“What can I do for you?” The voice sounded as though she’d swallowed it.

Beauvoir stared.

“Is something wrong?” the throaty voice asked, as the roast was slapped down on the maple cutting block.

Beauvoir was all tingles. He tried to stop staring, but couldn’t. Instead of feeling his heart racing, he actually felt it slow down. Calm down. Something happened and all the tension, all the excess energy, all the insistence, left.

He relaxed.

“Do I know you?” she asked.

“I’m sorry.” He stepped forward. “I’m Inspector Beauvoir. Jean Guy Beauvoir, with the Sûreté.”

“Of course. I should have known.”

“Why? Do you know me?” he asked, hopeful.

“No, I know Madame Martin was killed.”

He was disappointed. He wanted her to know him. To explain this familiarity he suddenly felt. It was disquieting.

Beauvoir looked at the woman who had done this to him. She must have been almost sixty, was built like an oak, moved like a trucker, spoke as if she’d swallowed a tuba.

“Who are you?” he managed to get out.

“I’m the chef here. Véronique Langlois.”

Véronique Langlois. It was a lovely name but it meant nothing. He felt sure he knew her.

“What can I do to help?” she asked.

What could she do to help? Think, man, think.

“The maître d’. I’m looking for him.”

“He’s probably through there.” She pointed to swinging double doors from the kitchen. Beauvoir thanked her and walked out in a daze.

Through the French doors he saw the maître d’ talking to one of the waiters on the deserted terrasse outside.

“You think this job is so difficult? Try planting trees or working in a mine, or cutting lawns at a cemetery all summer.”

“Look, I don’t care what you did at my age. It doesn’t interest me. All I know is Julia Martin’s dead and someone here did it.”

“Do you know anything about her death, Elliot?”

There was silence.

“Don’t be foolish, boy. If you know something—”

“You think I’d tell you? She was a decent person and someone killed her. That’s all I know.”

“You’re lying. You spent time with her, didn’t you?”

“Time? What? All the spare time you give us? I work twelve hours a day, when would I have time to spend with anyone?”

“Are you going to go through life complaining?”

“Depends. Are you going to go through life bending over?”

Elliot turned and stomped away. Beauvoir held back, curious to see what the maître d’ would do when he thought no one was watching.

Pierre Patenaude stared after Elliot, grateful no one had heard their conversation. It’d been a mistake to tell Elliot about his own summer jobs, he could see that. But it was too late now. Then he remembered his father’s words, spoken in the boardroom, surrounded by ancient, serious men.

“Everyone gets a second chance. But not a third.”

He’d fired a man that day. Pierre had seen it. It was horrible.

This was Elliot’s third chance. He’d have to fire Elliot. Once the investigation was over and the police gone. It was no use doing it before that, since Elliot had to hang around anyway. The maître d’ hadn’t had to fire many people, but every time he did he thought of that day in the boardroom, and his father. And he thought of what his father did later.

Years after the firing his father had quietly invested hundreds of thousands of his own dollars into helping the man he’d fired start his own company.

He’d given him a third chance after all. But then he suspected his father was kinder than he was.

Turning round Pierre was startled to see a man watching through the doors. Then he waved as the Inspector joined him on the stone terrasse.

“I’ve arranged accommodations for you and the other officer. We’ve put you in the main building, not far from the Chief Inspector.”

Beauvoir swatted a mosquito. More swarmed.

“Merci, Patron. Quite a kid.” Beauvoir gestured toward Elliot’s retreating back.

“You heard that? I’m sorry. He’s just upset.”

Beauvoir had thought the maître d’ heroic for not punching the kid but now he wondered if Pierre Patenaude wasn’t just weak, letting others, even kids, walk all over him. Beauvoir didn’t like weakness. Murderers were weak.

They left the maître d’ and the technicians to sort out the electrical problems while Gamache, Reine-Marie and Beauvoir headed to Three Pines. Beauvoir sat in the back seat. Behind Mom and Dad. He quite liked the thought. Ever since his encounter with the chef he’d felt strangely relaxed.