Across the room he could hear Reine-Marie inhale.
‘You’re right. Always right. You get to win because you know things I don’t, you’ve seen things I haven’t. And you seem to know I’m so wilful I’d give our child a name that will ruin him.’
‘Life can be hard enough without giving a child a name that will lead to abuse, to bullying.’
‘Yes, it could lead to that, but it could also lead to pride, to self-worth—’
‘He’ll find his own self-worth no matter what name you give him. Don’t handicap him.’
‘You’d consider Honore a birth defect?’ Daniel’s voice was dangerously distant.
‘I didn’t say that.’ Gamache tried to pull back but knew it had gone too far. ‘Look, we should talk about this in person. I’m sorry if I seemed to say you’d deliberately hurt your child. I know you wouldn’t. You’re a wonderful parent—’
‘Glad you think so.’
‘Any child would be fortunate to be born to you. But you asked how I feel, and it’s possible I’m wrong but I think it would be unfair to name your son Honore.’
‘Thanks for calling,’ said Daniel and hung up.
Gamache stood with the phone to his ear, stunned. Had it really gone so far wrong?
‘Was it bad?’ Reine-Marie asked.
‘Bad enough.’ Gamache hung up. ‘But we’ll work it out.’
He wasn’t worried, really. He and Daniel argued sometimes, as he did with his daughter Annie. Disagreements were natural, he told himself. But this was different. He’d hurt his son in a place he himself knew. He’d questioned his ability as a father.
‘Oh good, you’re back.’
Beauvoir swung into the room, narrowly avoiding a technician carrying a huge box. ‘Agent Lacoste’s just finishing her search of the guest rooms. They’ve been all over the buildings. Nothing. And I’ve interviewed Thomas, Mariana and just now Sandra. They’re not exactly the Waltons.’
Equipment was arriving and the old log library was being transformed into a modern incident room. Desks were cleared, computers hooked up, blackboards and foolscap put up on easels, ready for Inspector Beauvoir’s facts, for witness lists and movement charts. For evidence lists and clues.
‘We have a problem, Chief.’ This came from a technician kneeling beside a computer.
‘I’ll be right with you. Did you get through to the B&B?’
‘All arranged,’ said Reine-Marie.
‘Inspector, will you join me? We’ll drive over to Three Pines with Madame Gamache then head on to the Sherbrooke detachment. We’re meeting the crane operator there in an hour.’
‘With pleasure,’ said Beauvoir, adjusting an easel and fishing in a box for magic markers.
‘What’s the problem?’ Gamache stood over the technician.
‘This place. Hasn’t been rewired in years, sir. I don’t think we can plug these in.’ She held up the plug for a computer.
‘I’ll find the maitre d’,’ said Beauvoir, heading to the dining room.
Fucking country. Middle of nowhere. He’d been doing quite well until now. Trying to ignore the mosquitoes and blackflies and no-see-‘ems. At least in Montreal you see what’s coming at you. Cars. Trucks. Kids jonesing on crack. Big things. Out here everything’s hidden, everything’s hiding. Tiny bloodsucking bugs, spiders and snakes and animals in the forests, rotten wiring behind walls made from tree trunks for God’s sake. It was like trying to conduct a modern murder investigation in Fred Flintstone’s cave.
‘Bonjour?‘ he called. No one.
‘Anyone there?’ He poked his head into the dining room. Empty.
‘Hello?’ What, was it siesta time? Maybe they were out shooting dinner. He swung open a door and stepped into the kitchen.
‘Oh, hello. Can I help you?’
A voice, deep and sing-song, came from a walk-in cold room. Then a woman walked out, carrying a roast. She wore a white apron round her neck and tied at her thick waist. It was simple, no-nonsense. Nothing cute written on it. She marched towards him, her eyes keen and enquiring. She was six feet if she was an inch, Beauvoir guessed. Far from young and far from slim. Her hair was curly, black and grey, short and unbecoming. Her hands were huge, indelicate.
‘What can I do for you?’ The voice sounded as though she’d swallowed it.
Beauvoir stared.
‘Is something wrong?’ the throaty voice asked, as the roast was slapped down on the maple cutting block.
Beauvoir was all tingles. He tried to stop staring, but couldn’t. Instead of feeling his heart racing, he actually felt it slow down. Calm down. Something happened and all the tension, all the excess energy, all the insistence, left.
He relaxed.
‘Do I know you?’ she asked.
‘I’m sorry.’ He stepped forward. ‘I’m Inspector Beauvoir. Jean Guy Beauvoir, with the Surete.’
‘Of course. I should have known.’
‘Why? Do you know me?’ he asked, hopeful.
‘No, I know Madame Martin was killed.’
He was disappointed. He wanted her to know him. To explain this familiarity he suddenly felt. It was disquieting.
Beauvoir looked at the woman who had done this to him. She must have been almost sixty, was built like an oak, moved like a trucker, spoke as if she’d swallowed a tuba.
‘Who are you?’ he managed to get out.
‘I’m the chef here. Veronique Langlois.’
Veronique Langlois. It was a lovely name but it meant nothing. He felt sure he knew her.
‘What can I do to help?’ she asked.
What could she do to help? Think, man, think.
‘The maitre d’. I’m looking for him.’
‘He’s probably through there.’ She pointed to swinging double doors from the kitchen. Beauvoir thanked her and walked out in a daze.
Through the French doors he saw the maitre d’ talking to one of the waiters on the deserted terrasse outside.
‘You think this job is so difficult? Try planting trees or working in a mine, or cutting lawns at a cemetery all summer.’
‘Look, I don’t care what you did at my age. It doesn’t interest me. All I know is Julia Martin’s dead and someone here did it.’
‘Do you know anything about her death, Elliot?’
There was silence.
‘Don’t be foolish, boy. If you know something—’
‘You think I’d tell you? She was a decent person and someone killed her. That’s all I know.’
‘You’re lying. You spent time with her, didn’t you?’
‘Time? What? All the spare time you give us? I work twelve hours a day, when would I have time to spend with anyone?’
‘Are you going to go through life complaining?’
‘Depends. Are you going to go through life bending over?’
Elliot turned and stomped away. Beauvoir held back, curious to see what the maitre d’ would do when he thought no one was watching.
Pierre Patenaude stared after Elliot, grateful no one had heard their conversation. It’d been a mistake to tell Elliot about his own summer jobs, he could see that. But it was too late now. Then he remembered his father’s words, spoken in the boardroom, surrounded by ancient, serious men.
‘Everyone gets a second chance. But not a third.’
He’d fired a man that day. Pierre had seen it. It was horrible.
This was Elliot’s third chance. He’d have to fire Elliot. Once the investigation was over and the police gone. It was no use doing it before that, since Elliot had to hang around anyway. The maitre d’ hadn’t had to fire many people, but every time he did he thought of that day in the boardroom, and his father. And he thought of what his father did later.
Years after the firing his father had quietly invested hundreds of thousands of his own dollars in helping the man he’d fired start his own company.
He’d given him a third chance after all. But then he suspected his father was kinder than he was.
Turning round, Pierre was startled to see a man watching through the doors. Then he waved as the Inspector joined him on the stone terrasse.
‘I’ve arranged accommodations for you and the other officer. We’ve put you in the main building, not far from the Chief Inspector.’
Beauvoir swatted a mosquito. More swarmed.
‘Merci, Patron. Quite a kid.’ Beauvoir gestured towards Elliot’s retreating back.
‘You heard that? I’m sorry. He’s just upset.’
Beauvoir had thought the maitre d’ heroic for not punching the kid but now he wondered if Pierre Patenaude wasn’t just weak, letting others, even kids, walk all over him. Beauvoir didn’t like weakness. Murderers were weak.
They left the maitre d’ and the technicians to sort out the electrical problems while Gamache, Reine-Marie and Beauvoir headed to Three Pines. Beauvoir sat in the back seat. Behind Mom and Dad. He quite liked the thought. Ever since his encounter with the chef he’d felt strangely relaxed.