Bury Your Dead
Sandalwood, she recognized. It was a nice fragrance and the larger man had kind eyes, thoughtful eyes, and was smiling at her. Still, she couldn’t pay the landlord with smiles, though God knows she’d tried. Couldn’t feed her kids the kindness of strangers. She needed these men gone and new bums on the seats.
“Can we speak to the manager, please.” Gamache saw her alarm and hastened to reassure her. “No complaints, not at all. We have a favor to ask. In fact, perhaps you could help too. Did you know Augustin Renaud?”
“The Champlain guy, the one who was killed? Sure.”
“But did you know him personally?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Did he ever come into the restaurant?”
“A few times. Everyone knew him. I waited on him once, a few weeks ago.”
“Was he alone, or was someone else with him?”
“Always alone.”
“Do you remember all your customers?” Émile asked and was treated to her scrutiny.
“Not all,” she said dismissively. “Only the memorable ones. Augustin Renaud was memorable. A local celebrity.”
“But he only started coming in recently?” asked Gamache.
“Last few weeks I guess. Why?”
“Did he ever speak to the manager?”
“You can ask her yourself.” She pointed with the coffee pot to a young woman by the cash register.
Gamache gave her a twenty-dollar tip then they walked over to introduce themselves. The manager, a polite young woman, answered their questions. Yes, she remembered Augustin Renaud. Yes, he’d asked to see their basement. She’d been afraid he’d wanted to dig down there.
“Did you show it to him?” Émile asked.
“I did.” Her eyes were wary, a naïve young woman afraid of doing the wrong thing and slowly realizing someone would always take exception.
“When was this?” Émile asked, his voice relaxed, disarming.
“A few weeks ago. Are you with the police?”
“We’re helping with the investigation,” said Gamache. “May we see your basement, please?”
She hesitated, but agreed. He was glad he didn’t need to get a search warrant, or ask Émile to fake a stroke while he snuck down unseen.
The basement was low and once again they had to duck. The walls were cinder block and the floor was concrete. Boxes of wine and cases of beer were piled in cool corners, broken furniture was stacked in the back rooms.
Like skeletons, but not skeletons. There was no sign that this had ever been anything other than the basement of a dreary restaurant. Gamache thanked her and as she disappeared upstairs and Émile was halfway up, he paused.
“What is it?” Émile asked.
Gamache stood quietly. For all the fluorescent light, for the smell of beer and cardboard and cobwebs, for the weary feel of the place, Gamache wondered.
Could this have been it? Was this where Champlain had been buried?
Émile came back down the stairs. “What is it?” he repeated.
“Can I speak to your Champlain Society?”
“Of course you can. We’re meeting today at one thirty.”
“Wonderful,” said Gamache and headed for the stairs, energized. At the top, just before turning off the lights he looked down into the basement again.
“We meet in the room right beside the St-Laurent Bar, in the Château,” Émile said.
“I didn’t know there was such a room.”
“Not many do. We know all the secrets.”
Perhaps not all, thought Gamache as he snapped off the lights.
TWENTY–ONE
The men split up just outside the Old Homestead, with Émile going about his errands and Gamache turning right toward the Presbyterian church. He was tempted to go inside, to be in the calm interior and to speak with the young minister who had more to offer than he realized.
Gamache liked Tom Hancock. In fact, thinking about it as he walked, he liked everyone in this case. All the members of the Literary and Historical Society board, the members of the Champlain Society, he’d even liked, or at least understood, the Chief Archeologist.
And yet, one of them was almost certainly a murderer. One of them had taken a shovel to the back of Augustin Renaud’s head, burying him in the basement in the hopes and expectation the body would be cemented over. If the phone line hadn’t been severed Augustin Renaud might have disappeared as completely as Champlain.
Gamache paused for a moment to contemplate the façade of the Lit and His and think about the case.