A Fatal Grace

‘Well, that was interesting,’ said Beauvoir as the two men walked through the gathering snow back to the Incident Room.



‘What struck you as interesting?’ Gamache asked, his hands behind his back as he walked.



‘Mother. She’s hiding something.’



‘Perhaps. But could she be the murderer? She was curling the whole time.’



‘But she might have wired up the chair before the curling began.’



‘True. And she might have spilled windshield washer fluid. But how did she get CC to touch the chair before anyone else? There were children running around. Any of them might have grabbed the chair. Kaye might have.’



‘Those two fought the whole time we were there. Maybe Madame Thompson was supposed to get electrocuted. Maybe Mother killed the wrong person.’



‘It’s possible,’ said Gamache. ‘But I don’t think Madame Mayer would risk other lives.’



‘So the curlers are out?’ Beauvoir asked, disappointed.



‘I think so, but when we meet Madame Longpré tomorrow at the lake we’ll have a better idea.’



Beauvoir sighed.



He was frankly astonished the entire community hadn’t died of boredom. Just talking about curling was sucking the will to live right out of him. It was like some Anglo joke, an excuse to wear plaid and yell. Most Anglos, he’d noticed, didn’t like to raise their voices. Francophones were constantly gesturing and shouting and hugging. Beauvoir wasn’t sure why Anglos even had arms, except perhaps to carry all their money. Curling at least gave them an excuse to vent. He’d watched the Briar once on CBC television, for a moment. All he remembered was a bunch of men holding brooms and staring at a rock while one of them screamed.



‘How could someone have electrocuted CC de Poitiers and no one notice?’ Beauvoir asked as they entered the warm Incident Room, stomping their boots to get the worst of the snow off.



‘I don’t know,’ admitted Gamache, walking right past Agent Nichol, who was trying to catch his eye. She’d been sitting at an empty desk when he’d left and she was still there.



Shaking his coat off Gamache hung it up. Beside him Beauvoir was fastidiously brushing the small drift from the shoulders of his own coat.



‘Glad I don’t have to shovel this.’



‘Let every man shovel out his own snow, and the whole city will be passable,’ said Gamache. Seeing Beauvoir’s puzzled expression he added, ‘Emerson.’



‘Lake and Palmer?’



‘Ralph and Waldo.’



Gamache walked back to his desk, knowing his mind should be on the case, but finding it lingering on Nichol, wondering whether they were both in too deep.



Emerson, Ralph and Waldo? What was that? thought Beauvoir. Some obscure hippy group from the ’60s probably. The lyrics didn’t even make sense.



While Beauvoir hummed ‘Lucky Man,’ Gamache downloaded his messages, read for half an hour, listened to reports, then put his coat, tuque and gloves back on and took himself off.



Round and round the village green he walked, through the falling snow. He passed people on snowshoes and others gliding along on cross-country skis. He waved at villagers shoveling their paths and driveways. Billy Williams came by, driving a snowplow, throwing cascades of snow off the road and onto people’s lawns. No one seemed to mind. What’s another foot?



But mostly Gamache thought.



EIGHTEEN



‘Sir.’



‘Sir.’



‘Sir.’



As Gamache walked back into the Incident Room he was met with a chorus of people wanting to speak to him.



‘Sir, Agent Lemieux’s on the line from Montreal.’



‘Ask him to hold for a moment. I’ll take it in there.’ He nodded to the small office.



‘Sir,’ Agent Isabelle Lacoste called across the room. ‘I’ve got a problem here.’



‘Sir.’ Beauvoir came up beside him. ‘We’ve called the lab about the photos. They don’t have them yet, but will let us know as soon as they arrive.’



‘Good. Go see if you can help Agent Lacoste. I’ll be there shortly. Agent Nichol?’



All activity in the room stopped. It seemed impossible that the cacophony could cease so quickly, but it did. All eyes turned to Nichol, then swung back to Gamache.



‘Come with me.’



All eyes, and Nichol, followed Gamache into the tiny office.



‘Please sit.’ Gamache nodded to the only chair in the room, then picked up the phone. ‘Put Lemieux through, please.’ He waited a moment. ‘Agent? Where are you?’