by Louise Penny
“You make it sound like cause and effect,” said Gamache. “Something else might’ve happened to send him there.”
“That’s true.”
“It’s interesting that Katie knew about the painting of Ruth. The only way she could know about it was if the Baroness told her.”
“But that doesn’t mean it was in the letter.”
“No, no it doesn’t,” said Gamache. “So, to recap, we have two theories. One, that Katie wrote down exactly what the Baroness dictated. Two, that she did not.”
Beauvoir was nodding. “We don’t seem to be much closer.”
Though that was often the odd thing about a murder investigation. They could appear to be getting further from the truth, lost in the dust thrown up by all sorts contradictory statements. Evidence. Lies.
But then something was said, or seen, and everything that had seemed contradictory fell into place.
“That damned painting keeps coming up,” said Jean-Guy. “Bernard Shaeffer even mentioned it today when I spoke with him.”
He told Gamache about that interview.
“So he was there when Baumgartner hung it in his study,” said Gamache. “Then he helped get the laptop up and running.”
“That was supposedly why he was there,” said Beauvoir. “But then it turned into something else.”
“Shaeffer told you that Baumgartner was trying to think of a new password? Did he find one?”
“If he did, he was smart enough not to tell Shaeffer.”
“According to Shaeffer,” said Gamache.
“True. We’re still trying to crack it. We’ve searched the home, of course. I even looked behind that damned painting, but all I saw there was the print number.”
Gamache nodded, and then his brows drew together. “What did you see there?”
“It’s a numbered print. They write the number on it, so buyers know what—”
“Yes, yes,” said Gamache. “I know. We have some here, including one of Clara’s.”
He walked over to the wall by the long pine table. Beauvoir had seen the picture many times, including the original in Clara’s studio, when she’d first painted it.
Now he and his father-in-law stood in front of it.
Clara called it The Three Graces. But instead of showing three beautiful young women, naked and intertwined in a more than slightly erotic way, she’d painted three fully clothed elderly women from the village. Including the woman, Emilie, who used to own the Gamaches’ home.
They were wrinkled, sagging, frail. They held on to each other. Not because they were afraid or feeble. Just the opposite. These women were roaring with laughter. The work radiated joy. Friendship. Companionship. Power.
“The number of the print,” he said, reaching out to take the large painting off the wall, “is written on the back.”
“Actually—” Armand began, but it was too late. Jean-Guy had it off and had turned it around.
Something was indeed written there. But it was in Gamache’s familiar hand.
“For Reine-Marie, my Grace. With love forever, Armand.”
Jean-Guy colored, and, after quickly putting it back on the wall, he turned to look at Armand, who was watching him and smiling.
“Not exactly a secret,” said Armand. “Or a code. What I wanted to show you is that.”
Gamache pointed to the front of the painting. On the lower right were Clara’s signature and the numbers 7/12.
“I’ve seen that,” said Jean-Guy. “But I always thought that was the date it was finished.”
“No. It’s the number of the print. Seven of twelve.”
“She only printed twelve?”
“It was before she became successful,” said Armand. “She didn’t think she could even sell twelve.”
“So this must be worth—”
But he stopped and stared at The Three Graces. At the number. And grunted. “Huh. So what’s with the number on the back of Baumgartner’s painting?”
Gamache raised his brows, as did Jean-Guy. Who then walked quickly over to the phone in the kitchen and placed a call.
“Cloutier? The painting in Baumgartner’s study. Yes, the crazy old woman. There’s a number on the back. Did you make a note of it? Can you go over to the house and see? Better yet, bring the painting in. No, I’m not kidding. No, I don’t want it in my office. Keep it by your desk. Okay then, turn it to face the wall. I don’t care. Just get that number and try it on his laptop. I’ll be there in an hour.”
Beauvoir hung up and turned to Gamache.
“We’ll know soon. I don’t know what we’ll find on that computer, but I’m still betting those two out there”—he jerked his head toward the living room—“are in it over their ridiculous haircuts. I think Anthony Baumgartner was greedy. Scheming. Criminal. I don’t think he had any intention of sharing the wealth.”
“And you think that’s why he was killed?”
“I do. Don’t you?”
Gamache glanced toward the closed door, and Jean-Guy, who knew him well, could guess his thoughts.
“Look, patron, I know you don’t want Benedict to be the one. You like him. I like him. He saved your life. But—”
“You think that’s why I don’t believe it was Benedict?” asked Armand. “Because he did a nice thing?”
“It was a pretty nice thing,” said Beauvoir.
“True, but we’ve arrested too many nice killers to be fooled. I just don’t see any proof. That they’ve lied, yes, but if everyone who lied to us was a killer, there’d be slaughter in the streets. I just don’t believe it.”
“You don’t want to believe it.”
“Show me the proof and I will.”
“You talked about separating facts from all the lies in this case. Well, here’s a fact for you. Benedict was in the farmhouse when Baumgartner was there. He had opportunity and motive. I’m betting under all that rubble we’ll find the sledgehammer, or whatever weapon he used. And then their story will collapse, like the building. With them in it.”
The two men were used to arguing over cases. Challenging each other. Challenging theories, questioning evidence. This was nothing new. Though there was a slight edge to it, and Armand knew why.
Was he refusing to see what was so clear to Beauvoir? What would be so clear to him if he didn’t keep feeling the trembling body on top of him and hearing the crying. Of a young man terrified of dying but instinctively protecting another. A veritable stranger.
Could such a man, just hours earlier, have taken a life?
But Armand knew the answer to that. Yes. One was instinctive. The other well thought out. Premeditated. And maybe also, at a profound level, instinctive.
A parent would do a lot to provide for his child. And if that meant killing a—what had Katie called him? filthy, greedy, cheating, and lying Baumgartner—then so be it.
Yes, Armand had to admit. It could have been Benedict.
They returned to the living room, and Jean-Guy said his goodbyes, explaining that he had to get back to Montréal.
Myrna got up. “I’ll be leaving too. Those brownies won’t eat themselves.”
“I thought you said it was soup you left behind,” said Reine-Marie, walking her to the door.
“You must’ve misheard,” said Myrna.
“What about us?” asked Katie.
“You’re free to go,” said Beauvoir.
“Me too?” asked Benedict.
Beauvoir hesitated for a moment, then nodded.
They thanked the Gamaches for their hospitality.
“And the tires,” said Benedict, with a smile that a day earlier Gamache might have found disarming but now struck him as possibly calculated. “I won’t forget.”
“And neither will I,” said Armand, shaking the young man’s hand. Then he turned to Katie. “I really do like the hat, you know.”
Beauvoir watched them leave, then said to Gamache, “Next time I see them, it’ll be with an arrest warrant.”
Gamache pu
t on his boots and coat and hat.
“Taking the dogs for a walk?” asked Beauvoir, pulling on his mittens.
“Non. I’m going in to Montréal too.”
“Good,” said Beauvoir. “I’ll drive you. You can stay over with us, if you like.”
“Non, merci. I’ll drive myself. I’ll be coming back out.”
“Your eyes okay?”
“They’re just fine.”
Beauvoir paused, studying his father-in-law. “Are you sure?”
“You’re not accusing me of being blind again, are you?”
“Only to evidence so obvious your infant grandson could see it,” said Beauvoir. “But I think you’re okay to drive.”
Gamache laughed and said good night to his son-in-law, then went and explained to Reine-Marie that he had to go into the city but would be back later.
“Would you like me to come?” she asked.
“Non, mon coeur—”
Just then the phone rang.
“I’ll get it,” he said, and went into his study.
When he reached for the phone, he paused. The number lit up on the handset was one he recognized.
He glanced out into the living room, then, with his foot, swung the door closed.
“Oui, allô,” he said.
His voice sounded strange in his own ears. Oddly calm, while his heart pounded.
“Monsieur Gamache?” asked the man at the other end. “Arnold Gamache?”
“Armand. Oui.”
“My name is Dr. Harper. I’m one of the coroners in Montréal. I’m afraid I have some bad news for you.”
Gamache felt light-headed. Physically sick.
Annie? He thought. Honoré? Had there been an accident?
He stood straight but put out his hand to steady himself against the desk. Preparing for the blow.
“Go on.”
“We found your name and phone number on a body that was just brought in. There was no other identification.”
“Go on,” said Armand. He felt his extremities going cold and tingling. He wondered if he might pass out.
“Male. Over six feet. Slender. Emaciated, really. Dressed in women’s clothing.”
Armand sat down and closed his eyes, lifting a trembling hand to his forehead. He exhaled.
Not Annie. Not Honoré.
“Seems to be a pre-op transsexual,” the coroner was saying. “He had your name on a piece of paper in his pocket.”
“She,” said Gamache, sighing.
“Sorry?”
“She. Does she have on a pink coat? Frilly?”
“Not anymore. No coat. No boots, no gloves. He—”
“She.”
“She was almost stripped. Do you know her?”
“Was she the only one?” asked Gamache, realizing what this might mean. “Was there anyone else with her when she was found?”
“Another body, you mean?”
“A little girl. About six years old.”
“I don’t know, I was only given this body.”
“Well, check,” said Gamache, fighting to keep from snapping at the coroner. “Please.”
Normally the coroner, new to the job, wouldn’t have taken orders from a stranger on the phone, but this man spoke with such authority he found himself saying, “Just a moment.”
And going to check.
Gamache was put on hold. He got to his feet and paced as he waited. And waited. Finally Dr. Harper came back on.
“No. No little girl. Not in the morgue at least. Are you that Gamache? Head of the Sûreté?”
“I am.”
“Do you know who this body is?”
“I think I do, but I’d have to see her. What did she die of?”
“Looks like an overdose. We’re running tests.”
“I’ll be there in an hour.”
“Yessir.”
Armand headed for the door but changed his mind, and, returning to his study, he grabbed some syringes from the locked drawer in his desk.
Then he left.
* * *
Gamache stood beside the metal autopsy table, looking over at the clothing, tagged and piled on a side table. Bright purple nylon blouse, bought because it resembled silk, he suspected. Faux-leather miniskirt. Torn fishnet stockings.
Then he turned his attention to the thin body and saw the care she’d taken, for people who wouldn’t care. Her bouffant blond wig was askew. The thick makeup, now smeared had, that morning, been skillfully applied. Though nothing could cover the scabs and sores on her face.
In that wretched place, she’d made a stab at beauty.
He looked down at the body and felt overwhelming sadness.
The coroner and the technician, on hearing the head of the Sûreté muttering what sounded like the last rites, stepped away.
More from embarrassment than respect for privacy.
Gamache crossed himself and turned to them.
“Her name’s Anita Facial,” he said. When there was the beginning of a guffaw from the technician, he stifled it with a stern look. “Not, of course, her birth name. I don’t know what that is. If you need help finding her next of kin, let me know. I’ll do what I can.”
Gamache noticed the mottled skin, the blue veins. The terror in the eyes, red from burst blood vessels. This was not a blissful death. Anita hadn’t drifted away on a cloud of ecstasy. She had been torn from this life.
“It’s carfentanil,” he said.
“What?” asked the coroner.
“It’s an analogue of fentanyl. An opioid.”
“He’s right, sir,” said the technician, who’d gone to the computer. “We just got the blood work back. He has—”
“She,” said the coroner.
“She has carfentanil in her system. Though not much.”
“Doesn’t take much,” said Gamache.
“Never heard of it,” said Dr. Harper. “You know it? A new opioid?”
“Newish,” said Gamache. “New to the streets.”
The coroner gave a deep sigh and muttered, “Goddamned drugs.”
“May I?” Gamache reached out, then asked permission before touching Anita’s arm.
Her body was marked with what looked like homemade tattoos. Hearts. Butterflies. On the back of one hand was Esprit.
Spirit.
And on the other, Espoir.
Hope.
Esprit. Espoir.
But it was her left forearm that interested him. More writing, in a different, though familiar hand.
Not a tattoo, it was written in Magic Marker.
David.
And after the name there was a number: 2.
Dr. Harper went over to the computer and said something to the technician, who tapped on a few keys.
“Holy shit,” he said, and turned to the coroner, who studied the screen, then turned to Gamache.
“There’ve been six deaths here in Montréal in the last three days. Four since this morning. All homeless. All junkies. All the same drug. What is this stuff?”
But Gamache didn’t answer. It was rhetorical anyway. The coroner knew exactly what it was. A nightmare.
Gamache felt his chest tighten.
He was too late. It was being released. Six deaths already. He looked over at Anita. Seven.
But still, he hadn’t heard from the undercover cops. Amelia hadn’t found any. So maybe this was the forerunner, a sort of foretaste.
The main body of the drug would be on the streets soon. Perhaps within hours. But not quite yet.
“Can you bring up the autopsy pictures?” Gamache asked, stepping over to the terminal.
They did.
“Zoom in on the left forearms.”
First one, then another. Then another.
“Shit,” said the technician. “We missed that.”
Gamache didn’t respond. He was staring at the images on the screen. Male, female. Negro. Caucasian. Asian. But they had several things in common.
All junkies. All dead by carfentan
il.
All with David written carefully on each left forearm. Though the numbers were, for the most part, different.
“What does it mean?” asked the coroner.
“I have no idea what this means,” said Gamache, still studying the screen.
“So if a kid overdoses on this carfentanil,” the coroner asked, “is there an antagonist? A rescue medication?”
“Naltrexone,” said Gamache. “The Sûreté and local forces are being given it. But—”
But if all the carfentanil was released onto the streets, there wouldn’t be nearly enough rescue drug out there. And not enough time to administer it. Carfentanil killed too fast for much hope of rescue, unless you got there immediately.
Gamache returned to the body of Anita Facial. And heard her soft voice on the message she’d left for him that afternoon.
She’d found the little girl. She’d keep her safe until he came to get her. But he hadn’t. And she hadn’t. And now the girl was still out there. Alone.
In the midnight and the snow!
“‘Christ save us all from a death like this,’” he muttered under his breath as he left the mortuary and returned to his car.
But he knew Christ wasn’t responsible. He was. And prayer, no matter how fervent, wouldn’t stop it.
Once in the privacy of his car, he placed a call.
“What the fuck is it?” came the gravelly voice.
“It’s Gamache.”
“Oh, shit, sorry sir,” the young man whispered. “I shouldn’t be talking.”
“Have you seen any sign of the carfentanil? Any sign at all that it’s hit the streets?”
“No, none. But there’s lots of anticipation.”
“There’s a little girl,” Gamache said. “Red tuque. Five, six years old. I want you to find her.”
“I can’t.”
“This isn’t a request, it’s an order.”
“But, sir, Choquet’s on the move. I think this’s it. I think she’s found him.”
“David?”
“Yes. I can’t talk. If anyone sees . . .”
Gamache knew it was a terrible risk, calling. No homeless man should be shuffling along and talking on a phone. But now he faced a choice.
The girl or the drug.
But there really was no choice to be made.
“Stay with her,” he said. “We’ll be tracking you. You have the naltrexone?”
“Oui.”
“Good luck,” said Gamache.
