A Rule Against Murder

“Do you know the chef at the Manoir?” he asked, casually.



“I don’t think I’ve met him,” said Reine-Marie.



“Her,” said Beauvoir. “Véronique Langlois.” Just saying her name calmed him. It was the oddest sensation.



Reine-Marie shook her head. “Armand?”



“I met her for the first time this morning.”



“Strange that we haven’t met her,” said Reine-Marie. “I thought chefs loved to take bows. Maybe we met her and forgot.”



“Believe me, she’s not easily forgotten,” said Gamache, remembering the massive, confident woman. “Agent Lacoste will have interviewed the staff by the time we get back. She’ll know more about her then. You know, I had the feeling I knew her.”



“Me too.” Beauvoir sat forward between the two front seats. “Have you ever been walking down the street and smelled something, and suddenly you’re someplace else? It’s as if the smell transports you.”



With anyone other than the Chief Inspector he’d feel foolish saying that.



“I do. But it’s more than that,” said Gamache. “A feeling goes with it. I’ll suddenly feel melancholy or at ease or calm. For no reason, except the scent.”



“Oui, c’est ça. Especially an emotion. That’s what I felt when I walked into the kitchen.”



“Was it just the smells of the kitchen, do you think?” Reine-Marie asked.



Beauvoir considered. “No. I didn’t have that feeling until I saw the chef. It was her. It’s frustrating. It’s as if it’s just beyond my grasp. But I know her.”



“And how did you feel?” asked Madame Gamache.



“I felt safe.”



He’d also felt an almost overwhelming desire to laugh. A sort of joy had bubbled up in his chest.



He thought about that as the Volvo splashed along the muddy roads toward the village of Three Pines.



FIFTEEN



The Volvo came to rest on the crest of the hill. All three got out and walked to the edge, looking down on the tiny village. It sat in a gentle valley, surrounded by forested hills and mountains.



Gamache had never seen Three Pines in summer. The leaves of the maple, apple and oak trees obscured slightly the old homes round the village green. But that made them all the more magical, as though half hiding their beauty only added to it. Three Pines revealed itself slowly, and only to people with the patience to wait, to sit quietly in one of the faded armchairs in the bistro, sipping Cinzano or café au lait, and watch the changing face of the venerable village.



To their right the white spire of the chapel rose, and the Rivière Bella Bella tumbled down from the millpond then meandered behind the homes and businesses.



In a semicircle at the far end of the village green the shops sat in a small brick embrace. Myrna’s new and used bookstore, Olivier’s Bistro, with its bold blue and white umbrellas protecting the assortment of chairs and tables on the sidewalk. Next to that Sarah’s Boulangerie. An elderly, erect woman was just leaving, limping and carrying a sagging net bag. She was followed by a duck.



“Ruth.” Gamache nodded. Rosa the duck was a dead giveaway. They watched as the embittered old poet went into the general store. Rosa waited outside.



“If we hurry we can miss her,” said Beauvoir, turning for the car.



“But I don’t want to miss her,” said Reine-Marie. “I called her from the Manoir. We’re having tea together this afternoon.”



Beauvoir stared at Madame Gamache, as though for the last time. She was about to be devoured by Ruth Zardo, who ground up good people and turned them into poetry.



Villagers walked dogs and ran errands or, more precisely, strolled errands. Some could be seen with their floppy gardening hats and gloves and rubber boots kneeling in the moist gardens, snipping roses for bouquets. Each home had an abundant perennial bed. Nothing designed, no new species, none of the latest horticultural offerings. Nothing that wouldn’t have been found in gardens by soldiers returning home from the Great War. Three Pines changed, but it changed slowly.



Back in the car they drove slowly down rue du Moulin and came to a stop at Gabri’s B and B. The large, rumpled man in his mid-thirties stood on the wide porch, as though waiting for them.



“Salut, mes amis.” He walked down the wooden stairs and grabbed Reine-Marie’s case from Gamache after giving them all, even Beauvoir, an affectionate hug and kiss on both cheeks. “Welcome back.”



“Merci, Patron.” Gamache smiled, enjoying being back in the little village.