Kingdom of the Blind

CHAPTER 6

“Are we there?” asked the notary. Again.

“Oui.”

“Really?”

The answer was so unexpected it silenced him. Lucien used his sleeve to wipe the condensation from the car window and peered out. And saw … nothing.

And then the blowing snow momentarily shifted, and for a split second, through a tear in the blizzard, he could see a house. A home.

It was made of fieldstone, and there was soft light coming through the mullioned windows.

And then it was gone, swallowed by the storm. The sighting was so brief, Lucien wondered if desperation and imagination had conjured a fairy-tale cottage.

“Are you sure?” he asked.

“Pretty sure.”

Less than an hour later, Armand and his guests were showered and changed into clean, dry clothing. Except Lucien, who’d refused all offers.

They were seated at the long pine table in the kitchen while the woodstove pumped out heat at the far end of the room. Snow had piled up on the frames of the windows on either side of the fireplace, making it difficult to see out.

Benedict wore a borrowed T-shirt, sweater, and slacks and had calmed down since the drive. The hot shower and the promise of food had lulled him.

He looked around.

This place didn’t shudder, the windows didn’t rattle, despite the fury outside. It had been built to last, and lasted it had. He figured it was more than one hundred, perhaps even two hundred years old.

Even if he tried, if he really, really tried, he doubted he could build a home this solid.

He looked across the room, at Madame Gamache serving up soup and Armand cutting bread. Occasionally consulting. Their bodies just touching in an act both casual and intimate.

Benedict wondered if he tried, really, really tried, if he could build a relationship that solid.

He scratched his chest and winced.

A few minutes earlier, while standing under the hot stream of the shower, Armand had asked Reine-Marie, “Does the name Bertha Baumgartner mean anything to you?”

“Wasn’t she a cartoon character?” said Reine-Marie. “No, that was Dagwood. Was she a villain in Doonesbury?”

He turned off the shower and stepped out, taking the towel she handed him.

“Merci.” As he rubbed his hair dry, he looked at her, amused, but then saw she was serious. “No, she was a neighbor, sort of.”

He put on cords, a clean shirt, and a sweater and told her why he’d been summoned to the remote farmhouse.

“A liquidator? But you must’ve known her, Armand. Why else would she choose you?”

“I have no idea.”

“And Myrna doesn’t know her?”

“Neither does the young fellow. Benedict.”

“How do you explain that?” she asked.

“I can’t.”

“Huh,” said Reine-Marie.

When they had their soups and sandwiches and beer, Reine-Marie left them at the kitchen table, taking her own lunch into the living room.

Sitting by the fireplace with Gracie, their little foundling, beside her, Reine-Marie stared into the flames and repeated:

Bertha Baumgartner. Bertha Baumgartner.

Still the name meant nothing.

“Now,” said Lucien, adjusting his glasses. “You’ve all agreed to be liquidators of the estate of Bertha Baumgartner. Is that correct?”

What sounded like “Yes” came from Benedict, but his mouth was so full of roast-beef sandwich it came out as a muffled “Woof.”

Henri, lying at Armand’s feet, perked up his ears, his tail swishing slightly.

“That is correct,” said Myrna, using the same tone as the notary, though he didn’t seem to notice.

The chair creaked as she sat back, a warm mug of pea soup in her hands. She longed to reach for the beer, but the mug was so comforting she didn’t want to let it go.

Armand had dropped her at the door into the bistro, her bookstore being snowed in, so she could have a hot shower and change before heading to their place.

“Oh for Christ’s sake,” said Clara as she hugged her friend. “We were so worried.”

“I wasn’t,” said Gabri, though he also hugged her tight. “You okay?” he said. “You look like shit.”

“Could be worse.”

“Where were you?” asked Olivier.

Myrna saw no reason not to tell them.

“Bertha Baumgartner?” said Gabri. “Bertha Baumgartner? Really? There was someone around here named Bertha Baumgartner and I didn’t know her? Who was she?”

“You don’t know?” asked Myrna. Gabri and Olivier knew everyone.

“Don’t you?” asked Clara, following her to the door connecting the bistro to the bookstore.

“No. Not a clue.” She stopped and looked at their astonished faces.

“You say that Armand is also a liquidator?” asked Olivier. “He must know her.”

“No. None of us do. Not even the notary.”

“And she lived just down the road?” asked Clara.

“Well, about twenty minutes from here. You sure the name doesn’t sound familiar?”

“Bertha Baumgartner,” said Gabri again, clearly enjoying the sound of it.

“Don’t you dare,” said Olivier. He turned to Clara and Myrna. “He’s been looking for another name to sign to the letter inviting Prime Minister Trudeau to the carnival. We suspect Gabri Dubeau is on the straight-to-garbage list.”

“I have sent him a few letters,” admitted Gabri. “And a couple photographs.”

“And?” said Olivier.

“A lock of hair. In my defense,” said Gabri, “it was Olivier’s.”

“What? You bastard.” Olivier touched his head. Already thinning, each blond strand was precious.

When Myrna came back down from her loft twenty minutes later in warm dry clothes, she discovered that Gabri and Olivier were out clearing paths.

“They’re not digging out Ruth?” Myrna said to Clara.

It was like releasing a chimera. Not something done lightly. And very hard to put back, once out.

“Afraid so. And feeding her too. They took over soup in a scotch bottle, hoping she won’t notice the difference.”

“Ruth might not, but Rosa will.”

The duck was discerning.

“Where’re you going?” asked Clara, following her to the door.

“To Armand’s. We’re going to read the will.”

“Can I come?”

“Do you want to?”

“Yes, I’d far prefer to walk into a blizzard than sit by the fire with my book and a scotch.”

“Thought so,” said Myrna as she yanked open the door. Bending into the wind, she trudged through the thick snow.

She did not know Bertha but was growing to dislike her. Intensely.

Armand stood in the study, the phone to his ear.

He could just see, through gaps in the blowing snow, Myrna making her way around the village green to their home.

Reine-Marie had told him the phone was dead, but he thought he’d just check to see if the line had been restored.

It had not.

He looked at his watch. It was one thirty in the afternoon but felt like midnight.

Three and a half hours since he’d received the call while sitting in his car outside Bertha Baumgartner’s home. Three and a half hours since the angry exchange of words.

Thinking of it conjured the smell of wet wool, the sound of snow tapping his car.

He’d said he’d get back to them. Made them promise not to do anything until they heard from him. And now this.

Reine-Marie greeted Myrna, and, after replacing the dead phone, Armand joined them in the warm kitchen, for soup, sandwiches, beer, and the reading of the will.

“Heard on the radio that the blizzard’s all over southern Québec,” said Myrna, trying to repair her hat head. “But should blow itself out sometime in the night.”

“That widespread?” asked Armand.

Reine-Marie examined his face. Instead of concerned, he seemed relieved.

The lights of Annie and Jean-Guy’s apartment in the Plateau quartier of Montréal flickered.

They stopped what they were doing to stare at the overhead light.

It wavered. Wavered.

Then held.

Annie and Jean-Guy exchanged glances and raised their brows, then went back to their conversation. Jean-Guy was telling her about his meeting that morning with the investigators.

“Did they ask you to sign anything?” asked Annie.

“How did you know about that?”

“So they did?”

He nodded.

“Did you?”

“No.”

“Good.”

Once again he saw the sheets of paper pushed across the table at him, and their expectant faces.

“You were right. They have an agenda. I think your father might be facing more than suspension or even being fired.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t really know. They didn’t make any accusations, but they kept going back to the drugs. The ones he let through.”

“They already knew about that,” said Annie. “He told them right away. Alerted cops across the country and into the States. The DEA got back the junk that crossed the border, right?”

“With your father’s help, yes.”

“And yours.”

“Oui. But there’s a whole lot still missing. Kilos of it. Here. In Montréal. Somewhere. We’ve spent months looking. Using all our informants. And nothing. When that shit hits the streets…”

He left it hanging there, not sure how to finish the sentence.

“It’s terrible stuff, Annie.”

“I know.”

He shook his head. “You think you do, but you don’t. Think of the worst. The very worst.”

She did.

“That would be the very best that could happen,” he said.

Annie smiled, thinking he was kidding. Certainly exaggerating. And then her smile faded.

That bad.

“I think they know there’s going to be a shitstorm once the stuff hits the streets. They need someone to blame.”

“They?”

“Them.” He lifted his hands. “I don’t know. I’m not good at this political crap. That was your dad’s job.”

“But it is political?”

“I think so. No one seems particularly worried about the poor sons of bitches who’re going to take the stuff. They’re all covering their own asses.”

“Does Dad know?”

“I think he suspects. But he’s still trying to get the stuff back. He isn’t looking in that direction. I honestly thought when I walked in there this morning that they were going to tell me they were ending the investigation and reinstating your father.”

“Now what?” asked Annie.

“I don’t know,” he said, leaning back heavily. “I’m tired of all this, Annie. I’ve had it.”

“I know. It sucks. Thank you for sticking by Dad.”

Jean-Guy nodded but didn’t say anything.

He again heard Marie’s reassuring voice. All this will go away, Chief Inspector. Once you sign. Then you can get on with your life.