'Thursday? What's happening Thursday?'
'Clara hasn't asked you?'
'Are my feelings going to be hurt? Surete homicide officers are notoriously sensitive. What's happening on Thursday?'
'Thursday? Are you going too?' Gabri asked, standing over them wearing a little apron and channeling Julia Child.
'Not yet.'
'Oh well, never mind. I hear Hurricane Kyla's hit land in Florida. Saw it on Meteo Media.'
'I saw that, too,' said Myrna. 'When's it supposed to get here?'
'Oh, a few days. 'Course it'll be a tropical storm by then, or whatever they call it by the time it hits Quebec. Should be quite a storm.' He looked out the window as though he expected to see it looming over the nearby mountain. He looked worried. Storms were never good.
Gamache toyed with the price tag dangling from the coffee table.
'Olivier's put price tags everywhere,' confided Gabri, 'including our private toilet, thank you very much. Fortunately I have enough elegance and good taste to overcome this one flaw of Olivier's. Greed, I think it's called. Now, can I interest you in a glass of wine, or perhaps a chandelier?'
Myrna ordered a red wine while Gamache took a Scotch.
'Clara's organising Jane's party for Thursday, just the way Jane had planned,' said Myrna, once the drinks had arrived. A couple of licorice pipes also appeared. 'After the vernissage at Arts Williamsburg. Now, if Clara asks, you have to say you tortured me.'
'Trying to get me suspended again? The Surete torturing a black woman?'
'Don't they promote you for that?'
Gamache caught and held Myrna's eye. Neither smiled. They both knew the truth in that. He wondered whether Myrna knew his particular role in the Arnot case, and the price he'd paid. He thought not. The Surete was good at finding other people's secrets, and keeping its own.
'Wow,' said Clara, taking the big chair on the other side of the fireplace. 'This feels good. Nice to be out of the stink of the mineral spirits. I'm on my way home to make supper.'
'Isn't this a little out of your way?' asked Myrna.
'We artistic types never take a straight line, unless you're Peter. He starts at A and paints and paints and ends up at B. Without even a hesitation. Enough to drive you to drink.' She flagged down Gabri and ordered a beer and some nuts.
'How's the restoration?' asked Gamache.
'Fine, I think. I left Ben and Ruth there. Ruth has found Jane's liquor cabinet and is writing verse while staring at the walls. God knows what Ben's doing. Probably applying paint. I swear to God he seems to be going backwards. Still, it's great to have him there and actually the work he does do is fantastic, brilliant.'
'Peter isn't helping anymore?' asked Myrna.
'Oh yes, but we're taking turns now. Well, mostly he's taking turns. I spend most of the day there. It's kind of addictive. Peter loves the work, don't get me wrong, but he needs to do his own work.'
Gabri appeared with her beer. 'That'll be a hundred thousand dollars.'
'Well, you can kiss your tip goodbye.'
'If I could kiss my tip I wouldn't need Olivier.'
'We were talking about Thursday,' said Gamache. 'I hear there's a party.'
'Do you mind? I'd like to hold it just as Jane had planned.'
'Hope the Hurricane doesn't ruin it,' said Gabri, pleased to find melodrama.
Gamache wished he'd thought of it. Clara was doing it as a tribute to her friend, he knew, but it could have another very practical purpose. It could rattle the murderer.
'As long as I'm invited.'
Isabelle Lacoste looked up from her computer where she'd been writing her reports on the Fontaine/Malenfant search and her visit to Timmer's doctor. He'd brought up Timmer's file on his computer and finally, with extreme caution, admitted it: was a remote possibility someone had helped her into the next life.
'With morphine; that would be the only way. Wouldn't really take much at that stage, she was already on it, just a little more could have put her over the top.'
'You didn't check?'
'Saw no need.' Then he'd hesitated again. Lacoste was a good enough investigator to wait. And wait. Eventually he spoke again. 'It happens a lot in cases like this. A friend, or more often a family member, gives the person a fatal dose. Mercy. Happens more often than we know or want to know. There's a kind of unwritten agreement that in terminal cases, at the end of life, we don't look too closely.'
Lacoste could certainly sympathise and privately thought this was probably a good thing, but this was business, and in this case they weren't talking about mercy.
'Is there any way to check now?'
'She was cremated. Her own wishes.' He closed his computer.
And now, two hours later, she was closing hers. It was 6.30 and pitch black outside. She needed to speak with Gamache about what she'd found in Bernard's room before heading home. It was a cold night and Lacoste buttoned her field coat before setting out across the bridge that spanned the Riviere Bella Bella and headed into the heart of Three Pines.
'Give it to me.'
'Bonjour, Bernard.' She'd recognised the surly voice even before she saw him.
'Gimme.' Bernard Malenfant was leaning against her.
'Do you want to tell me about it?'
'Fuck off. Give it here.' He brought his fist to her face, but didn't strike.
Isabelle Lacoste had faced down serial killers, snipers, and abusive, drunken husbands, and she was under no illusion. A furious, out-of-control 14-year-old was as dangerous as any of them.
'Drop that fist. I'm not going to give it to you, so it's no use threatening.'
Bernard grabbed her satchel, trying to yank it away but she'd expected this. She'd found that most boys, and even some not very bright men, underestimated women. She was strong and determined and smart. She kept her cool and twisted the satchel out of his grip.
'Bitch. It's not even mine. Do you really think I'd have shit like that?' The last word was screamed into her face so she could feel his spittle on her chin and the stench of his warm breath.
'Then whose is it?' she said evenly, trying to control her gag response.
Bernard gave her a malevolent leer. 'Are you kidding? I'm not going to tell.'
'Hey, are you all right?' A woman and her dog were walking quickly toward them from the direction of the bridge.
Bernard swung around and saw them. He yanked up his bike and rode away, swerving so that he headed toward the dog, but just missed it.
'Are you all right?' the woman repeated, and reached out and touched Isabelle's arm. Lacoste recognised the woman as Hanna Parra. 'Was that young Malenfant?'
'Yes. We had a few words. I'm fine, but thanks for checking.' And she meant it. This wouldn't have happened in Montreal.
'Anytime.' They walked over the Bella Bella into Three Pines, separating at the Bistro and waving goodbye.
The first thing Lacoste did upon reaching the cheerful lights and warmth of the Bistro was head to the washroom, to scrub her face with the fragrant soap and fresh water. Once clean she ordered a Martini and Rossi and caught the chief's eye. He nodded toward a small, secluded table. The Martini and Rossi, a bowl of nuts and her chief in front of her, Lacoste relaxed. She then told him about her search of Bernard's room, handing him the item she'd taken as she spoke.
'Phew,' said Gamache, examining the item. 'Get this fingerprinted. Bernard denies it's his? Did he say whose it was?'
Lacoste shook her head.
'Did you believe it's not his?'
'I don't know. I think I don't want to believe him, but some instinct tells me he's telling the truth.'
Only with Gamache could she talk about feelings, intuition and instinct without feeling defensive. He nodded and offered her dinner before she headed back to Montreal, but she declined. She wanted to see her family before they went to bed Gamache awoke to a pounding on his door. His bedside clock said 2.47. Putting on his dressing gown he opened the door. Yvette Nichol stood there in an impossibly fluffy pink and white number.