“Why do you say that?” asked Gamache.

“It’s a Vancouver day. She used to tell me how moody it was. Said it suited her.”

“Was she moody?”

Peter watched as his pebble took four skips before sinking. “She was. But then I always think of her as twenty-one. I didn’t see much of her after she left.”

“Why not?” Gamache watched his friend closely. There was a definite disadvantage to investigating a friend for murder. But there were advantages too. Like knowing when they were hiding something.

“We’re not a close family. I sometimes wonder what’ll happen after Mother goes. She’s the one we come to see, the others are just there.”

“Maybe it’ll bring you together.”

“Maybe. It might be a blessing. But I don’t think so. I didn’t choose to see Julia, but she didn’t choose to see us either. She was happy in Vancouver with David and she forgot all about us. And frankly, months, years, would go by before I thought about her.”

“What would remind you?”

“Pardon?”

“What would bring her to mind? You say years could go by, but what would make her come back into your head?”

“Nothing much.”

“You do know I’m not just making conversation. These questions are important, even if they don’t seem it.”

Gamache had spoken uncharacteristically sternly and it was true that Peter had forgotten he was speaking with the head of homicide for the Sûreté du Québec.

“I’m sorry. Why would I think of her?” He thought about it, then felt a pinch when he realized what the answer was. “Because she’d call or write. We’d get postcards from all over. She and David travelled a lot.”

“She reached out to you,” said Gamache.

“Only when she wanted something. My sister might have appeared nice and kind but she was very canny. She almost always got what she wanted.”

“And what would she want? Not money, surely.”

“No, she had plenty of that. I think she just wanted to hurt. To make us feel guilty. It was her little game. Sending cards, phoning occasionally, but always making sure we knew she was the one who’d made the first move. We owed her. It was subtle, but we Morrows are nothing if not subtle.”

Not as subtle as you think, Gamache thought.

“We’re a greedy family, Gamache. Greedy and even cruel. I know that. Why do you think I live with Clara in Three Pines? To get as far away as possible. I know salvation when I see it. And Julia? You want to know about Julia?” He heaved a stone as far as he could into the iron waters. “She was the cruellest, the greediest, of us all.”

Sandra snuffed out her cigarette and smiled, smoothing down her slacks. They were tight, but Sandra knew country air made things shrink. Then she walked back into the Manoir. The dining room was empty. There, at the far end, was the dessert tray.

But a movement caught her eye.

Bean.

What was the child doing? Stealing the best desserts, probably.

The two stared at each other and then Sandra noticed something white and gleaming in Bean’s hand. She moved closer.

It was a cookie. A chocolate-covered marshmallow cookie, with the chocolate eaten off, leaving just the mallow and the biscuit, and a guilty-looking child holding it.

“Bean, what’ve you been doing?”

“Nothing.”

“That means something. Now tell me.”

Just then an object fell and bounced on the floor between them. Sandra looked up. Dotted on the cathedral ceiling, between and sometimes on the old maple beams, were cookies. Bean had licked the marshmallow then tossed the cookies at the ceiling, sticking them there.

It was a constellation of cookies.

There must have been a pack and a half up there.

Sandra looked sternly at the odd child. And then, just as she opened her mouth to chastise, something else came out. Laughter. A small burp of amusement, then another. Bean, steeled for rebuke, looked surprised. But not half as surprised as Sandra, who’d expected to scold and instead had laughed.

“Want one?”

Bean held out the box and Sandra took one.

“You do thith, thee,” said Bean, sucking the chocolate cone off the top. “Then you lick it.” Bean did. “Then you toss it.”

Bean hurled the moistened cookie toward the ceiling. Sandra watched, breath held, to see if it stuck. It did.

“Try it. I’ll show you.”

Bean, patient and clear, a born teacher, taught Sandra how to stick cookies to the ceiling. Granted, Sandra was a natural, and before long the dining room ceiling was covered, a form of insulation undreamed of by the Robber Barons or the Abinaki. Or Madame Dubois.