A Fatal Grace ciag-2

by Louise Penny

  ‘Now why would she do that?’

  ‘She was a designer, a kind of minor Martha Stewart. Just came out with a book and was considering a magazine. The pictures would have been for that.’

  ‘Never heard of her.’

  ‘Most people hadn’t. But she seemed to have this image of herself as a successful and dynamic motivator. Like Martha, her business went beyond what colors the walls should be – white, by the way – into a personal philosophy of life.’

  ‘Sounds odious.’

  ‘I can’t get a grasp of it,’ admitted Gamache, leaning back comfortably. ‘I don’t know whether she was completely delusional or whether there was something almost noble about her. She had a dream and she pursued it, and damn the doubters.’

  ‘You agree with her philosophy?’

  ‘No. I spoke to someone today who described it as a kind of Frankenstein. I think that was quite accurate. Actually, that reference keeps popping up in this case. Someone else talked about the villagers celebrating the death of the monster, like in Frankenstein.’

  ‘The monster wasn’t Frankenstein,’ Dr Harris reminded him. ‘Dr Frankenstein created the monster.’

  Gamache felt his chest tighten as she spoke. There was something there. Something he’d been approaching and missing throughout this case.

  ‘So what now, patron?’ she asked.

  ‘You’ve taken us a huge step forward with the niacin. Thank you. Now we just follow the headlights.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘I always think a case is like driving from here to the Gaspé. A great long distance and I can’t see the end. But I don’t have to. All I have to do is keep throwing light in front of me, and follow the headlights. Eventually I’ll get there.’

  ‘Like Diogenes with his lamp?’

  ‘In reverse. He was looking for one honest man. I’m looking for a murderer.’

  ‘Be careful. The murderer can see the man with the lamp coming.’

  ‘One more question, doctor. How would someone give her niacin?’

  ‘It’s water soluble, but quite bitter. Coffee would probably mask it. Orange juice I guess.’

  ‘Tea?’

  ‘Less likely. It’s not strong enough.’

  She gathered her things and taking her key from her pocket she pointed it out the window and pressed a small button. Outside a car came to life, headlights on and presumably the heater struggling to warm the inside. Of all the inventions in the last twenty years Gamache knew the two best were car seat warmers and automatic ignition. Too bad for Richard Lyon he’d invented magnetized soldiers instead.

  Gamache walked her to the door, but just as she was about to leave something else occurred to him. ‘What do you know about Eleanor de Poitiers?’

  Dr Harris paused for a moment.

  ‘Nothing. Who is she?’

  ‘How about King Henry the Second?’

  ‘King Henry the Second? You’re not seriously asking me about some long dead British royal? My favorite was Ethelred the Unready. Will he do?’

  ‘What a repertoire you have. Ethelred and Captain Crunch.’

  ‘A catholic education. Sorry I couldn’t help.’

  ‘Niacin.’ He pointed to the dossier still on their table. ‘You saved the day.’

  She felt absurdly pleased.

  ‘Actually,’ he said as he helped her into her coat, ‘there is one more thing. Eleanor of Aquitaine.’

  ‘Oh, that’s easy. The Lion in Winter.’

  ‘Honey, could you get the door? I’m in my studio,’ Clara called. There was no answer. ‘Never mind,’ she called after the second knock. ‘I’ll get it. Don’t bother yourself. No really. I don’t mind.’ She yelled the last at the closed door to his studio. She was pretty certain he was in there playing free cell.

  It was unusual to hear a knock. Most of the people they knew walked right in. Most helped themselves to whatever was in the fridge. Peter and Clara sometimes came home to find Ruth asleep on their sofa, a glass of Scotch and the Times Literary Review on the hassock in front of her. Once they found Gabri in the bath. Apparently the hot water in the B. & B. had run out, and so had Gabri.

  Clara yanked open the door, prepared for the blast of cold air and not totally surprised to see Chief Inspector Gamache, though a tiny part of her still hoped it might be the chief curator of the MOMA, come to see her works.

  ‘Come on in.’ She stepped aside and quickly closed the door after him.

  ‘I won’t keep you long.’ He gave a tiny bow and she bowed back, thinking maybe she should have given a subtle curtsy. ‘Do you have a video player?’

  Now there was a question she wasn’t expecting.

  He unzipped his parka and brought out a video, kept warm against his body.

  ‘The Lion in Winter?’ She looked at the box.

  ‘Précisément. I’d very much like to watch it, as soon as possible.’ He was perfectly contained and relaxed, but Clara knew him well enough to know this wasn’t a casual request or a nice way to spend a quiet winter evening in the country.

  ‘We do. Ruth and Myrna are coming over for dinner, though.’

  ‘I don’t want to be in the way.’

  ‘Never.’ She took his arm and led him into the warm and inviting kitchen. ‘Always room for more, but I want to make sure you don’t mind the company. Peter’s made a family specialty from the leftover turkey and vegetable. It looks horrible but tastes like heaven.’

  Before long Peter had emerged from his studio and the others had arrived, Myrna enveloping everyone in her generous arms and Ruth making for the bar.

  ‘Thank God,’ was Ruth’s reaction when told Gamache wanted to watch a video. ‘I thought I’d have to make conversation yet another night.’

  Clara prepared a basket with dinners for Richard and Crie and Myrna volunteered to deliver it.

  ‘May I drive you up?’ Gamache offered.

  ‘It’s a short walk. Besides, if I walk that’ll give me permission to have seconds.’ Myrna smiled as she wrapped a huge colorful scarf round her neck until she looked like an African tribesman in a cold spell.

  ‘Could you check on Crie when you’re there?’ Gamache lowered his voice. ‘I’m worried about her.’

  ‘What’re you thinking?’ Myrna asked, her normally jovial face searching and serious. ‘It’s natural for a child who just saw her mother murdered to be abnormal for a while.’

  ‘True, but this seems like more. Could you just see?’

  She agreed and was off.

  Agent Yvette Nichol edged up to the car in front of her in the fast lane of the autoroute, heading from Montreal back to the Townships. Her bumper was just inches from the car in front. Any minute now the driver would notice.

  That was the moment. That exquisite moment. Would he hit the brake? Even a slight tap would send their cars careering together at 140 kilometers an hour and they would be a fireball within seconds. Nichol gripped her steering wheel tighter, her eyes keen with concentration and rage. How dare he slow her up? How dare he use her lane? How dare he not pull over? Slow, stupid man. She’d show him, as she showed anyone who stood in her way. Rage made her invincible. But there was something else too.

  Glee.

  She was going to scare the shit out of the driver.

  ‘I read your book,’ said Gamache to Ruth as the two of them sat in front of the cheery fire while Peter puttered in the kitchen and Clara browsed her bookshelves for something to read.

  Ruth looked as though she’d rather be sitting in scalding oil than next to a compliment. She decided to ignore him and took a long gulp of her Scotch.

  ‘But my wife has a question.’

  ‘You have a wife? Someone agreed to marry you?’

  ‘She did and she was only a little drunk. She wants to know what FINE means in your title.’

  ‘I’m not surprised your wife has no idea what fine means. Probably doesn’t know what happy or sane means either.’

  ‘She’s a librarian and she was sayi
ng in her experience when people use capital letters it’s because the letters stand for something. Your title is I’m FINE with the FINE in capitals.’

  ‘She has brains, your wife. She’s the first to notice that, or at least to ask. FINE stands for Fucked up, Insecure, Neurotic and Egotistical. I’m FINE.’

  ‘You certainly are,’ agreed Gamache.

  Agent Robert Lemieux eased over into the slow lane, allowing the maniac tailgating him on the autoroute at 140 kilometers an hour to pass. If he’d been in the mood he’d have put his flasher on the roof and chased the psycho, but he had other things on his mind.

  He was sure he’d done well in Montreal. He’d convinced the police artist to do the drawing. He’d visited the bus station and the Old Brewery Mission. He’d advanced the Elle case, which Gamache seemed to want to keep private.

  He’d made a note of that in his book.

  Agent Lemieux had achieved what he wanted and needed. He was pretty sure Chief Inspector Gamache trusted him. And that was the key. A lot was riding on gaining Gamache’s trust.

  ‘The only person I remember moving around at the curling match was that photographer person,’ said Myrna a few minutes later. As soon as she’d returned Peter and Clara had put the dinner out for people to help themselves. Gamache had taken her aside briefly and Myrna had agreed there was something very wrong with Crie. They arranged to get together the next day to talk.

  Now their dinner was on tray tables in the living room. Clara had been right. It looked like something found in the bottom of the sink on Christmas Day once the dish water had been drained. But it tasted wonderful. Mashed potatoes, roast turkey, gravy and peas, all mushed together in a steaming casserole. Fresh bread and a green salad sat in bowls on the coffee table, with Lucy drifting around like a hungry shark.

  ‘The photographer popped up everywhere,’ agreed Clara, taking a hunk of bread and spreading it with butter. ‘But he only took pictures of CC.’

  ‘He was hired to do that. Where were all of you?’ asked Gamache. He took a sip of red wine and listened as the others talked.

  ‘In the stands, next to Olivier,’ said Ruth.

  ‘I was sitting between Myrna and Gabri,’ said Clara, ‘and Peter was curling.’

  ‘Richard Lyon was beside me,’ said Myrna.

  ‘Was he there the whole time?’ Gamache asked.

  ‘Definitely. I’d have noticed if he left. Body heat. But what about Kaye Thompson?’ Myrna looked at the others. ‘She was sitting right next to CC. She must have seen something.’

  Everyone nodded and looked at Gamache expectantly. He shook his head. ‘I spoke to her today. She says she saw nothing. Only knew something was wrong when CC started screaming.’

  ‘I didn’t hear that,’ said Ruth.

  ‘Nobody did,’ said Gamache. ‘It was masked by the noise of Mother clearing the house.’

  ‘Oh, right,’ said Peter. ‘Everyone was cheering.’

  ‘How about Crie?’ Gamache asked. ‘Did anyone notice her?’

  Blank stares.

  Gamache was again struck by how sad it must be to be Crie. She’d swallowed all her feelings, all her pain. She carried such an enormous weight, and yet she was invisible. No one ever saw her. It was the worst of all possible states, he knew, to never be noticed.

  ‘Do you have a Bible?’ Gamache asked Clara. ‘Old Testament, if you have one. In English, please.’

  They wandered over to the bookcase and Clara finally found it.

  ‘May I return it tomorrow?’

  ‘You can return it next year if you like. Can’t remember the last time I read the Old Testament,’ said Clara.

  ‘The last time?’ Peter asked.

  ‘Or the first time,’ admitted Clara with a laugh.

  ‘Would you like to watch the movie now?’ Peter asked.

  ‘Very much,’ said Gamache.

  Peter reached out to pick up the cassette from the living room table, but Gamache stayed his hand.

  ‘I’ll do it, if you don’t mind.’ Gamache took out a handkerchief and slipped the movie out of its sleeve. Everyone noticed, but no one asked, and Gamache didn’t volunteer the information that this particular tape had been found in the garbage of the dead woman.

  ‘What’s it about?’ asked Myrna.

  ‘Eleanor of Aquitaine and her husband King Henry,’ said Ruth. Gamache turned to her, surprised. ‘What? It’s a great film. Katharine Hepburn and Peter O’Toole. All the action takes place at Christmas, if I remember well. Strange, isn’t it. Here we are at Christmas too.’

  There were many strange things about this case, thought Gamache.

  The opening credits started, the Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer lion roared, the powerful Gothic music filled their quaint little living room and grotesque images of gargoyles leered on the screen. Already the film reeked of power and decay.

  And dread.

  The Lion in Winter began.

  Agent Nichol’s car skidded round the snowy corner, barely making the turn off the main road onto the tiny secondary road that led to Three Pines. Gamache hadn’t invited her to stay at the B. & B. with them, but she would anyway, even if she had to pay her own way. While in Montreal, after interviewing the headmistress of Crie’s snooty private school, Agent Nichol had driven home to pick up a suitcase, stopping briefly to have a bite with her relatives gathered in the tiny, fastidious house.

  Her father always seemed nervous on these occasions and had instructed his daughters never to mention the family history in Czechoslovakia. Growing up in the immaculate little home in east end Montreal Nichol had seen a parade of distant relatives and friends of friends come to live with them, though it was less a parade than a cortege. They trudged through the door, all in black with stone stern faces, speaking words she couldn’t understand and sucking all the attention the world had to offer. They demanded and yelled and wailed and complained. They came from Poland and Lithuania and Hungary and young Yvette listened to them and came to believe each person must have their own language. Hovering near the doorway in the tiny, crowded, chaotic living room, a room that had once been so pleasant and calm, young Yvette struggled to understand what was being said. At first the newcomers would speak kindly to her, then when she didn’t react they’d speak more loudly, until finally they screamed at her in the universal language that said she was lazy and stupid and disrespectful. Her mother, once so gentle and kindly, had become impatient too, and yelled at her. In a language she did understand. Little Yvette Nikolev had become the foreigner. All her life she’d stand just on the outside. Longing to belong, but knowing she didn’t, when even her mother sided with others.

  It was then she began to worry. If her home was this baffling and overwhelming, what was waiting outside? Suppose she couldn’t make herself understood? Suppose something happened, but she couldn’t follow the instructions? Suppose she needed something? Who would give it to her? And so Yvette Nichol had learned to take.

  ‘So, you’re back with Gamache,’ her father had said.

  ‘Yes sir.’ She smiled at him. He was the only one who had ever stood up for her as a child. The only one who’d protected her again those invaders. He’d catch her eye and wave her over and give her a butterscotch candy wrapped in noisy cellophane. He’d instruct her to hide someplace to open it. Away from prying and greedy eyes. Their secret. Her father had taught her the value and necessity of secrets.

  ‘You must never tell him about Czechoslovakia. Promise me now. He wouldn’t understand. They only want pure Quebecers in the Sûreté. If he found out you’re Czech you’d be kicked out. Like Uncle Saul.’

  The very idea of being compared to stupid Uncle Saul made her nauseous. Stupid Uncle Saul Nikolev who’d washed out of the Czech police and couldn’t protect the family. And so they’d all perished. Except her father, Ari Nikolev, and her mother and the discontented and bitter relatives who’d used their home like a latrine, dropping their shit all over the young family.

  In the small, neat back bedroom
Ari Nikolev watched as his daughter packed her suitcase with the dreariest, drabbest clothes in her closet. At his suggestion.

  ‘I know men,’ he’d said, when she’d protested.

  ‘But men won’t find me attractive in these.’ She’d jabbed her finger at the pile of clothes. ‘I thought you said you wanted Gamache to like me.’

  ‘Not to date. Believe me, he’ll like you in those.’

  As she turned to find her toiletry bag he slipped a couple of butterscotch candies into the suitcase, where she’d find them that night. And think of him. And with any luck never realize he had his own little secret.

  There was no Uncle Saul. No slaughter at the hands of the communists. No noble and valiant flight across the frontier. He’d made all that up years ago to shut up his wife’s relatives camped in their home. It was his lifeboat, made of words, which had kept him afloat on their sea of misery and suffering. Genuine suffering. Even he could admit that. But he’d needed his own stories of heroics and survival.

  And so, after helping to conceive little Angelina and then Yvette, he’d conceived Uncle Saul. Whose job it was to save the family, and who had failed. Saul’s spectacular fall from grace had cost Ari his entire fictional family.

  He knew he should tell Yvette. Knew that what had started as his own life raft had become an anchor for his little girl. But she worshipped him, and Ari Nikolev craved that look in her gray eyes.

  ‘I’ll call you every day,’ he said, lifting her light case from the bed. ‘We need to stick together.’ He smiled and cocked his head toward the cacophony that was the living room as the relatives shouted at each other from entrenched positions. ‘I’m proud of you, Yvette, and I know you’ll do well. You have to.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  None of the fucking relatives lifted their heads as she left, her father carrying her case to the car and putting it in the trunk. ‘In case there’s a crash, it won’t hit you on the head.’

  He hugged her and whispered in her ear, ‘Don’t mess up.’