Bury Your Dead

FIFTEEN

“You were up late last night.”

Émile Comeau found Armand setting a pot of coffee on the table along with a plate of croissants and jams. He was looking happy, Émile noticed. A spring in his step.

“I was.”

“What were you up to?” Émile sipped the strong, aromatic coffee and reached for a croissant. A few flakes hit the wooden table as he broke it in two.

“I think I’ve figured out what those numbers in Renaud’s journal mean.”

“Is that so? What?”

“You were right, he wasn’t looking for Champlain’s body in the Literary and Historical Society. I think he was looking for books. Those are catalog numbers. They refer to books given to the Lit and His in 1899.”

Émile lowered his croissant, his eyes gleaming. Once an investigator it never left the blood. The need to know.

“What books?”

“I don’t know.” Gamache took a sip of his coffee. “But I do know they were in a lot donated to the Literary and Historical Society by a Madame Claude Marchand. She was a housekeeper for a family named Chiniquy. Charles Paschal Télesphore Chiniquy. He died in 1899. It seems likely the books belonged to him.”

“Chiniquy,” said Émile slowly. “An unusual name.”

Gamache nodded. “Extremely. I looked it up. There’re no Chiniquys here now. Right after breakfast I’m going to access the census information, see if there were Chiniquys in Quebec City in the past.”

“There were.” Émile looked distracted. Not worried, exactly, but perplexed.

“Really?” asked Gamache, waiting while Émile thought.

“This doesn’t make sense,” said Émile at last. “You say Renaud was looking for books that belonged to Chiniquy?”

“I think so. He had their catalog numbers in his diary.”

Émile scratched his neck and his eyes took on a faraway look as he searched for a timid answer. “It doesn’t make sense,” he mumbled again.

“You know the name?” Gamache finally asked.

“I know the name, but it’s odd.”

“How so?”

“Well, that Augustin Renaud should be interested in anything belonging to Chiniquy.”

There was a pause while Émile thought.

“Who was this Chiniquy?” Gamache pressed. “How do you know of him? Was he a member of the Champlain Society too?”

“No, not that I know of. Almost certainly not. As far as I know he had nothing to do with Champlain.”

“So who was he?”

“A priest,” said Émile. “A blip in Québec history, but a loud one at the time. Quite a character. Famous for his temperance campaigns. This was back in the 1860s or 70s. He hated alcohol, thought it led to all sorts of social and spiritual ills. From what I remember he had only the one interest, getting poor Québécois laborers to quit drinking. He became quite famous for a while, but he also alienated the Catholic Church. I can’t remember the details but he quit the church and became a fervent Protestant. Used to hang around bars and brothels on Petit-Champlain in the Lower Town trying to convince the drunks to give it up. Had a sanatorium outside the city for a while.”

“Renaud was fixated on Champlain, and Chiniquy was fixated on temperance,” said Gamache, almost to himself. Then he shook his head. Like his mentor he couldn’t see a connection between the father of Québec in 1635, an 1800s teetotaler and a body three days ago in the Lit and His.

Except, maybe, the books. What were the books?

“Why would a Champlain scholar want books collected by a lapsed priest?” he asked, but got no answer. “Chiniquy showed no interest in Champlain?”

Émile shook his head and shrugged, flummoxed. “But I don’t know much about the man and what I just told you might be wrong. Would you like me to look further?”

Gamache got up. “Please. But first, I’m going back to Renaud’s apartment. Maybe the books are there. Would you like to come?”

“Absolument.”

As they put on their heavy winter parkas Émile realized how natural it felt to follow this man. Chief Inspector Émile Comeau had seen Gamache arrive, an eager young agent in homicide. Had watched his wavy dark hair thin and turn gray, his body thicken, his marriage, his children, his rise through the ranks. He’d promoted him to Inspector, had seen the young man take command, naturally. Had watched as older, more experienced agents ceded their place, turning to him for his opinion, his leadership.

But Émile knew something else. Gamache wasn’t always right. No one was.

As they walked up the hill, their breaths puffing into the crisp air, Émile glanced at Armand, Henri walking at his side. Did he seem better? Was he getting better? Émile thought so, but he also knew it was the internal injuries that did the most damage. The worst was always hidden.

A few minutes later they were once again in the cramped and stuffy apartment, negotiating their way between piles of magazines, stacks of correspondence, and furniture littered with books and journals.

The two men got to work quickly, taking off their coats and boots and each taking a room.

Two hours later Émile wandered into the dining room, which almost certainly had never seen a dinner party. The walls were lined with shelves, packed two and three books deep. Gamache was halfway around the room, having taken down each book, examined and replaced it.

He was exhausted. An activity he could have done easily two months earlier was now almost too much for him, and he could see Émile was also flagging. He was leaning against the back of a chair, trying not to look done in.

“Ready for a break?” Gamache asked.

Émile turned a grateful face to him. “If you insist. I could go on all day but if you’d like to stop I guess I could.”

Gamache smiled. “Merci.”

Still, it surprised him how weak he still felt. He’d managed to fool himself into believing he was back to full strength. And he had improved, his energy was better, his strength was returning, even the trembling seemed to have diminished.

But when pushed, he faded faster than he’d expected.

They found a table by the window at Le Petit Coin Latin and ordered beers and sandwiches.

“What did you find?” Gamache asked, biting into a baguette stuffed with pheasant terrine, arugula and cranberry sauce. A micro-brewery beer was in front of him with a slight head of foam.

“Nothing I didn’t expect to find. There were a couple rare books on Champlain the Society would love to get its hands on, but since you were there I chose not to steal them.”

“How wise.”

Émile inclined his head and smiled. “You?”

“The same. There was nothing that didn’t relate directly to Champlain or the early 1600s. There was nothing on Chiniquy, on temperance, on anything to do with the 1800s. Still, we need to keep looking. I wonder where he got all his books.”

“Probably from used bookstores.”

“That’s true.” Gamache brought Renaud’s diary out of his satchel and flipped through it. “He made regular visits to the local secondhand bookstores and the flea markets in the summer.”

“Where else do you find old books? What is it?” asked Émile.

Armand Gamache had tilted his head to the side and narrowed his eyes. “Where do those used bookstores get their books?”

“From people who’re moving or cleaning house. From estate sales, buying them in lots. Why?”

“I think when we’re finished in the apartment we need to visit a few shops.”

“What’re you thinking?” asked Émile, and took a long sip of his beer.

“I’m remembering something Elizabeth MacWhirter told me.” But now it was his turn to look at his companion. Émile Comeau was staring at the diary. Reaching out he turned it around so that it was right-side up for him. His slim finger rested on the page, below Augustin Renaud’s clear printing. Below the words circled and underlined, below an assignation he had with a Patrick, and O’Mara, a JD and—

“Chin,” said Gamache. “But there’re no Chins in Quebec City. I thought I might ask at the Chinese restaurant on rue de Buade and find out if it’s a—”

Gamache stared into the beaming eyes of his mentor. He closed his own eyes almost in pain. “Oh, no.”

Opening them he looked down at the diary. “Is that it? Chin? Chiniquy?”

Émile Comeau was smiling and nodding. “What else?”

Jean-Guy Beauvoir took a soapy dish from Clara and dried it. He was standing in their large, open kitchen, doing the dishes. Something he rarely did at home, though he’d helped the Chief and Madame Gamache clean up a few times. It didn’t seem like a chore with them. And it didn’t, to his surprise, seem like a chore now. It was restful, peaceful. Like the village itself.

After lunch together, Peter Morrow had returned to his studio to work on his latest painting, leaving Clara and Jean-Guy to clean up after the soup and sandwiches.

“Did you get a chance to read the dossier?”

“I did,” said Clara, handing him another dripping dish. “I have to say, it’s a convincing case against Olivier. But let’s say he didn’t kill the Hermit, then someone else must have known the Hermit was hiding in the woods. But how would someone find him? We know he approached Olivier himself, to sell his things and because he wanted some companionship.”

“And needed someone to do his errands, get things he needed from town,” said Beauvoir. “He used Olivier and Olivier used him.”

“A good relationship.”

“People taking advantage of each other seems good to you?”

“Depends how you see it. Look at us. Peter’s supported me financially all our married life, but I support him emotionally. Is that taking advantage of each other? I suppose it is, but it works. We’re both happy.”

Beauvoir wondered if that was true. He suspected Clara would be happy just about anywhere but her husband was another matter.

“Didn’t seem equal to me,” said Beauvoir. “Olivier brought the Hermit some groceries every two weeks and in exchange the Hermit gave Olivier priceless antiques. Someone was getting boned.”

They carried their coffees into the bright living room. Unfiltered winter light streamed through the windows as they sat in large easy chairs by the hearth.

Her brow wrinkled as she looked into the mumbling fire. “But it seems to me the big issue, the only issue, is who else knew the Hermit was there? He’d been hiding in the forest for years, why was he suddenly killed?”

“Our theory was that Olivier killed him because the horse trail was getting close to the cabin. The Hermit and his treasure were about to be found.”

Clara nodded. “Olivier didn’t want anyone else discovering and maybe stealing the treasure, so he killed the Hermit. It was a spur of the moment thing, not planned. He picked up a menorah and hit him.”

She’d heard it all at the trial and read it again last night.

She tried to imagine her friend doing that, and while her mind spun away from the image the truth was she could believe it. She didn’t think Olivier would ever plan to kill someone, but she could see him doing it in a fit of rage and greed.

Olivier had then taken the menorah. Picked the bloody thing up from beside the dead man. He said he’d taken it because his fingerprints were all over it. He was afraid. But he also admitted the menorah was priceless. Greed and fear combined to drive him into a monumentally foolish act. An act of greed, not guilt.

Neither the judge nor the jury had believed him. But now Beauvoir had to at least consider the possibility Olivier had been stupid, but truthful.

“What changed?” Beauvoir mused. “Someone else must have found the Hermit.”

“Someone who might’ve been looking for years, someone the Hermit stole from.”

“But how’d he find him?”

“He either followed Olivier or followed the new horse trail,” said Clara.

“That leads us to one of the Parras,” said Beauvoir. “Either Roar or Havoc.”

“Old Mundin could have done it. He’s a carpenter and a carver, after all. He could have followed Olivier one night after picking up the broken furniture, and he could have carved that word, Woo, into the wood.”

“But,” said Beauvoir, “Old Mundin’s a professional woodworker. I’ve seen his stuff. Woo was carved by an amateur, someone hacking away.”

Clara thought. “Maybe it was someone new to the community, maybe that’s what changed. The killer recently moved into Three Pines.”

“The Gilberts,” said Beauvoir. “They’re the only new people.”

Marc and Dominique Gilbert, Marc’s mother Carole and his estranged father, Vincent. Saint Asshole, the famous doctor who now, curiously, lived in the Hermit’s cabin. Beauvoir no longer wanted the murderer to be Dr. Vincent Gilbert but deep down he worried it might be.

“I think we need to talk to the suspects again,” said Beauvoir. “I thought I might drop by the Mundins’ place this afternoon, pretend I want to buy some furniture.”

“Great, and I’ll try to talk to some of the others.” She hesitated. “There is another way the murderer could have found the Hermit.”

“Yes?”

“Maybe he recognized the treasures when Olivier went to sell them. It says here,” she tapped the manila file folder, “that Olivier sold a lot of the stuff on eBay. Well people all over the world could have seen it, including eastern Europe. Suppose someone recognized one of the items and tracked Olivier down.”

“And followed him to the Hermit,” said Beauvoir. “I’ll look into it.”

He was beginning to appreciate why the Chief Inspector insinuated himself into the communities they investigated. It had long perplexed Beauvoir and privately he didn’t approve. It blurred the lines between investigator and investigated.

But he now wondered if that was such a bad thing.

As he stepped out of the small home the sun glared off the snow, blinding him. Beauvoir put his dark glasses on.

Ray-Ban. Old School. He liked them, made him look cool on cold days.

Getting in his car he let it warm up, feeling the heated seats grow warm under him. On a bitterly cold winter day it was almost as good as sex. Then he put the car in gear and headed up the hill and out of town.

Five minutes later he arrived at the old farm. The Sûreté team had last been there in late summer, when everything had been in bloom. Beyond bloom. It was going to seed, the leaves were turning color and the wasps fed drunkenly on over-ripe fruit.

But now it was all dead or dormant and the farm, once teeming with life, looked deserted.

But as he drove slowly up to the house the door opened and standing there was The Wife, holding little Charlie Mundin’s hand.

As he got out of the car she waved and he noticed Old Mundin approaching the open door, wiping his large, expressive hands on a towel.

“Welcome,” The Wife smiled, kissing him on both cheeks. He wasn’t often greeted like that in a case, then he remembered, he wasn’t on a case.

Like Old Mundin, The Wife was young, and like Old, she was stunning. Not in a Vogue sort of way, but her beauty came from her obvious good health and humor. Her dark hair was cut very short and her eyes were deep brown, large and warm. She smiled easily and readily, as did Old, as did Charlie.

“Come in, before you freeze,” Old said, closing the door. “Would you like a hot chocolate? Charlie and I just got back from tobogganing and we sure could use one.”

Charlie, his round face ruddy red from being outside, his eyes sparkling, looked up at Jean-Guy as though they’d known each other all their lives.

“I’d love one.” Beauvoir followed them into their home.

“You’ll have to excuse our place, Inspector,” said The Wife, leading the way into the warm kitchen. “We’re still renovating.”

And the place certainly looked it. Some rooms weren’t yet dry-walled, others had the plaster done, but no paint. The kitchen looked like something out of the 1950s, but not in a good way. Tacky, not retro-chic.

“It looks fine to me,” he lied. What it did look, and feel, was comfortable. It felt like a home.

“You wouldn’t know it,” said Old, helping The Wife with the hot cocoa, “but we’ve actually done a lot of work. You should see the upstairs. It’s wonderful.”

“Old, I can’t imagine the Inspector’s come all this way to see our renovations,” laughed The Wife. She returned to the kitchen table carrying steaming mugs of hot chocolate each with a large, melting, marshmallow.

“We saw you at the bistro the other night,” said Old. “Gabri says you’re here for a holiday. That’s nice.”

They looked at him with sympathy. It was gentle, it was meant to be supportive, but Jean-Guy wished it would stop, though he knew this young couple meant it kindly.

Fortunately, their sympathy also gave him the opening he needed.

“Yes, I haven’t been back since the Hermit case. What a blow to the community.”

“Olivier’s arrest?” said The Wife. “We still can’t believe it.”

“You knew him quite well, as I remember,” Beauvoir turned to Old. “Gave you your first job.”

“He did. Restoring and repairing furniture.”

“Show, show, show,” said Charlie.

“Exactly,” said The Wife. “Chaud. Chocolat chaud. He wasn’t speaking six months ago but Dr. Gilbert’s been coming once a week for dinner and working with him.”

“Really? Vincent Gilbert?”

“Yes. You knew he used to work with children with Down syndrome?”

“Oui.”

“Boo,” said Charlie to Beauvoir, who smiled and tried to ignore the child. “Boo,” Charlie repeated.

“Boo!” said Beauvoir back, thrusting his head forward in a way he hoped was more playful than terrifying.

“He means wood. Bois,” explained Old. “Yes Charlie, old son, we’ll go soon. We whittle together in the evenings.”

“Didn’t Havoc Parra used to whittle toys for Charlie?” Beauvoir remembered.

“He did,” said Old. “I’m afraid he’s wonderful at cutting down trees but not so good at carving them, though he enjoys it. Comes here sometimes to help me with the furniture. I pay him a little.”

“What does he do? Restore it?”

“No, that’s way too specialized. He helps when I have some furniture to make. Mostly staining.”

They chatted about local events, about renovation projects and the antiques waiting to be restored. Beauvoir pretended to be interested in seeing Old Mundin’s furniture and almost bought a bookcase thinking he could pass it off as his own creation. But he knew even Enid wouldn’t believe that.

“Would you like to stay for dinner?” The Wife asked when Beauvoir said he had to go.

“Merci, but no. I just wanted to stop by and see your furniture.”

They stood by the back door, waving to him. He’d been tempted to accept their invitation to join their little family. As he drove away he thought again about what Old had said so innocently about Havoc and his skill as a whittler, which rivaled Charlie’s. On arriving back in Three Pines he went across to the bistro and ordered a tarte au sucre and a cappuccino. Myrna joined him with her éclair and café au lait. They chatted for a few minutes then Beauvoir made notes and Myrna read the London Sunday Times Travel Magazine, moaning occasionally over the éclair and over the descriptions of the spa getaways.

“Do you think it’s worth a twelve-hour flight to go here?” She turned the magazine round and showed him soft white beaches, thatched huts, nubile young men, shirtless, carrying drinks with fruit in them.

“Where is it?”

“Mauritius.”

“How much?”

Myrna checked. “Five thousand two hundred.”

“Dollars?” Beauvoir almost gagged.

“Pounds. But it includes the flight. My budget today is five thousand pounds so it’s a little over that.”

“Book business must be good.”

Myrna laughed. “I could sell every book in my place and still not be able to afford that.” She put her large hand on the shiny picture. Outside the frosted window, kids were arriving home from school. Parents waited for them to come down the snowy, icy road from where the bus dropped them off, all red faced, bundled up, distinguishable only by the color of their bulbous snowsuits. They looked like giant, colorful balls cascading down the hill.

“This is fantasy money for a fictional trip. Cheap, but fun.”

“Did someone say cheap but fun?” Gabri joined them and Beauvoir closed his notebook. “Where’re we going this week?”

“He’s also fictional, you know.” Myrna indicated Gabri with her head.

“I am sometimes made-up,” Gabri admitted.

“I’m considering Mauritius.” She handed a magazine to Gabri and offered one to Beauvoir. He hesitated then noticed the icicles hanging from the homes, the snow piled on the roofs, the people bent against the wind and rushing for warmth.

He took one.

“Vacation porn,” whispered Gabri. “Complete with rubber suits.” He flashed an image of a muscular man wearing a tight scuba outfit.

Beauvoir gave himself a fictional budget of five thousand dollars then lost himself in Bali, in Bora-Bora, in St. Lucia.

“Have you been on a cruise?” he asked Myrna.

“Was on one earlier in the week. Upgraded to the Princess Suites. Next time I think I might upgrade all the way.”

“I’m considering the owner’s suite.”

“Can you afford it?”

“True, I might go fake broke but I think it’s worth it.”

“God, I could use a cruise,” said Gabri, lowering his magazine.

“Tired?” Myna asked. Gabri looked it.

“Très fatigué.”

“It is true.” Ruth plopped down in the fourth chair, knocking everyone with her cane. “He is a fatty gay.”

The other two ignored her, but Beauvoir couldn’t hide a small laugh. Before long the other two left, Myrna back to her quiet bookstore and Gabri to tend to a couple customers.

“So, why’re you really here?” Ruth leaned forward.

“For your cheerful company, you old hag.”

“Besides that, numb nuts. You never liked it here. Gamache does, I can tell. But you? You despise us.”

Every hour of every day Jean-Guy Beauvoir searched for not just facts, but truth. He hadn’t appreciated, though, how terrifying it was being with someone who spoke it, all the time. Well, her truth anyway.

“I don’t,” he said.

“Bullshit. You hate the country, you hate nature, you think we’re hicks, idiots. Repressed, passive-aggressive and English.”

“I know you’re English,” he laughed. She didn’t.

“Don’t fuck with me. I don’t have that much time left and I refuse to waste it.”

“Then go away if you think I’m such a waste of time.”

They glared at each other. He’d opened up to her the other night, told her things few others knew. He’d been afraid that might lead to some awkwardness but sure enough, when they’d met the next morning she’d looked at him as though he was a stranger.

“I know why you’re here,” he said at last. “For the rest of the story. You just want to hear all the gory details. You feed on it, don’t you? Fear and pain. You don’t care about me or the Chief or Morin or anyone else, all you want from me is the rest of the story, you sick old crone.”

“And what do you want?”

What do I want? he thought.

I want to tell it.