A Fatal Grace

TWENTY-FIVE

‘I’m sorry, Chief Inspector Gamache isn’t in, Mrs Morrow,’ said Agent Lacoste, dragging her eyes from her screen to look at the woman in front of her.

‘When do you expect him?’

‘I’m not sure.’ She looked at the clock. Almost noon. ‘I would imagine he’ll be back soon. Is it important?’

Clara hesitated. She didn’t really know, but something told her it was.

‘No. It’ll wait.’ She turned to go and caught sight of Yvette Nichol working on another computer. There was no love lost between the two women, though Clara was still baffled by the hostility this young agent had shown when they’d first met a year ago. Now Agent Nichol looked up from her desk, caught Clara’s eye, and immediately looked back down.

Well, it’s better than the evil eye I used to get, thought Clara.

The Sûreté officers were alone on the ice now. Émilie Longpré had gone to have lunch with Kaye in Williamsburg and Billy Williams had mumbled something about either going to practice for the World Cup of skiing or cutting wood for blast-off. It seemed to Gamache that Billy made perfect sense to everyone but him. Gamache couldn’t understand a word the man said.

Gamache walked to the stands, sitting there for a long, cold moment staring at the ice, then at the spot where CC had sat, and died. Then he walked round the stands and over to where Billy Williams had parked his truck.

‘The murderer stood here,’ said Gamache firmly, planting himself on the snow. ‘He watched the curling, and waited. Just as CC got up to grab the chair in front, he attached the booster cables.’

‘The lab’s confirmed what we already knew,’ said Lemieux. ‘Mr Williams’s cables were the ones used. They were found in his truck all blackened. But he says he attached them from his generator to the heating lamp, so how did someone take them from the lamp to the chair in the middle of the curling without being seen?’

‘They didn’t have to,’ said Gamache. ‘The murderer must have detached the heating lamp before anyone showed up, and clipped the cables onto the chair.’ He strode from the phantom truck to the phantom lamp and further onto the ice, to the imaginary chairs. ‘While everyone was at the community breakfast he took the cables from the lamp and clamped them onto the leg of the lawn chair, then took the other end off the generator.’

‘But wouldn’t people have noticed that the lamp wasn’t working?’ Lemieux asked.

‘They did. At least two people talked about how cold it was, including Kaye Thompson. That was what made me believe that lamp was never on.’

‘I still don’t understand why no one saw anything,’ said Beauvoir.

‘Well, for one thing, any sound he made, his boots on the snow for instance, would be masked by the generator. And Mr Williams’s truck was behind the stands. Not exactly hidden by them, but anyone in the stands would have to work to see it. The only people who could have seen anything were Kaye and CC. But there’s more. At first I thought we were dealing with a very lucky person but now I think it wasn’t luck but careful planning. The murderer chose his moment precisely. He waited until all eyes were guaranteed to be on the curling.’

Agent Lemieux tried to see it all. The curlers, the spectators, the two women in their lawn chairs. The electrified chair sitting just ahead of them.

‘Something special happened in the match,’ said Gamache, walking now toward the ice, then turning round to look at the two perplexed officers. ‘Mother Bea cleared the house. It was a tradition. How many times have we heard that in the last two days? Some people come just to see that. And why? We found out today. In a sport that thrives on subtlety and finesse, that’s the most passionate of plays. Almost violent. Imagine the sound of Mother’s stone as she hurtles it down the ice with all the force she can muster. Imagine that stone hitting another stone at the far end, then that stone hitting another and another. An entire chain reaction. Within moments curling stones would be smashing off each other, going in all directions and causing a monstrous noise. Very exciting.’

‘Riveting,’ said Beauvoir.

‘And noisy,’ said Lemieux, and he had the satisfaction of seeing Chief Inspector Armand Gamache turn to him, a huge triumphant smile on his face, his eyes lively with delight.

‘Got it. That’s it. What a perfect moment for murder. Who was going to tear their eyes from the spectacle? And who would hear the screams of a woman being electrocuted? It was perfectly timed.’

‘But how did he know CC would even grab the chair, never mind at that very moment?’ Beauvoir asked.

‘Good question,’ admitted Gamache, walking briskly toward the relative warmth of their car. The day was growing dangerously cold and it was getting hard to talk. ‘And why didn’t Kaye Thompson see anything? And how did the murderer unhook the cable and toss it back into Billy’s truck again without being seen?’

The men got into the car and sat while it warmed up. Agent Lemieux’s toes were numb and he scrunched them up and down in his boots trying to get the blood going. Beauvoir looked out the frosted window.

‘Well, the curlers are off the list. They couldn’t have done it. And if Myrna Landers sticks to her story and says Richard Lyon was beside her the whole time that lets him out, though I still think he did it.’

‘What do you think, agent?’ Gamache asked Lemieux.

‘I think this doesn’t make sense. The murderer had to feed her niacin at the community breakfast, spill anti-freeze behind the chair, make sure she was wearing boots with metal soles or nails, hook up booster cables and wait for the perfect moment, all without being seen. Then clean up after himself? It’s just way too complicated. Why not just shoot her?’

‘I wonder,’ said Gamache.

The photographs from the lab arrived after lunch and the team huddled round anxiously as Gamache opened the envelopes. It was eerie to see the face of someone about to die. Gamache always expected to see in their eyes some foreboding, some premonition, but he’d looked at thousands of pictures just like these and never seen it.

Still, it was eerie. This was as close as they’d ever come to meeting the victim, and Gamache realized that the only photo he’d seen up ’til now was on the cover of her book and that was more a caricature. Now here she was, minutes before her time ran out. It was a shame she didn’t seem to be enjoying herself. Instead she sat lemon-faced and defensive at the community breakfast. All around her people were animated, talking to neighbors, heads thrown back in laughter, but CC de Poitiers sat rigid. Beside her Richard stared down at his plate.

Was he planning murder? Were the sausages the curlers and the pancakes the chairs? Was the bacon the booster cable? And CC? What would she have been on his plate? The knife?

More pictures. Mother Bea and Myrna behind CC. CC posing with a group of suddenly glum villagers, as though CC was a cloud that had moved across their sky.

Then they were at the curling. CC in her chair, trying too hard to look like Audrey Hepburn on holiday in the Alps. But now something interesting appeared. CC’s face was flushed. True, the sudden redness could be from the cold, but beside her Kaye was a delicate pink, not the purple CC’d become.

‘Look.’ Lacoste pointed to a picture. ‘You can just see the blue of the anti-freeze by the chair.’

‘Her mittens are off,’ said Lemieux, pointing to another. They were getting close. Gamache opened the next envelope. All eyes were fixed, all bodies leaning forward across the table as though trying to see the pictures a millisecond sooner. Gamache spread them across the table in a move that spoke of poker nights.

CC was on the ground. Ruth was gesturing. Olivier was bending over the body and Gabri was looking behind him, his eyes sharp and focused.

The next series of pictures showed the heroic and frantic efforts to save this woman no one liked. Clara walking away with Crie, trying to keep the girl from the grisly scene. Gabri beside Richard, holding his arm. Peter and Billy Williams running with CC toward the truck. The last one showed Billy’s truck disappearing round a bend.

The pictures were eloquent, though abbreviated.

‘Some are missing,’ said Gamache, stern-faced. As he headed to the door, Beauvoir and Lemieux in tow, Agent Lacoste ran after him.

‘Mrs Morrow’s been trying to get you. And I’ve done a background search on the women who might have been CC’s mother. Kaye Thompson’s too old. Émilie Longpré had a child, but he died in an accident. Still, she could have had another. Given her up for adoption. But the most interesting thing I found is Beatrice Mayer. Beatrice Louise Mayer.’

With that information newly arrived in his head Gamache walked determinedly to the car, Beauvoir hurrying to catch up, in a reversal of roles Beauvoir found disconcerting.

Saul Petrov sipped coffee and sat in the easy chair by the window in his living room. Two days ago he’d have described the chair, in fact the entire chalet, as tacky. The fabric was dull and threadbare, the carpets worn, the décor dated. A collection of spoons from various Canadian destinations hung on the wall next to a washed-out photo of Niagara Falls.

But when he’d awoken today and wandered relaxed down the scuffed stairs, he’d thought he quite liked the house. And as the sun rose and the fireplace had been lit and the coffee perked Saul realized he really liked the place.

And now he sat in the sun as it streamed through the window and looked at the stunning view of the perfect, unblemished field in front of his rented chalet, the forest beyond and beyond that the mountains, all gray and craggy.

He’d never felt such peace.

Beside him on the table sat a Banff coaster and a roll of undeveloped film.

‘Hello, Clara.’ Gamache spoke loudly into his cell phone. It was so tiny it felt like something found in a Christmas cracker. ‘It’s Gamache. I’m on a cell and it’s coming in and out. You were looking for me?’

‘I…video…Peter.’

‘Pardon?’

‘The video last night.’ Suddenly her voice was crystal clear and Gamache realized they’d crested a hill. But they’d be heading into a valley soon and through a forest and he was sure to lose the signal then. He hoped she got to the point fast.

‘Peter has DVDs now,’ she was saying. Faster, faster, he said to himself, but knew enough not to say out loud. Inevitably, telling someone to do anything faster slowed the whole thing down. The car was just heading down the long slope into the valley. ‘Because his videos are all stretched out of shape. He stops them at his favorite spots and that stretches the tape.’ Faster, faster, thought Gamache, seeing the valley approaching. ‘Do you think CC did too?’ Clara asked, her voice already fading.

‘We’re pretty certain she didn’t throw it away because it was stretched out of shape.’ He wasn’t following her and now he could hear the static begin.

‘…know that. Not too bad…need one.’

Then the line went dead.

Saul saw the car winding up his snowy drive. He picked up the film and held it in his palm as though, by osmosis, it might tell him what to do. As CC always had.

And then he had his answer. He was finally free. He felt light, buoyant for the first time in months. Years. He even felt bright, as though perhaps he could hold his own in a conversation, as though overnight he’d been buffed up, his shine restored.

He was no longer dull.

He smiled gently and gratefully and closed his eyes, feeling the sun warm and red through his lids. He could start again here, in this place with so much light. He could buy this charming, cozy chalet and maybe take pictures of the beauty he saw all around. Maybe he could track down the artist whose portfolio CC had savaged and tell him what had happened. And say he was sorry for his part, and maybe the artist would become his friend.

The men were getting out of the car. Sûreté officers, Saul knew. He looked at the roll in his palm, walked over to the fireplace, and threw it in.