The child sat at the next picnic table and immediately spilled a Coke in one direction and knocked over the salt shaker in the other. His mother made Number Five take a pinch of salt and toss it over his shoulder. Gamache watched with interest. Peter brought over a platter of hamburgers, slices of barbecued lamb and a pyramid of corn on the cob while Olivier put down a tray of beers and bright pink lemonades.

“For God’s sake, qu’est-ce que tu fais? There’re ants everywhere, and just wait. Wasps’ll come and sting you.”

Mom grabbed the boy’s arm and yanked Number Five to another table, leaving the mess for someone else to clean up.

“Everyone comes back for this week,” said Olivier, taking a long sip of cold beer and surveying the gathering. “They arrive just before Saint-Jean-Baptiste and stay until after Canada Day.”

“How’d you celebrate Saint-Jean-Baptiste last weekend?” Gamache asked.

“Fiddlers, clogging and a barbecue,” said Gabri.

“Is Number Five a visitor? I’ve never seen him before,” said Reine-Marie.

“Who?” asked Olivier and when Reine-Marie nodded to her clogging mate he laughed. “Oh, him. He’s from Winnipeg. You call him Number Five? We call him Shithead.”

“For simplicity,” said Gabri. “Like Cher or Madonna.”

“Or Gabri,” said Reine-Marie. “Do you know, I’ve never actually heard the name Gabri before. Is it short for Gabriel?”

“It is.”

“But don’t most Gabriels get called Gaby for short?”

“I’m not most Gabriels,” said Gabri.

“I’m sorry, mon beau.” Reine-Marie reached out to comfort the huge hurt man. “I would never suggest you are. I’ve always liked the name Gabriel. The archangel.”

This went some way to smoothing Gabri’s feathers. For a startled instant Reine-Marie could actually imagine full, powerful gray wings settling into place on Gabri’s back.

“We have a son named Daniel, you know. And a daughter Annie. We chose names that would work in both English and French. Gabriel does too.”

“C’est vrai,” said Gabri. “Gabriel I like but in school everyone called me Gaby. I hated that. So I made up my own name. Gabri. Voilà.”

“Hard to believe they called you Gaby,” said Olivier, smiling.

“I know,” said Gabri, not appreciating the sarcasm. But a moment later he caught Reine-Marie’s eye with an amused look, confirming he wasn’t nearly as oblivious or self-absorbed as he pretended.

They all watched as Shithead took a lick of his Coaticook ice cream, spilled more salt and again shot the Coke can across the table. It skidded over the salt, hit a bump and fell over. He started crying. Mom, after soothing him, took a pinch of spilled salt and tossed it over his shoulder. For luck. Gamache thought the only luck Number Five would have would be if his mother made him clean up after himself instead of moving each time he made a mess.

Gamache looked over at the first picnic table. Sure enough, ants and wasps swarmed over the sweet puddles of Coke.

“Hamburger, Armand?” Reine-Marie held out the burger, then lowered it. She recognized the look on her husband’s face. He’d seen something. She looked over but saw only an empty picnic table and a few wasps.

But he saw a murder.

He saw ants and bees, the statue, the black walnut, Canada Day and its counterpart Saint-Jean-Baptiste. He saw summer jobs and greed and the wickedness that would wait decades to crush Julia Morrow.

And he finally had something to write in that last column.

How.

How a father had walked off his pedestal and crushed his daughter.

TWENTY-NINE

Armand Gamache kissed his wife goodbye just as the first huge drops of rain fell with a splat. No mist or atmospheric drizzle for this Canada Day. It was a day for plump, ripe, juicy rain.

“You know, don’t you,” she whispered into his ear as he embraced her.

He pulled back and nodded.

Peter and Clara climbed into the Volvo like two shell-shocked veterans returning to the front line. Already Peter’s hair stood on end.

“Wait,” Reine-Marie called just as Armand opened the driver’s side door. She took her husband aside for a moment, ignoring the drops plopping all around them. “I forgot to tell you. I remembered where I’d seen Chef Véronique before. You have too, I’m sure of it.”

She told him and his eyes widened, surprised. She was right, of course. And so many vaguely troubling things suddenly made sense. The world-class chef hidden away. The army of young English workers. Never older, never French. Why she never greeted the guests. And why she lived, year round, on the shores of an isolated lake.