But was anything in Three Pines ever lost? Or forgotten?
There was a ding and Jean-Guy walked over to his desk. “The autopsy report on Patricia Godin has come through.”
Before Armand could get to his own desk to look, he heard the door open.
“Bonsoir,” said Olivier. “We were closing up the bistro and saw the light on. Thought we’d check.”
“Everything okay?” asked Gabri.
“Everything’s good,” said Gamache. “We’re just tidying up a few things.”
“Has something happened, Armand?” Olivier asked. “The crime scene tape in the loft. Is it a crime scene?”
“The truth is, we don’t think a crime itself was committed there, but there is a small possibility some of the things found in that room are connected to a crime.”
“A murder?” asked Gabri.
Gamache lifted his hands, to show he either could not or would not answer.
Olivier took a few steps into the Old Train Station and Gabri followed. The men were very familiar with the large open space. It was home to their volunteer fire department. Both were members, and Ruth was the chief. Self-appointed, admittedly. But being essentially a dumpster fire herself, she was familiar with flames.
“Is there something else?” Armand asked.
“Well, yes. I was telling Gabri about the elephant, and thought, since you’re here…”
“You want to see it?”
“Do you mind?”
“No, as long as you don’t touch it.”
A minute later they were standing in the evidence room. A single bright bulb hanging from the ceiling lit the odd assortment of items.
Armand put on gloves and picked up the bronze statue.
Gabri, by instinct, reached out, then drew his hands back and leaned in, moving his head this way and that. Then he stepped away.
“That’s it. That’s ours. My great-grandfather brought it back from India. I dusted it every day, I should know.”
“Every day?”
“Well, whenever we had guests staying in the room. It has the dented ear and crooked tusk from when someone dropped it.”
“Someone?”
“Focus, Olivier, that isn’t the lede here.”
“But ours didn’t have all that engraving, did it?”
“No,” Gabri admitted, looking closer. “But it’s still ours.”
Armand lifted the piece to the light and took a closer look at what was etched into the animal’s bronze skin. It didn’t form a pattern and it wasn’t writing of any sort. But there was something.
“All right, let’s say it is your elephant,” said Gamache. “Tell me again what happened. How and when this went missing from the B&B.”
“A guest was staying in that room,” said Olivier. “And when she left, the elephant was gone too. You asked for her name. I have it. And her address.” He brought a slip of paper out from his pocket.
“Lillian Virginia Mountweazel,” Armand read.
“Yes!” said Gabri. “That’s her. Can’t forget that name. I tried to get in touch with her, but she never answered the messages.”
“When was this?” asked Gamache.
“Eighteen months ago,” said Olivier. “I can give you the exact dates of her stay.”
“How long was she here?” As Armand spoke, he noticed Jean-Guy trying to catch his eye.
“She was booked in for a week, but left after five days,” said Olivier.
“Why would she want to take my great-grandfather’s elephant?” said Gabri. “Never mind put it in the attic room. It’s just bizarre.”
“It is that,” said Armand.
Replacing the statue, he ushered the men out of the room and to the door.
“Well, good night.” He gently closed the door in their baffled faces. Then he quickly crossed to Beauvoir’s desk.
“What’ve you got?”
“Look.”
Jean-Guy had highlighted a passage. It described Patricia Godin’s injuries and concluded they were compatible with a death by hanging. Suicide.
“But they’re not,” said Jean-Guy. “With hanging, the bruising would be up here.” He drew a line on his throat under his chin. “But see here. Her cartilage is crushed flat and the bruising is a perfect ring around her neck. These injuries were caused by ligature strangulation. Not hanging.”
Gamache reread the passage, then scrolled up and began reading the entire report. Jean-Guy gave up his chair so that the Chief could sit.
Ten minutes later, he took off his reading glasses, rubbed his eyes, and nodded. “You’re right. Patricia Godin was already dead when hung from the tree.”
“She was murdered.”
“Oui. The coroner missed it. He’d assumed suicide, then saw what he expected to see. To be fair, it’s an easy mistake to make.” Armand got up. “We change the cause of death and institute a full murder investigation. First thing in the morning, I want a team down here and a warrant to search the old Stone house.”
“D’accord, patron.”
As they walked back across the bridge over the Bella Bella, Jean-Guy said, quietly, to Armand, “She wasn’t stoned, was she.”
“Amelia? Non. She was practicing. A dry run. I think she figured if Ruth believed it, Sam will too. Smart woman.”
“I saw the look on your face when we were telling Amelia about the Arsenault case. Are you having second thoughts about Fiona?”
“Did I hear my name?” A voice came out of the darkness.
Fiona was sitting on the swing on the Gamaches’ front porch. Voices carried in the stillness of night, and she’d heard part, or all, of what they’d said.
“Yes,” said the Chief, thinking quickly. “We were talking about you. Jean-Guy here wanted to know if I was having second thoughts about you.”
There was nothing for it but to admit it. Lying about it would only heighten her suspicions.
“About my guilt, or my innocence?” She stood up.
Before Armand could answer, Jean-Guy jumped in.
“It’s the first time we’ve seen you and your brother together since the trial. I guess it brings back memories. Doubts even. Your case was far from clear.”
She gave a small unamused laugh. “‘Case’? You call it that? It’s my life. And yes, it was far from clear. What’s gained by reexamining it? I’ve done my time. I’m trying to rebuild my life. Are you trying to rebuild your case?”
They could only see half her face in the light spilling onto the porch from the kitchen. But even half a face was enough to show her anger. Though her tone more than made that clear.
“You want to get the whole family? Is that it? The box set of Arsenault kids?”
“I didn’t have a chance to answer Jean-Guy’s question. The answer,” Gamache said, looking her in the eyes as she turned to him, “is no. I am not doubting you.”
It was, of course, a lie.
Armand sat in the dark living room waiting for the footsteps in the bedrooms overhead to stop.
When there was finally silence, he crept upstairs and saw there was no light under Fiona’s door. Fortunately, her room faced the forest at the back of the home. She would not be able to look out her window and see what he did next.
He sent off a quick text: Meet me in Clara’s garden.
Not waiting for a reply, he put on his field coat and left the house. Glancing behind him to make sure he wasn’t followed, he walked quickly across the village green, skirting around the far side of the three huge pines. Using them as cover.
He let himself through Clara’s gate, leaving it open, and into the familiar backyard. There were no lights at the windows. Clara and the village were asleep.
He’d chosen this place because her garden could not be seen from anywhere in the village. They could not be overlooked or overheard.