Bury Your Dead

“Your notebook will do.”

He waited. Eventually she handed him her notebook and putting on his half-moon reading glasses he scanned the minutes, noting who was there for the meeting.

“I see Tom Hancock and Ken Haslam were there, but left early. Were they there when Augustin Renaud showed up?”

“Yes,” said Porter. “They left shortly after that. We were all there.”

Gamache continued to scan the minutes then over his glasses he looked at Elizabeth.

“There’s no mention of Monsieur Renaud’s visit.”

Elizabeth MacWhirter stared back. It seemed clear that when she’d asked for his help she hadn’t expected him to ask them quite so many questions, and uncomfortable ones at that.

“I decided not to mention it. He didn’t speak to us, after all. Nothing happened.”

“A great deal happened, madame,” said Gamache. But he’d also noticed that she’d said “I,” not “we.” Was she letting them off the hook? Taking the burden of responsibility herself? Or was it really a unilateral decision?

They might be in a lifeboat, but Gamache now had a clear idea who was captain.

SIX

It was early afternoon and Jean-Guy Beauvoir realized he’d already made a mistake. Not a big one, more an annoyance.

He had to return to Montreal and interview Olivier Brulé. He should have done that first, before coming down to Three Pines. Instead, he’d spent the last hour quietly in the bistro. Everyone had left, but not before making sure he was in the best chair, the big, worn, leather armchair beside the fireplace. He dipped an orange biscotti into his café au lait and looking through the frosty window he could see the snow, falling gently but steadily. Billy Williams had been by once with the plow, but the snow had already filled in behind him.

Beauvoir dropped his gaze to the dossier in his hand and continued reading, snug and warm inside. Half an hour later he glanced at the mariner’s clock on the mantelpiece. One twenty.

Time to go.

But not to Montreal. Not in this weather.

Returning to his room in the B and B, Beauvoir changed into his silk long underwear then layered his clothing strategically, putting on his snowsuit last. He rarely wore it, since he preferred being runway-ready and this suit made him look like the robot from Lost in Space. Indeed, in the winter, Québec looked like the staging area for an alien invasion.

Fortunately the chances of running into the editor of Vogue Hommes in the woods was pretty small.

He walked up the hill, hearing his thighs zinging together and barely able to put his arms flat to his sides. Now he felt a bit like a zombie, clump, clump, clumping up the hill to the inn and spa.

“Oui?”

Carole Gilbert answered the door and looked at the snow-covered zombie. But the older woman showed absolutely no fright, not even surprise. Gracious as ever she took two steps back and let the alien into the inn, run by her son and daughter-in-law.

“May I help you?”

Beauvoir unwrapped himself, now feeling like The Mummy. He was an entire B-grade film festival. Finally he removed his hat and Carole Gilbert smiled warmly.

“It’s Inspector Beauvoir, non?”

“Oui, madame, comment allez-vous?”

“I’m well, thank you. Have you come to stay? I didn’t see your name on the register.”

She looked behind her into the large, open entrance hall, with its black and white tile floor, gleaming wood desk and fresh flowers, even in the middle of winter. It was inviting and for a moment Beauvoir wished he had booked in. But then he remembered the prices, and remembered why he was there.

Not for massages and gourmet meals, but to find out whether Olivier had actually killed the Hermit.

Why did Olivier move the body?

And the very spot he was standing was where Olivier had dumped the Hermit. Olivier had admitted as much. He’d hauled the dead man through the woods that Labor Day weekend, in the middle of the night. Finding the door unlocked he simply dropped the sad bundle here. Right here.

Beauvoir looked down. He was melting, like the Wicked Witch of the West, his snow-covered boots puddling on the tile floor. But Carole Gilbert didn’t seem to care. She was more concerned for his comfort.

“No, I’m staying at the B and B,” he said.

“Of course.” He searched her face for any sign of professional jealousy, but saw none. And why would he? It seemed inconceivable the owners of this magnificent inn and spa would be jealous of any establishment, especially Gabri’s somewhat weary B and B.

“And what brings you back to us?” she asked, her voice light, conversational. “Is the Chief Inspector with you?”

“No, I’m on vacation. Leave, actually.”

“Of course, I’m sorry.” And she looked it, her face suddenly concerned. “How stupid of me. How are you?”

“I’m well. Better.”

“And Monsieur Gamache?”

“Better also.” He was, it must be admitted, a little tired of answering these kind questions.