Bury Your Dead (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #6)

Bury Your Dead (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #6) Page 64

“I don’t know. What makes you think it wasn’t Olivier?”

Beauvoir hesitated. Should he cross the Rubicon? But he knew he already had.

“This must go no further. Olivier knows we’re looking into it, but I’ve told him to keep quiet. And you too.”

“Don’t worry, but why’re you telling me this?”

Why indeed? Because she was the best of a bad lot.

“I need your help. You obviously know everyone way better than I do. The Chief’s worried. Gabri keeps asking him why Olivier would move the body. It makes sense if he found the Hermit already dead but if you’ve just killed someone in a remote place you’re almost certainly not going to advertise. The Chief thinks we might have gotten it wrong. What do you think?”

She was obviously taken aback by the question. She thought about it before slowly answering. “I think Gabri will never believe Olivier did it, even if he’d witnessed it himself, but I also think that’s a good question. Where do we begin?”

We, thought Beauvoir, there is no “we.” There’s “me” and “you.” In that order. But he needed her so he swallowed the retort, pasted a smile on his face and answered.

“Well, Olivier now says the Hermit wasn’t Czech.”

Clara rolled her eyes and ran her fingers through her hair which now stood out on both sides like Bozo. Beauvoir grimaced, but Clara neither noticed nor cared. Her mind was on other things. “Honestly, that man. Any other lies he’s admitting to?”

“Not so far. He thought the Hermit was Québécois or perhaps English but completely fluent in French. All his books were English and the ones he asked Olivier to find for him were also English. But he spoke perfect French.”

“How can I help?”

He thought for a moment then made a decision. “I’ve brought the case file. I’d like you to read it.”

She nodded.

“And since you know everyone here I’d like you to sometimes ask questions.”

Clara hesitated. She didn’t like the idea of being a spy but if he was right then an innocent man was in prison and a murderer was among them. Almost certainly in the room with them at that moment.

Myrna and Peter arrived and Beauvoir joined them for a bistro dinner, ordering the filet mignon with cognac blue cheese sauce. They chatted about various events in the village, the ski conditions at Mont Saint-Rémy, the Canadiens game the night before.

Ruth came by for dessert, eating most of Peter’s cheesecake, then she limped off alone into the night.

“She misses Rosa terribly,” said Myrna.

“What happened to her duck?” asked Beauvoir.

“Flew off in the fall,” said Myrna.

The duck was smarter than it looked, thought Beauvoir.

“I dread the spring,” said Clara. “Ruth’ll be expecting her back. Suppose she doesn’t come.”

“It doesn’t mean Rosa’s dead,” said Peter, though they all knew that wasn’t true. Rosa the duck was raised from birth, literally hatched, by Ruth. And against all odds, Rosa had survived and thrived and had grown up, to follow Ruth everywhere she went.

The duck and the fuck, as Gabri called them.

And then last fall Rosa did what ducks do, what was in her nature to do. As much as she loved Ruth, she had to go. And one afternoon, as other ducks quacked and flew in formation overhead, heading south, Rosa rose up.

And left.

After dinner Beauvoir thanked them and got up. Clara walked him to the door.

“I’ll do it,” she whispered.

Beauvoir handed her the dossier and headed into the cold dark night. Walking slowly back to the B and B toward his warm bed, he stopped partway across the village green and looked at the three tall pine trees still wearing their multi-color Christmas lights. The colors bounced off the drifts of fresh snow. Looking up he saw the stars and smelled the fresh, crisp air. Behind him he heard people calling good night to each other and heard their scrunching steps in the snow.

Jean-Guy Beauvoir changed direction and arriving at the old clapboard home he knocked. The door was opened a crack.

“Can I come in?” he asked.

Ruth stepped back and opened her door.

Armand Gamache sat at Renaud’s messy desk, bent over the diaries. For the past couple of hours he’d read them, making notes now and then. Like Champlain’s diaries, Augustin Renaud’s spoke of events but not feelings. They were really more of an agenda, but they were informative.

Sadly, while Renaud had made a note of the time of the Literary and Historical Society board meeting there was no indication why he was interested. And there was no mention of meeting anyone later in the day or that evening.