World of Curiosities

CHAPTER 14

“Come on,” said Fiona. “Enough, Sam. They’ll be home soon. We have to get out.”

But Sam was wandering around the Gamaches’ living room as though he owned it, picking up objects and putting them back slightly askew. Moving furniture just a few inches this way or that, Fiona following behind, putting everything back the way it was.

The dogs, used to Fiona, hadn’t protested when she’d let herself and Sam in.

He was filming as he went along, opening drawers and cupboards. Examining books and mementos and family photographs. Picking one up, he recognized Jean-Guy Beauvoir. Older now, with two children. But unmistakable. He’d seen him at the graduation, of course, the first time they’d met in years.

Sam took a photo of that photo, then replaced it. But not quite as he’d found it.

He scanned the books on the shelves, then went into the study and sat at the computer. Tapping the keyboard, he woke it up. It was locked, of course, but he stared at the screen saver photo of the four grandchildren.

“Sam, enough.” Fiona stood at the threshold to the study.

But it was not enough.

He went upstairs while she returned to the kitchen, where she had a good view of Clara’s home. All was quiet. But if they returned and discovered what she’d done, the whole thing could be blown. She could probably explain and Madame Gamache might believe it, but she was far from sure Monsieur Gamache would.

A few minutes later she found Sam lying on Armand and Reine-Marie’s bed.

“Oh, shit. Get off. They’ll know someone’s been here.”

But he continued to lie there. “Which side is his, do you think? I think this one. He’s reading something called What Might Have Been. It’s alternative history. Looks interesting.”

He put the book down, then picked it up again and moved the bookmark. Then he went into the bathroom and sprayed some cologne onto himself.

“Mmmm,” he said. “Sandalwood. Nice.”

“Oh, God,” she moaned, and opened the window to air out the scent. With Sam she always felt like the character in the circus cartoon, cleaning up the shit.

Before leaving, he found the door into the basement.

“Merde,” said Fiona, her voice rising. “They’re coming.”

“Is that where it is?” he asked, pointing down into the darkness. “The room you told me about?”

She hustled him to the French doors from the living room onto the back patio. “You’ve got to go.”

A minute later the front door opened.

“We’re home,” called Reine-Marie, in a singsong voice.

“I’ll take the dogs out,” said Armand.

“No, let me,” said Fiona.

“It’s all right. I can.”

“Please. I’d like the air.”

He stepped aside, though he stood at the open door and watched, wondering why she’d been so insistent.

Fiona tossed the ratty old tennis ball on the village green and watched Henri race and Fred lumber after it. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Sam come around the B&B. From the side garden. A direct line from the Gamache home.

“May I join you?”

Fiona started and realized Monsieur Gamache was walking across the road toward her.

“Of course.”

Did he notice? Does he know? She couldn’t help but look toward the B&B, but there was no sign of Sam.

“I heard about the hidden room in Myrna’s loft,” he said, and noticed her relax, though he didn’t know why she’d been stressed. “You might’ve solved a problem.”

“Might not be there,” she said, throwing the ball again. “But I thought I should mention it, in case.”

They strolled along through the dusk. The sun set late as they approached the summer solstice, but when it did, a chill set in.

“Do you know what you’ll do with your degree?” he asked.

“Well, it’s a little difficult, but I’m sure I’ll find something. I have some nibbles. Can I run them by you?”

“Absolutely.”

It was Monsieur Gamache who’d encouraged her to consider engineering. She’d never heard of the profession and thought, understandably, it had something to do with trains.

But when he explained and took books to her in prison on the subject, she got very excited. It was as though her world suddenly made sense. Those intricate models in Sam’s room, which Chief Inspector Gamache thought the boy had made, had actually been put together by Fiona and given to her brother.

Once Monsieur Gamache realized his mistake, he began to take the girl models and puzzles of increasing difficulty and intricacy.

Finally, during one of his visits to the prison, Fiona had asked him about the École Polytechnique and if she could take university courses remotely. He’d used his connections with the Chancellor to advocate for her. And now, many years later, here she was. A graduate mechanical engineer.

While the road ahead for Fiona was far from clear, at least there was one. And he was fairly confident the young woman could pull it together.

Her brother was a different story. Still, he’d be gone in a few days, Fiona would move into the monitored halfway house in Montréal, and life in Three Pines would return to normal.

But once again, he was wrong.

Later that night while brushing his teeth, Armand picked up the very slight scent of his cologne, though he hadn’t put any on that day.

When he went to get into bed, he noticed the slight indent of a head on his pillow. It was odd, but sometimes Henri snuck onto their bed when they were out.

Opening his book, Armand froze, all his senses tingling.

The bookmark had been moved.

Had it been just that, he’d have thought it must’ve dropped on the floor and the bookmark fallen out. And someone, probably Reine-Marie, had slipped it back in the wrong place.

But it was not just that. There was also the cologne and the pillow.

He got out of bed, careful not to disturb Reine-Marie, who was already asleep.

“Stay here,” he whispered to Henri and Gracie, who’d lifted their heads. Fred was mostly deaf now and would sleep through anything except the slight rustle of the kibble bag.

Putting on his dressing gown, Armand first searched the upstairs rooms for an intruder. He paused at Fiona’s room, then moved on. He was pretty sure he knew who had been there. And might still be.

Moving downstairs, he double-checked that the front door was locked, then picked up the baseball bat that was leaning against the doorjamb as he searched the rest of the main floor.

Methodical, stealthy, hyperalert. His trained senses took in everything.

In the study he noticed other subtle signs. The desk chair had been turned around and some items had been moved. Slightly.

He touched the keyboard and the computer sprang to life, showing the screen saver.

Returning to the living room, he stood quietly. Something was different. Something was wrong. And then he saw it.

One of the photographs had been turned around so that it faced away from the room. He picked it up.

The framed picture was of the family at Christmas. He, Reine-Marie, and Stephen were holding the children. Daniel, Annie, and their spouses were standing behind them. Somehow Ruth had managed to photobomb them, peeking in from the side of the picture.

Everyone was smiling. Laughing. The Christmas tree, festooned with strings of tinsel and Christmas lights and baubles, was in the background.

He stared at the photograph and fought to keep his head above this outrage, even as it threatened to overwhelm him.

He had no doubt that it was a deliberate message. And he knew who’d sent it.

Armand took three deep breaths, and when he felt his heart return to normal, he turned to the one place he hadn’t yet searched.

Gripping the baseball bat, he opened the door to the basement and turned on the lights. There were two rooms down there, the largest of which had a dirt floor and was used for storage. Shelves of preserves lined one wall. A large chest sat on a pallet. He opened it and saw the winter blankets and smelled the cedar. There was a small pile of bricks on the dirt floor. He’d meant to get rid of them. Maybe, he thought, he should offer them to Harriet.

Luggage and boxes with Christmas ornaments sat on wooden pallets against the far wall. Firewood was carefully stacked up for the winter.

Finally, he stood in front of the second room. Its closed door was different from any other in the house. This was of solid metal and not just locked but bolted.

He punched in the code and stepped inside.

Turning on the overhead lights, he looked at the bank of special fireproof file cabinets, essentially vaults. Near impossible for anyone, even a skilled safecracker, to break into.

The floor of this room was concrete. Armand had had it poured just before the special cabinets had been installed.

Against one wall there was a desk, a reading lamp. A chair. It was the sort of room a cloistered monk from the Middle Ages would have found sparse.

These were Armand’s archives. The notes, interviews, papers, photographs, testimony. Evidence from cases, solved and unsolved.

These were his own files, containing evidence gathered but unused. All the secrets people had told him in the course of his investigations. All the notes from his subsequent private investigations, done on his own time.

He kept them here, safe under lock and key.

Armand stood in the middle of the room and looked around. He knew that no one had been in there. Still, he paused a moment. To be sure.

As he left, relocking the door behind him, something on the ground caught his eye. Thinking it was the tab of a soft drink can, he stooped to pick it up.

Brushing off the dirt, he saw that it was a ring. Thin, iron, with worn facets where the edge had been pounded.

It was an engineer’s ring.

He stood there very quietly, then heard a sound behind him. Turning quickly and raising the bat, he saw it was Fred. The old dog had followed him down. He was standing in front of the shelf with the large bag of dog food, his tail slowly swishing from side to side.

Armand placed the ring in his dressing gown pocket, leaned the bat against the cinder block wall, and picked Fred up in both arms. He knew that while Fred could make it down the stairs, he could not make it back up.

After rechecking the windows and doors, he went back to bed. Picking up his book, he read for a while, then turned off the light and fell asleep, wondering what if …