A Fatal Grace (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #2)

A Fatal Grace (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #2) Page 71

She hung up and took her foot off the brake. Her car glided into the village and came to a stop in front of the B. & B.

Eleanor and Henry were going at it hammer and tongs. Their sons were fracturing, turning on each other and their parents. Each character was exploding, sending shards into each other. It was devastating and brilliant. By the end Gamache looked down, surprised to see his plate empty. He didn’t remember eating. He didn’t remember breathing.

But he did know one thing. Given a choice, Eleanor and Henry would be the last people on earth he’d want as parents. Gamache sat staring at the closing credits, wondering what he’d missed, because he’d surely missed something. There was a reason CC had the tape and a reason she’d taken the name de Poitiers, and presumably a reason she’d thrown out a perfectly good video. This tape was found in her garbage. Why?

‘Maybe she bought a DVD,’ suggested Clara when he’d asked them for their theories. ‘We’ve been slowly switching our collection over to DVD. All Peter’s favorite movies eventually go screwy because he watches the good parts over and over.’

‘Hello, everyone,’ Gabri’s cheerful voice called from the kitchen. ‘I heard about the movie night. Am I too late?’

‘The film just finished,’ said Peter. ‘Sorry, old son.’

‘Couldn’t get away earlier. Had to minister to the sick.’

‘How is Inspector Beauvoir?’ Gamache asked, walking into the kitchen.

‘Still asleep. He has the flu,’ Gabri explained to the rest. ‘Am I feverish? Hope I didn’t get it.’ He offered his forehead to Peter, who ignored him.

‘Well, even if you’ve picked it up we’re not at risk,’ Ruth commented. ‘The chances of it jumping from Gabri to a human are pretty small.’

‘Bitch.’

‘Slut.’

‘So who’s looking after him?’ Gamache asked, wondering if he should head for the door.

‘That Agent Nichol showed up and booked herself in. Even paid for it herself using little rolled up bills. Anyway, she said she’d look after him.’

Gamache hoped Beauvoir was unconscious.

Beauvoir was having a nightmare. Through his fever he dreamed he was in bed with Agent Nichol. He felt nauseous again.

‘Here.’ A woman’s voice, quite pleasant, came to him.

Somehow the wastepaper basket had levitated and was right under his mouth. He heaved into it, though there was nothing much left in his stomach to bring up.

Falling back into the damp sheets he had the oddest sensation that a cool cloth had been laid on his forehead and his face and mouth had been wiped clean.

Jean Guy Beauvoir fell back into a fitful sleep.

‘I brought dessert.’ Gabri pointed to a cardboard box on the counter. ‘Chocolate fudge cake.’

‘Do you know, I think I’m beginning to like you,’ said Ruth.

‘What a difference a gay makes.’ He smiled and started unwrapping it.

‘I’ll make coffee,’ said Myrna.

Gamache cleared the plates and ran warm water in the sink to do the washing up. As he scrubbed the dishes and handed them to Clara to dry, he looked out the frosted window at the lights of Three Pines and thought about the film. The Lion in Winter. He went over the characters, the plot, some of the devastating repartee between Eleanor and Henry. It was a film about power and love warped and twisted and squandered.

But why was it so important to CC? And was it important to the case?

‘Coffee’ll take a couple of minutes yet,’ said Clara, hanging the damp towel on the back of a chair. The room was already filled with the dark smells of fresh brewing coffee and rich chocolate.

‘Could you show me your studio?’ Gamache asked Clara, hoping to get far enough away from the cake to overcome the temptation to put his finger in it. ‘I realize I’ve never seen your art.’

The two drifted across the kitchen toward the door to Clara’s studio, wide open. Next to hers, Peter’s studio was closed.

‘In case the muse should try to escape,’ explained Clara, and Gamache nodded sagely. Now he walked to the center of Clara’s large, crowded studio and stood still.

The studio had tarpaulins spread everywhere and the comforting smell of oils and acrylics and canvas. An old, worn armchair stood in one corner, with stacks of art magazines creating a table on which stood a dirty coffee mug. He turned leisurely, stopping to stare at one wall that held three images.

He moved closer to them.

‘That’s Kaye Thompson,’ he said.