A Trick of the Light

“Give them time,” said Gamache quietly. He stood across the counter from Olivier, his shoulders square, his back straight. But he too grasped the wooden counter. His knuckles white. “They love you. It would be a shame not to see that.”

“Don’t lecture me about shame, Chief Inspector,” snarled Olivier.

Gamache stared at Olivier, then nodded. “I am sorry. I just wanted you to know that.”

“So that I could forgive you? Let you off the hook? Well, maybe this is your prison, Chief Inspector. Your punishment.”

Gamache considered. “Perhaps.”

“Is that it?” Olivier asked. “Are you finished?”

Gamache took a deep breath and exhaled. “Not quite. I have another question, about Clara’s party.”

Olivier picked up his knife, but his hand was still shaking too hard to use it.

“When did you and Gabri hire the caterers?”

“As soon as we decided to throw the party, three months ago I guess.”

“Was the party your idea?”

“It was Peter’s.”

“Who made up the guest list?”

“We all did.”

“Including Clara?” Gamache asked.

Olivier gave a curt nod.

“So a lot of people would’ve known about it weeks in advance,” said the Chief.

Olivier nodded again, no longer looking at Gamache.

“Merci, Olivier,” he said, and lingered a moment, looking at the blond head, bowed over the chopping block. “Do you think, maybe, we’ve ended up in the same cell?” asked Gamache.

When Olivier didn’t respond Gamache walked toward the door then hesitated. “But I wonder who the guards are. And who has the key.”

Gamache watched him for a moment, then left.

*   *   *

All morning and into the afternoon Armand Gamache and his team gathered information.

At one o’clock the phone rang. It was Clara Morrow.

“Are you and your people free for dinner?” she asked. “It’s so miserable we thought we’d poach a salmon and see who can come over.”

“Isn’t poaching illegal?” asked Gamache, confused as to why she’d be telling him this.

Clara laughed. “Not poached like that. Poached as in cooked.”

“Frankly, either way would’ve been fine,” admitted Gamache.

“Great. It’ll be very relaxed. En famille.”

Gamache smiled at the French phrase. It was one Reine-Marie often used. It meant “come as you are,” but it meant more than that. She didn’t use it for every relaxed occasion and with every guest. It was reserved for special guests, who were considered family. It was a particular position, a compliment. An intimacy offered.

“I accept,” he said. “And I’m sure the other two will be delighted as well. Merci, Clara.”

*   *   *

Armand Gamache called Reine-Marie then showered and looked longingly at his bed.

The room, like all the others in Gabri and Olivier’s B and B, was surprisingly simple. But not Spartan. It was elegant and luxurious, in its way. With crisp white bed linen, and a duvet filled with goose down. Hand-stitched Oriental carpets were thrown onto wide plank pine floors, which were original from when the B and B had been a coaching inn. Gamache wondered how many fellow travelers had rested in that very room. A pause in their difficult and dangerous journey. He wondered, briefly, where they’d come from and where they were going.

And if they made it.

The B and B was far less magnificent than the inn and spa on the hill. And he supposed he could have stayed there. But as he got older he yearned for less and less. Family, friends. Books. Walks with Reine-Marie and Henri, their dog.

And a full night’s sleep in a simple bedroom.

Now, as he sat on the edge of the bed and put his socks on, he longed to just flop back, to feel his body hit the soft duvet, and sink in. To close his heavy lids, and let go.

Sleep.

But there was still a distance to go in his journey.

*   *   *

The Sûreté officers walked through mist and drizzle across the village green and arrived at Clara and Peter’s home.

“Come on in,” said Peter with a smile. “No keep your shoes on. Ruth’s here and I think she walked through every mud puddle on her way over.”

They looked at the floor and sure enough, there were muddy shoe prints.

Beauvoir was shaking his head. “I expected to see a cloven hoof.”

“Perhaps that’s why she keeps her shoes on,” said Peter. The Sûreté officers rubbed their shoes as clean as they could on the welcome mat.

The home smelled of salmon and fresh bread, with slight hints of lemon and dill.

“Dinner won’t be long,” said their host as he led them through the kitchen and into the living room.

Within minutes Beauvoir and Lacoste had glasses of wine. Gamache, already tired, asked for water. Lacoste wandered over to the two artists, Normand and Paulette. Beauvoir chatted with Myrna and Gabri. Mostly, Gamache suspected, because they were as far from Ruth as possible.

Gamache’s eyes swept the room. It was habit now. Noticing where everyone was, and what they were doing.

Olivier was by the bookcases, his back to the room. Apparently fascinated by the books, but Gamache suspected he’d seen those shelves many times.

François Marois and Denis Fortin were standing together, though not talking. Gamache wondered where the other one was. André Castonguay.