by Louise Penny
He remained silent.
That wasn’t exactly what he was thinking. A will, an estate, could become about more than money, property, possessions. Who was left the most could be interpreted as who was loved the most. There were different sorts of greed. Of need.
And wills were sometimes used as a final affront, the last insult delivered by a ghost.
“Do we get paid?” asked Benedict.
“Maybe a little. It’s normally done as a favor,” said Armand.
Benedict nodded. “So how do we know if this’s simple?”
“We can’t know until we read the will,” said Myrna.
“But we can’t read the will until we decide,” Benedict pointed out.
“Catch-22,” said Gamache, to the young man’s blank face. “I think we have to assume the worst and decide if we still want to do it.”
“And if we don’t?” asked Myrna. “What happens?”
“The courts will appoint other liquidators.”
“But she wanted us,” said Benedict. “I wonder why. She must’ve had a reason.” He stopped, deep in thought. They could almost hear the wheels grinding. Finally he shook his head. “Nope. Can’t think what it would be. You two know each other, don’t you?”
“We’re neighbors,” said Myrna. “Live in the same village about twenty minutes away.”
“I live in Montréal with my girlfriend. I’ve never even been out this way. Maybe she meant another Benedict Pouliot.”
“You live on rue Taillon in Montréal?” asked Armand, and when the young man nodded, he went on. “She meant you.”
Benedict focused on Armand, as though really seeing him for the first time. He brought his hand up to his own temple, placing a finger there. “That looks nasty. What happened? An accident?”
Armand raised his hand and brushed it along the furrow of the scar. “Non. I was hurt once.”
More than once, Myrna thought, but didn’t say it.
“It was a while ago,” Armand assured the young man. “I’m fine now.”
“Must’ve really hurt.”
“It did. But I think it hurt others more.”
He obviously has no idea who Armand is, thought Myrna. And saw that Armand had no intention of telling him.
“Either way, we should decide,” she said, walking over to the window. “Snow’s getting heavier.”
“You’re right,” said Armand. “We need to get going soon. So are we in or out?”
“You?” Myrna asked him.
He already had his answer. Had it from the moment the notary explained why they were there.
“I have no idea why Madame Baumgartner chose us, but she did. I don’t see any reason to refuse. I’m in. Besides”—he smiled at Myrna—“I’m curious.”
“You are that,” she said, then looked at Benedict. “You?”
“Years, you say?” he asked.
“Worst case,” said Gamache. “Oui.”
“So it could take years and we don’t get paid,” Benedict recapped. “Oh, what the hell. I’m in. How bad can it be?”
Myrna regarded the handsome young man with the grievous haircut and the steel-wool sweater. If he could put up with that, she thought, he could put up with irritating strangers fighting over a pittance.
“You?” Armand asked Myrna.
“Oh, I was always in,” she said, smiling. And then there was a shudder and the rattle of windows as wind rocked the house. It gave a creak, then a sharp crack.
Myrna felt panic rise up. And spike. They weren’t safe in the house. But neither were they safe outside.
And they still had the drive home to Three Pines.
“We need to leave.”
Walking rapidly back into the kitchen, she looked out the window. She could barely see her car, now buried under blowing and drifting and eddying snow.
“We’re in,” she said to Lucien. “And we’re leaving.”
“What?” said Lucien, getting up.
“We’re leaving,” said Armand. “And you should too. Where’s your office?”
“Sherbrooke.”
It was an hour’s drive away, at least.
They hadn’t taken off their coats or boots, and now they grabbed their mitts and hats and made for the back door.
“Wait,” said Lucien, sitting down again. “We have to read the will. Madame Baumgartner stipulated that it be done here.”
“Madame Baumgartner’s dead,” said Myrna. “And I plan on living through the day.”
She rammed a tuque onto her head and followed Benedict out of the house.
“Now, monsieur,” said Armand. “We’re leaving. And that means you.”
Benedict and Myrna were wading through the snow, already knee-deep in places, toward her car. The young man had yanked a shovel from the snowbank and was starting to dig her car out.
Lucien leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms.
“Up,” said Armand, and when the notary didn’t move, he grabbed Lucien by the arm and pulled him to his feet.
“Put your things on,” he ordered, and after a moment’s shocked pause, Lucien did.
Armand checked his iPhone. There was no signal. The storm had knocked everything out.
He looked out at the blizzard, then around at the creaking, cracking, crooked home.
They had to leave.
He thrust the paperwork back into the briefcase, which he handed to the notary. “Come on.”
When Gamache opened the door, the snow whacked him in the face, taking his breath away. He closed his eyes and winced against the pellets that all but blinded him.
The sound was deafening.
Howling, hitting, furious movement. It burst in on them and over them. The world unraveling. And them in the middle of it.
As the snow plastered itself against Gamache’s face, he turned his head away and saw Benedict furiously shoveling, working to free Myrna’s car from the snowdrifts that had formed around it. No sooner had the young man dug out one section than the wind picked up the snow and filled it back in.
The only thing not white in the landscape was Benedict’s tuque, its long red-striped tail looking like lashes of blood on the snow.
Myrna was using her hands to scoop snow off the windshield.
Benedict’s own truck, parked in the open, was already covered, and the notary’s car had disappeared completely.
By the time he reached the others, Armand could feel snow down his boots, and down his collar, and up his sleeves, and under his tuque.
Myrna was trying to yank her car door open, but the snow, blown against it, was trapping it shut.
“It’s too deep,” Armand called into Myrna’s ear. “Leave it.” Then he trudged to the back of the car and grabbed Benedict’s arm, stopping the shovel. “Even if we could dig everyone out, the roads are too bad. We need to stay together. Your truck’s probably the best bet.”
Benedict looked over at it, then back at Armand.
“What is it?” shouted Armand, sensing there was an “it.”
“I don’t have snow tires.”
“You don’t—” But he stopped himself. When the house was burning, it was not the best time to lay blame. “Okay.” He turned to Myrna and Lucien. “My car is slightly protected by Myrna’s. Hers is acting as a windbreak. We can probably get mine out.”
“But I need to get back to Sherbrooke,” said Lucien, waving behind him to his vehicle, which was now just another white lump in the yard.
“And you will,” Myrna shouted. “Just not today.”
“But—”
“Dig,” said Myrna, waving toward Armand’s Volvo.
“With what?”
Armand pointed to Lucien’s briefcase.
“No,” said the notary, hugging it to him like a teddy bear.
“Fine,” said Myrna.
Yanking it away from him, she went to work, using the briefcase to push the snow from around the doors while Benedict shoveled and Armand ripped wooden planks from the front steps of
And Lucien stood there.
Finally they managed to get the doors open.
Myrna all but rammed the notary into the backseat, then got in beside him.
“You drive,” shouted Benedict to Armand, motioning to the driver’s side. “I’ll push.”
“Non. When we get moving, we can’t stop. We’ll sink in again. Whoever pushes will be left behind.”
Benedict paused.
My God, thought Armand. He’s actually considering it.
“In,” he commanded.
The young man stared at the older man, still undecided.
“This will work,” said Gamache, softly this time, while the snow piled up around them again and the precious moments ticked by. “Get in.”
Benedict reached for the driver’s-side door, but Armand stopped him.
“In,” he said, with a smile, and pointed to the passenger door.
Myrna double-checked her seat belt, then closed her eyes and breathed. Deeply. And prayed.
The car started to back up, and Gamache slowly, slowly, gently, gently pressed the gas.
There was a hesitation as the tires worked to mount the planks.
They caught and climbed the inch or so out of the snow and ice and onto the wood.
With traction now, the car moved. An inch. Six inches. A foot.
Benedict exhaled. Myrna exhaled. The notary hyperventilated.
Then Armand put it in gear and gently turned the wheel, so that they were headed back down the pine drive.
“Oh, merde,” said Benedict.
Myrna leaned forward between the seats and saw what he saw.
A wall of snow blocked their way out. So high they couldn’t see the road beyond.
“It’s okay,” said Gamache. “It means the plow’s been by. This is good.”
“Good?” asked Benedict.
“Look what it did,” said the notary, finding his voice. Or someone’s. It was unnaturally high and breathy. “We can’t get through that.”
The plow had pushed snow across the entrance to the driveway, creating a barrier. There was no way to tell how thick, how packed it would be. Or what was on the other side.
But they had no choice. There was only one way to do this.
“Hold on,” said Armand, and pressed his foot on the gas.
“Are you sure?” said Benedict as they headed straight for the wall of snow.
“Oh shit,” said Myrna, bracing herself.
And then they hit.
The snow exploded, plastering itself against the windshield and blinding them as the car skewed violently one way, then the other.
And then, to Benedict’s horror, Armand leaned back in his seat.
“Hit the brake,” Benedict screamed.
Benedict reached for the wheel, but Armand grabbed his wrist in a grip so tight the young man flinched.
A chunk of snow flew off the windshield, and they could see the forest—trees, trunks—heading toward them.
Benedict gasped and put his hands against the dashboard while Armand stared ahead, waiting. Waiting. And then, just when it appeared too late, he gently, gently, pumped the brakes.
The car slowed. Then stopped. Its nose just touching the other bank.
There was complete silence, then long exhales.
They were right across the road, blocking it. Armand quickly looked left and right, to see if there were any oncoming cars. But the road was empty.
Only fools would be out in a blizzard.
There was quiet, giddy laughter.
“Oh shit,” sighed Myrna.
Armand backed the car up and pointed it toward home. Putting on the warning flashers, he got out to inspect for damage.
“What the fuck was that?” demanded Benedict, marching around the car to confront Armand. “You gave up. You almost killed us.”
Armand gestured with both hands toward the car.
“Yeah,” shouted Benedict. “Dumb luck.”
“There was that.” Had there been another vehicle coming or the plow returning—
“You froze,” shouted Benedict as Armand began digging snow out of the grille of the car. “I saw you.”
“What I did and what you saw seem to be two different things. Sometimes the best thing we can do is nothing.”
“What sort of Zen bullshit is that?”
Snow whipped around Benedict, his fists clenched as he stared at Gamache.
“You want to know why I did what I did?”
“You panicked.”
“Did no one teach you how to drive in snow?” Gamache shouted into the blizzard.
“I can do it better than you.”
“Then you can give me a lesson. But perhaps not today.”
They got back into the car, and Gamache put it in gear.
“And,” he said, concentrating on the road, “just so you know. I never give up.”
“Where’re we going?” asked Lucien from the backseat.
“Home,” said Myrna.
CHAPTER 6
“Are we there?” asked the notary. Again.
“Oui.”
“Really?”
The answer was so unexpected it silenced him. Lucien used his sleeve to wipe the condensation from the car window and peered out. And saw … nothing.
And then the blowing snow momentarily shifted, and for a split second, through a tear in the blizzard, he could see a house. A home.
It was made of fieldstone, and there was soft light coming through the mullioned windows.
And then it was gone, swallowed by the storm. The sighting was so brief, Lucien wondered if desperation and imagination had conjured a fairy-tale cottage.
“Are you sure?” he asked.
“Pretty sure.”
* * *
Less than an hour later, Armand and his guests were showered and changed into clean, dry clothing. Except Lucien, who’d refused all offers.
They were seated at the long pine table in the kitchen while the woodstove pumped out heat at the far end of the room. Snow had piled up on the frames of the windows on either side of the fireplace, making it difficult to see out.
Benedict wore a borrowed T-shirt, sweater, and slacks and had calmed down since the drive. The hot shower and the promise of food had lulled him.
He looked around.
This place didn’t shudder, the windows didn’t rattle, despite the fury outside. It had been built to last, and lasted it had. He figured it was more than one hundred, perhaps even two hundred years old.
Even if he tried, if he really, really tried, he doubted he could build a home this solid.
He looked across the room, at Madame Gamache serving up soup and Armand cutting bread. Occasionally consulting. Their bodies just touching in an act both casual and intimate.
Benedict wondered if he tried, really, really tried, if he could build a relationship that solid.
He scratched his chest and winced.
A few minutes earlier, while standing under the hot stream of the shower, Armand had asked Reine-Marie, “Does the name Bertha Baumgartner mean anything to you?”
“Wasn’t she a cartoon character?” said Reine-Marie. “No, that was Dagwood. Was she a villain in Doonesbury?”
He turned off the shower and stepped out, taking the towel she handed him.
“Merci.” As he rubbed his hair dry, he looked at her, amused, but then saw she was serious. “No, she was a neighbor, sort of.”
He put on cords, a clean shirt, and a sweater and told her why he’d been summoned to the remote farmhouse.
“A liquidator? But you must’ve known her, Armand. Why else would she choose you?”
“I have no idea.”
“And Myrna doesn’t know her?”
“Neither does the young fellow. Benedict.”
“How do you explain that?” she asked.
“I can’t.”
“Huh,” said Reine-Marie.
When they had their soups and sandwiches and beer, Reine-Marie left them at the kitchen table, taking her own lunch into the living room.
Sitting by the fireplace with Gracie, their little foundling, beside her, Reine-Marie stared into the flames and repeated:
Bertha Baumgartner. Bertha Baumgartner.
Still the name meant nothing.
* * *
“Now,” said Lucien, adjusting his glasses. “You’ve all agreed to be liquidators of the estate of Bertha Baumgartner. Is that correct?”
What sounded like “Yes” came from Benedict, but his mouth was so full of roast-beef sandwich it came out as a muffled “Woof.”
Henri, lying at Armand’s feet, perked up his ears, his tail swishing slightly.
“That is correct,” said Myrna, using the same tone as the notary, though he didn’t seem to notice.
The chair creaked as she sat back, a warm mug of pea soup in her hands. She longed to reach for the beer, but the mug was so comforting she didn’t want to let it go.
Armand had dropped her at the door into the bistro, her bookstore being snowed in, so she could have a hot shower and change before heading to their place.
“Oh for Christ’s sake,” said Clara as she hugged her friend. “We were so worried.”
“I wasn’t,” said Gabri, though he also hugged her tight. “You okay?” he said. “You look like shit.”
“Could be worse.”
“Where were you?” asked Olivier.
Myrna saw no reason not to tell them.
“Bertha Baumgartner?” said Gabri. “Bertha Baumgartner? Really? There was someone around here named Bertha Baumgartner and I didn’t know her? Who was she?”
“You don’t know?” asked Myrna. Gabri and Olivier knew everyone.
“Don’t you?” asked Clara, following her to the door connecting the bistro to the bookstore.
“No. Not a clue.” She stopped and looked at their astonished faces.
“You say that Armand is also a liquidator?” asked Olivier. “He must know her.”
“No. None of us do. Not even the notary.”
“And she lived just down the road?” asked Clara.
“Well, about twenty minutes from here. You sure the name doesn’t sound familiar?”
“Bertha Baumgartner,” said Gabri again, clearly enjoying the sound of it.
“Don’t you dare,” said Olivier. He turned to Clara and Myrna. “He’s been looking for another name to sign to the letter inviting Prime Minister Trudeau to the carnival. We suspect Gabri Dubeau is on the straight-to-garbage list.”
-->
