A Fatal Grace (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #2)

A Fatal Grace (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #2) Page 34

‘None.’

Was it his imagination or had her hard eyes wavered? He kept silent for a moment but nothing else came.

‘What happened then?’

‘Billy Williams said he had his truck ready to go and we should put her in. Someone had already called the hospital but it would take twenty minutes for the ambulance to arrive and twenty minutes to get back. This was faster.’

She described the horrific journey to Cowansville and it pretty much tallied with what he’d heard earlier from Peter Morrow.

‘What time is it?’ she demanded.

‘Five to five.’

‘Time to go.’ She got up and led the way down the hall, without looking at them, as though her salvation lay beyond her front door. Agent Lemieux heard clinking and rattling in the closets as their heavy feet passed by. Skeletons, he thought. Or bottles. Or both.

He didn’t like Ruth Zardo and he wondered why the chief seemed to.

‘Out.’ Ruth held open the door and they’d barely gotten their boots on before she was shoving them out with an arm far stronger than he’d have thought.

Gamache reached into his parka pocket and produced not the tuque or mitts Lemieux expected to see, but a book. The chief walked over to the single porch light that split the darkness and placed the book under it for Ruth to see.

‘I found this in Montreal.’

‘You are brilliant. Let me guess. You found it in a bookstore?’

‘Actually, not.’ He decided not to tell her yet.

‘And I suppose you’ve chosen this moment to ask me to sign it?’

‘You’ve already done that. Could you come and look, please?’

Agent Lemieux braced for the acerbic response but none came. She limped over and Gamache opened the slim volume.

‘You stink, love Ruth,’ Ruth read out loud.

‘Who did you give this to?’

‘You expect me to remember what I say in every book I sign?’

‘You stink, love Ruth,’ Gamache repeated. ‘It’s an unusual inscription, even for you. Please think, Madame Zardo.’

‘I’ve no idea, and I’m late.’

She stepped off her porch and walked across the village green toward the lights of the village shops. But she stopped halfway, and sat down.

In the dark. In the cold. On a frozen bench in the middle of the green.

Lemieux was both impressed and amazed by the woman’s gall. She’d kicked them out claiming an appointment then brazenly sat on a bench to do absolutely nothing. It was clearly an insult. Lemieux turned to ask Gamache about it but the chief seemed lost in thought himself. Ruth Zardo was staring at the magnificent lighted trees and the one shining star, and Armand Gamache was staring at her.

TWELVE

Lemieux had decided to jog ahead to their car, parked outside the Morrow home, and turn it on. They weren’t heading back yet, but night had fallen and the car would take a few minutes to warm up. If he started it now, by the time they got back in it would be toasty warm and the frosted windows would be clear, both advantages on a chilling December night.

‘I don’t get it, sir,’ he said as he returned to Gamache.

‘There’s a lot not to get,’ said Gamache with a smile. ‘What in particular is troubling you?’

‘This is my first murder case, as you know.’

‘I do.’

‘But it seems to me if you wanted to kill someone there are a whole lot of better ways.’

‘Like?’

‘Well, franchement, just about anything other than electrocuting a woman in the middle of a crowd on a frozen lake. It’s nuts.’

And that’s what worried Gamache. It was nuts.

‘I mean, why not shoot her, or strangle her? It’s Quebec in the middle of winter, why not take her for a drive and shove her out the car? We’d be using her as an ice sculpture in the Cowansville Fête des Neiges. It makes no sense.’

‘And that’s lesson number one.’ They were walking toward Olivier’s Bistro. Lemieux struggled to stay beside the large man as he strode with measured but long strides toward the brightly lit restaurant. ‘It makes sense.’

Gamache suddenly stopped and Lemieux had to twist out of the way to avoid ramming into him. The chief looked at the young agent seriously.

‘You need to know this. Everything makes sense. Everything. We just don’t know how yet. You have to see through the murderer’s eyes. That’s the trick, Agent Lemieux, and that’s why not everyone’s cut out for homicide. You need to know that it seemed like a good idea, a reasonable action, to the person who did it. Believe me, not a single murderer ever thought, “Wow, this is stupid, but I’m going to do it anyway.” No, Agent Lemieux, our job is to find the sense.’