A Fatal Grace (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #2)

A Fatal Grace (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #2) Page 17

‘Olivier’s getting the food from the bistro,’ said Gabri. ‘We made a poached salmon.’

‘Will you marry me?’ asked Myrna.

‘I bet you ask all the girls,’ said Gabri.

‘You’re the first,’ admitted Myrna and laughed. But her laughter was cut short.

‘You’re a stupid, stupid girl,’ a voice hissed from the other side of the church. Everyone froze, surprised to stillness by the words that cut through the crisp night air. ‘Everyone was staring at you. You humiliated me.’

It was CC’s voice. There was a side door to the church and a path that was a short cut to de Moulin and the old Hadley house. CC must be there, they realized, standing in the shadow of the church.

‘They were laughing at you, you know. Deep and crisp and even,’ CC sang in a mocking voice, off key and childish. ‘And your clothes. Are you sick? I think you’re mentally unstable.’

‘Now CC,’ came a man’s voice so meek and weak it barely penetrated the flurries.

‘She’s your daughter. Look at her. Fat and ugly and lazy. Like you. Are you crazy, Crie? Is that it? Is it? Is it?’

The crowd was frozen in place as though hiding from a monster, silently pleading, please, please, someone stop her. Someone else.

‘And you’ve opened your Christmas gift, you selfish child.’

‘But you told me I—’ came the tiny response.

‘Me, me, me. That’s all I hear from you. And have you even thanked me?’

‘Thank you for the chocolates, Mommy.’ The voice and the girl were so diminished as to be almost non-existent.

‘Too late. It doesn’t count if I have to beg.’ The end of the sentence was barely audible as CC clicked down the path as though walking on claws.

The congregation stood speechless. Beside Clara Gabri started humming, low and slow, then, barely audible, came the words to the old carol: ‘Sorr’wing, sighing, bleeding, dying. Sealed in the stone-cold tomb.’

They’d evaded the monster. Instead, it had devoured a frightened child.

SEVEN

‘Joyeux Noël, tout le monde,’ Em beamed, opening the door to greet her guests a few minutes later. Her year-old shepherd Henri raced out the door and leaped on everyone before being bribed back with a piece of Christmas cake. The chaos and happy turmoil helped banish the unease after CC’s outburst. It seemed the entire village arrived at once, bounding up the steps of Em’s wide veranda, shaking snow from their hats and coats.

Émilie’s home was a sprawling old clapboard cottage across the green from the Morrow place. Olivier paused just outside the circle of light from her porch, balancing his poached salmon on its platter.

Approaching Em’s cottage, especially at night, always enchanted him. It was like walking into those fairy tales he’d read by flashlight under his bedcovers, full of rose-covered cottages and small stone bridges, glowing hearths and content couples hand in hand. His relieved father had thought he was reading Playboy but instead he was doing something infinitely more pleasurable and dangerous. He was dreaming of the day he’d create this fairy-tale world for himself, and he’d succeeded, at least in part. He had himself become a fairy. And as he looked at Em’s cottage, its buttery light beaconing, he knew he’d walked right into the book he’d used to comfort himself when the world seemed cold and hard and unfair. Now he smiled and walked toward the house, carrying his Christmas Eve offering. He walked carefully so as not to slip on the ice that might be waiting under the thin covering of snow. A layer of pure white was both beautiful and dangerous. You never really knew what lurked beneath. A Quebec winter could both enchant and kill.

As people arrived food was taken to the familiar kitchen and too many casseroles and pies were stuffed into the oven. Bowls overflowing with candied ginger and chocolate-covered cherries and sugar-encrusted fruit sat on the sideboard beside puddings and cakes and cookies. Little Rose Lévesque stared up at the bûche de Noël, the traditional Christmas log, made of rich cake and coated with the thickest of icing, her tiny, chubby fingers curling over the tablecloth embroidered with Santa Claus and reindeer and Christmas trees. In the living room Ruth and Peter made drinks, Ruth pouring her Scotch into what Peter knew to be a vase.

The lights on the tree glowed and the Vachon children sat beside it reading the tags on the mountain of brightly wrapped presents, looking for theirs. The fire was lit, as were a few of the guests. In the dining room the gate-legged table was open full and groaning with casseroles and tortières, homemade molasses-baked beans and maple-cured ham. A turkey sat at the head of the table like a Victorian gentleman. The center of the table was saved every year for one of Myrna’s rich and vibrant flower arrangements. This year splays of Scotch pine surrounded a magnificent red amaryllis. Nestled into the pine forest was a music box softly playing the Huron Christmas Carol and resting on a bed of mandarin oranges, cranberries and chocolates.