Glass Houses

CHAPTER 24

Patrick Evans was rocking back and forth, back and forth, on the sofa of the B&B.

What had been a chilly November day had become a cold November night.

“I don’t understand,” he kept repeating. “I don’t understand.”

At first the words were said as a statement, an appeal. But as time had gone by and no explanations came, and all efforts to comfort him had failed, the words and the rocking became simply rote. A primal whisper.

Matheo had tried to comfort Patrick. His instincts were good, but his technique was lacking.

“Shove over,” Lea had said. “He’s got grief, not gas. You look like you’re burping him.”

Matheo had been patting Patrick on the back and repeating, “It’ll be all right.”

“And by the way”—Lea leaned over and lowered her voice—“it won’t be all right.”

Matheo watched as his wife took Patrick’s hand. Patrick looked at Lea, his focus still hazy after the pills and the sleep.

Matheo felt a pang of the old jealousy.

What was it about Patrick that brought out the mother in women? Whatever it was, it brought out the bully in Matheo. All he wanted to do was kick the guy in the ass.

Even now. He knew it was unreasonable, even cruel, but he wanted to scream at him to get a grip. Sit up straight. Do something besides rock and cry. They had to talk. They had to work this out. And Patrick, once again, was no use at all.

Matheo got up and walked to the fireplace, taking his frustrations out on the logs. Hitting them with the poker.

This was first-year university all over again. Lord of the Flies all over again.

When they’d all intertwined. And never really disentangled.

That first year, when they met. When this all began. The events that had brought them to this terrible place in a beautiful spot.

“I thought you might like something,” said Gabri, standing in the archway between the dining and living room of the B&B, holding a tray with a teapot. “I’ll have dinner ready before long. I didn’t think you’d want to go to the bistro.”

“Merci,” said Matheo, taking the tray from him and setting it on the coffee table beside the brownies he and Lea had bought at the bakery.

Gabri returned a minute later with another tray. Of booze. And put it on a sideboard by the crackling fireplace.

Then, bending over the grieving man, he whispered, “I don’t understand either, but I do know they’ll find out who did this.”

But the words didn’t comfort Patrick. He seemed to collapse more into himself.

“Do you think so?” Patrick mumbled.

“I do.”

As Gabri straightened up, he wondered if the lament, I don’t understand, was about more than his wife’s murder.

He also wondered why he had the insane desire to slap the man.

Gabri returned to his kitchen and poured himself a bulbous glass of red wine. And sat on a stool by the counter, looking out the back window into the darkness.

Getting up to prepare the shepherd’s pie, comfort food for their dinner, Gabri suspected his guests would find very little peace in whatever Gamache discovered. And probably no comfort in the food.

As the kitchen filled with the aromas of sautéing garlic and onions and gravy and ground meat browning, he thought about the four friends and the close bond they shared. It had been obvious from that first visit, years earlier.

It had always seemed such a wonderful thing, this friendship. This camaraderie. This trust.

Until this visit.

Something had been off, from the start. And not just the timing of it. Late October instead of August, which itself was baffling. Why come when it was cold and gray and the world was going to sleep or going to die?

Why now?

The darkness and chill of November was not simply outside. It had crept into the B&B, with these guests. These friends.

They were friendly, but less friendly. They were happy. But less happy. They were enjoying being together. But less so. They spent less time together and, despite invitations, less time with Gabri and Olivier and the others in the bistro.

Then the cobrador had arrived and the chill had spread over the entire village.

And now this. Katie was dead. Someone had taken her life.

“Gone,” he said out loud, in hopes maybe it would sink in.

But more than Katie was gone. He could feel it in the living room. It was unmistakable.

They were still a close-knit circle. An old circle, that much was obvious. If the Stonehenge rocks could breathe, they’d be these friends. But now Gabri, as he drained the potatoes, found himself wondering what their relationship, through the years, over lifetimes, really had been.

Had they been comrades-in-arms in the trenches? Protecting each other? Brothers and sisters, perhaps, in the same nursery? Wives and husbands and lovers? Eternal best friends?

Or something else entirely. They were a circle, and probably always had been. But now something was clear that had been hidden before.

He had an image of the great Stonehenge rocks, leaning forward, leaning inward. Drawn to each other.

But the very force that drew them together made them fall.

And when the dust settled, they were all down. Crumbled. What was once mighty, a thing to behold, was now destroyed.

“Gone,” muttered Gabri as he poured cream onto the steaming Yukon Golds and slapped in pats of butter, then considered the potatoes.

“Oh, what the hell.”

Going to the fridge, he got out a brick of Gruyère and carved off chunks of cheese, watching them melt into the butter and cream and potatoes.

Then Gabri started to mash. Rocking back and forth, putting his considerable weight into getting every lump out.

“I don’t understand,” he mumbled as he rocked. Back and forth.

“How could this have happened?” Matheo whispered to Lea as they stood warming themselves by the fire.

This had been a bad idea from the beginning. But at least it hadn’t been his idea. That was some comfort and some protection.

But just now he’d begun to worry. It could be made to look like his idea. Easily.

It wouldn’t be hard to convince Gamache that he’d been the instigator. And from there it was a fairly short jump to murderer.

Matheo began to wonder if that’d been the plan all along. To not just have plausible deniability, but someone plausible to hang it on.

But that would mean this had been a very long time in the planning. Longer than even he realized. And it would need the collaboration of others. Of Lea.

Was that possible?

Matheo put his glass on the mantelpiece.

“What is it?” asked Lea. She could see his anxiety.

“It’d be easy to blame one of us,” he said, lowering his head and dropping his voice.

“For Katie’s murder?”

“For everything. Have you thought of that?”

The fact was, Lea was just coming to the same conclusion. That whoever got to Gamache first had the advantage of framing the story. Framing them.

There was a slight tapping on the windowpanes. Not rain. Not snow. But something in between.

The world outside was changing. And not for the better.

And they were out there. Everywhere, it seemed. Everywhere they turned. The police. Scurrying around. Crawling around. Looking in dark corners. Opening locked doors. Dragging things into the open that should remain hidden.

She and Matheo had been interviewed, while Patrick had slept. They’d been at a loss what to say, so they’d said nothing.

“They’re going to find out eventually.” Lea nodded toward Patrick. “I thought for sure he was going to tell them when they broke the news.”

“I thought so too, but I think he was just too stunned. And then there was the Ativan. That was a good idea.”

“One pill,” she said.

“Of course. Who in their right mind would give him more?”

She could hear the threat in his voice. She wasn’t afraid of him. Not really. Not normally. But none of this was normal.

“So why did you?” he asked.

“I didn’t.”

“I’m not Gamache. I’m not the cops,” said Matheo. “You can’t lie to me. You know what I know. Or,” he leaned closer to her, “do you know more?”

“Don’t. You. Dare,” she whispered. More a hiss.

She was his size. And while she couldn’t take him physically, she could always take him intellectually. Not that Matheo was that dumb, but Lea was that smart. Clever. They all knew it. She knew it.

She had always managed to control him. Mostly, she knew, because unlike Matheo, she could control herself.

Though she felt that slipping now. It was all slipping away. It was as though they were caught in a mudslide, and going under.

They’d all lied to the police. They said they knew nothing when, in fact, they knew everything.

“We’re fucked,” said Matheo.

“Katie’s dead,” said Lea. “And you’re the one who’s fucked? Get your head out of your own ass. Stop thinking about yourself.”

“Oh, and you’re not?”

Lea held his eyes, trying not to give him the satisfaction of knowing he was right. Lea Roux had discovered something about herself that day.

When swept away by a mudslide, all she wanted to do was save herself.

God help me, she thought. She’d always hoped she’d be like the members of the band on the Titanic. Or a German hiding a Jew in the attic.

But now she knew better. When the iceberg struck, she’d toss children out of the lifeboat.

When the knock came, in the middle of the night, she’d point to the hidden doorway.

Yes, she thought. More than Katie had died that day. The cold carcass of the woman Lea thought she was, hoped she was, had also been discovered.

Still, maybe it wasn’t too late. Maybe there was still a heartbeat.

She’d had some time now to think.

Matheo had been right about one thing. The first person in had the advantage.

She looked at the carriage clock on the mantelpiece. Just after six. She could smell something delicious coming from the kitchen.

“I think I’ll go for a walk,” she said.

“It’s raining or sleeting or something out,” said Matheo. “Or were you planning a very short walk?”

He tilted his head toward the Gamache home, just across the road from the B&B.

Hearing his tone, she could almost taste the mud.

“You’re not going anywhere,” said Matheo. “And neither am I. We stick together.”

He studied his wife. But he was under no illusions. He’d always known, from the first time they’d met at the Université de Montréal.

She was effective. She was clever and clearheaded. And she was something else.

Lea Roux was ruthless.

But then, so was he. It’s what had gotten them to where they were.