green and scarlet shawls with children named Bean.
‘I didn’t know her well, you know,’ said Mariana, swallowing and taking a spruce beer from the tray. ‘Mind?’
But she’d opened it before he could say anything.
‘Thanks. Yech.’ She almost spat it out. ‘Oh my God. Am I the first person to ever drink this stuff? Has anyone at the company tried it? It tastes like a tree.’
She opened and shut her mouth, like a cat trying to get something off its tongue.
‘That’s just disgusting. Like a sip?’ She tilted it towards him. He narrowed his eyes and was surprised to see a grin on her unlovely face.
Poor woman, he thought. So ugly in a family so attractive. While he was no fan of the Morrows he could at least see that they were handsome. Even the dead woman, crushed, had retained some beauty. This one, whole, had none.
‘No?’ She took another sip and winced again, but didn’t put it down.
‘How well did you know her?’
‘She was ten years older than me and had left home before I was twelve. We didn’t have much in common. She was into boys, I was into cartoons.’
‘You don’t seem sorry she’s dead. You don’t even seem sad.’
‘I’ve been raised in a family of hypocrites, Inspector. I promised myself I wouldn’t be like them. I wouldn’t hide my feelings.’
‘Quite easy when there’re none to hide.’
That silenced her. He’d won the point, but was losing the interview. It was never a good sign when the investigator was doing all the talking.
‘Why show all your feelings?’
Her smiling face grew serious. It didn’t make her more attractive. Now she looked glum and ugly. ‘I grew up in Disney World. It looked good from the outside. It was meant to. But inside everything was mechanical. You never knew what was real. Too much courtesy, too many smiles. I grew frightened of smiles. Never a cross word, but never a supportive one either. You never knew how people really felt. We kept things to ourselves. Still do. Except me. I’m honest about most things.’
Interesting how important a single word could become.
‘What do you mean, most?’
‘Well, it’d be foolish to tell my family everything.’
She seemed suddenly coy, almost flirtatious. It was revolting.
‘What haven’t you told them?’
‘Little things. Like what I do for a living.’
‘What do you do?’
‘I’m an architect. I design homes.’
Beauvoir thought he knew the kinds of homes she designed. Ones that impressed, that were all gaudy and shiny and big. Loud homes, that no one could actually live in.
‘What else don’t you tell them?’
She paused and looked around then leaned forward.
‘Bean.’
‘Your child?’
She nodded.
‘What about Bean?’ Beauvoir’s pen hovered over his notebook.
‘I haven’t told them.’
‘Who the father is?’ He’d broken the cardinal rule of interrogation. He’d answered his own question. She shook her head and smiled.
‘Of course I haven’t told them that. There’s no answer to that,’ she said cryptically. ‘I haven’t told them what Bean is.’
Beauvoir felt himself grow cold.
‘What is Bean?’
‘Exactly. Even you don’t know. But sadly Bean’s nearing puberty and soon it’ll be obvious.’
It took a moment for Beauvoir to appreciate what she meant. He dropped his pen and it rolled off the table to the carpeted floor.
‘You mean you haven’t told your family if Bean’s a boy or girl?’
Mariana Morrow nodded and took a long pull on her spruce beer.
‘It actually doesn’t taste too bad. I guess you can get used to anything.’
Beauvoir doubted it. For fifteen years he’d been with the Chief Inspector, investigating murders, and he’d never got used to the insanity of the Anglos. It seemed bottomless, and purposeless. What kind of creature kept the sex of her child a secret?
‘It’s my little homage to my upbringing, Inspector. Bean is my child and my secret. I can’t tell you how good it feels in a family of know-it-alls to know something they don’t.’
Fucking Anglos, thought Beauvoir. If he tried that his mother’d thrash him with a rolling pin.
‘Can’t they just ask Bean themselves?’