by Louise Penny
“I be Armand Gamache, Head Chief of that Sûreté du Québec.”
“In Canada?”
“That is the direction” came the voice, sounding relieved. “Canada.”
* * *
Gamache rolled his eyes. He knew he was making a balls-up of this.
He’d asked, at least he thought he’d asked, for a senior officer who spoke French. Or English. And had been put through to someone who clearly spoke neither.
It might’ve been the receptionist’s idea of a joke, though the Austrians, renowned for many things, were not famous for their hilarity.
Before calling he’d practiced, dragging up from the mists of time whatever German his grandmother had taught him.
He’d sit at the kitchen table, and she’d chat away, in French. And then in German. With a smattering of Yiddish. Of course, as a child, Armand hadn’t made the distinction.
As he paced the small room in the National Archives, he mumbled to himself. Repeating the words and phrases as they surfaced. Trying to cobble together an intelligible sentence or two. As he paced, and muttered, the scent of fresh baking became more and more pronounced. Wafting to the surface along with the words. And images.
He could smell, more and more clearly, the madeleines his grandmother had made every Friday.
She’d give him one fresh from the oven, but not before dribbling a spoonful of cod liver oil over the top and letting it soak in. So that when Armand took a bite, it was both delicious and vile. Comforting and gagging. It was like being hugged and shoved at the same time.
“Sehr gut, meyn tayer.”
“Very good, my darling,” she’d say in Yiddish, and hug him to her so that his eyes came within inches of the tattoo on her left forearm.
“I’m investigating a murder, and a will is part of it,” said Gamache into the phone. Or at least thought he was saying. “I need to find out how an estate was settled. It’s an old case.”
* * *
“Me inspecting a dead murder body, and a resolve is…”
There was a pause as Gund’s subordinate at the other end pretended to search for a word. One that, Gund was sure, would be ridiculous.
“… measure. No, that’s not right. Is a…”
Gund almost hung up. Enough was enough. And yet he was curious. And not completely convinced anymore that this was a bored agent playing a joke.
As the man on the other end struggled with what he was trying to say—
“… amount. No. Quantity?…”
Gund turned to his computer and put in “Sûreté du Québec. Gamache.”
“… part. That’s it. A resolve be part of it. But resolve might be quite not right. Oy gevalt. What’s the word?”
Gund read, raising his brows, then looked at the phone and tried to reconcile what he was reading with what he was hearing. Now the deep voice was saying, “Force. Nein. I almost have it. Will. That’s it. Gott im Himmel. Danke.” There was a sigh. “Will. A will be part of it.”
“Chief Superintendent Gamache,” said Gund. “If I understand correctly, you would like me to look into a decision about a will?”
He spoke slowly. Clearly.
“Ja, ja. That is correctly. It is an elderly event.”
Gamache winced, as much from the scent of cod-infused cakes now surrounding him as the stream of near nonsense coming out of his mouth.
“An old case,” said Kontrollinspektor Gund.
“Ja.”
“Can you give me the name of the deceased and the date of the will?”
Gamache did, reading from the printout in front of him.
He also gave Gund his personal email address.
“I’ll get back to you as soon as I have the information. It’s a murder case, you say?”
“Ja. Danke schön.”
“Bitte schön.”
As Gamache hung up he felt that conversation had gone both well and badly. Was comforting and nauseating. Successful and humiliating. And almost certainly not German.
“Such a tuches.”
CHAPTER 23
Inspector Dufresne had already arrived with the homicide team. Their vehicles were parked discreetly along the road, waiting for Chief Inspector Beauvoir’s signal to join him.
At Beauvoir’s knock the door to Anthony Baumgartner’s home opened and Anthony’s sister, Caroline, stood there.
Tall. Elegant. The only evidence of grief were the circles under her eyes.
“Madame,” said Beauvoir, introducing himself, though leaving out the department he headed. “I believe you know Monsieur Gamache.”
Caroline had shaken Beauvoir’s hand, but on seeing Gamache she stepped forward.
And hugged him.
It was quick and might have surprised her more than him.
When he’d been head of homicide, Gamache learned that people reacted to sudden death differently. The emotional could become restrained. Holding themselves back, for fear of what would happen if they cracked.
The restrained became emotional, not skilled at managing feelings.
The strong collapsed. The weak strengthened.
In grief people were themselves and not themselves.
Caroline hugged him.
Then led them both into the living room.
The place, Gamache knew, would soon be searched by those homicide agents waiting outside. Anthony Baumgartner’s life would be laid as bare as his body now was.
Inspected. Dissected.
Pulled apart. As they, like the coroner, searched for the cause of death.
Dr. Harris’s job was done. Anthony had died from a blow to the head. But theirs was just beginning.
Once they were in the living room, Hugo Baumgartner stepped forward and offered a hand but otherwise stood like a gnome in a garden. Concrete, mute, ugly. And yet, somehow, the dumpy little man dominated the elegant room.
“This is my sister-in-law, Adrienne Fournier,” said Caroline. “Adrienne, this is Chief Inspector Beauvoir and Chief Superintendent Gamache.”
They offered their condolences.
“Merci. It’s terrible. I’m afraid I’m still struggling with it. I expect to see Tony come down the hall in his slippers.” Then she smiled. “I can see you’re a bit confused. Tony and I have been divorced for a few years but managed to remain friends. Probably should’ve just been friends all along.”
“Probably?” asked Caroline.
Adrienne shot her a look but ignored the aside. “Though we have made great children.”
She was of average height and well dressed. Over fifty, with hair dyed a rich brown, judicious makeup, and a trim figure. Her clothing was stylish without being showy.
“Before we begin,” Beauvoir said after taking the chair Caroline had indicated, “I have some news for you. It’s not good.”
There was a snort from Hugo, who turned to Caroline when she gave him a look.
“What?” he said. “Like any news at this point could be good. It’s all shit.” He turned to Adrienne. “Sorry.”
His former sister-in-law was regarding him with something close to amusement. Certainly affection.
“You’re right, Hug. This is shit.”
Caroline turned away. Distancing herself from them. Gamache couldn’t help but see an iceberg breaking off from the mainland.
And drifting away.
Though he suspected that had actually happened long ago. Caroline might drift close but would always be separate. And vulnerable to currents and undertows. To the ebb and flow of opinions and judgments.
Probably since childhood.
Behind them he could see the photographs on the bookcase. And while it was too far away and his eyes still too blurry, he could make out the small silver frame and the vague suggestion of three grinning kids. Wet, sagging bathing suits. Tanned arms slung easily over one another’s shoulders.
Caroline in the middle, bookended by her brothers.
Had she been happy then? Happy once?
Or had the cracks already
Was it in her nature, or had something happened?
And always, always, in the background of Gamache’s thoughts, the main question.
Why was one of them dead?
“Your brother,” Beauvoir said, looking first at Caroline, then to Hugo. Before moving his gaze to Adrienne. “Your former husband.” She gave him a slight acknowledgment. “Wasn’t killed in an accident. His death was deliberate.”
He paused for a moment, then went on.
“He was murdered.”
It was a short, sharp statement.
Both Beauvoir and Gamache knew that people’s minds couldn’t easily grasp the fact of murder. It was too big, too foreign. Too monstrous. Most just stared, as they stared at him now. As the word and its meaning sank in. Then sank further, from their heads to their hearts.
And there it would live forever.
Murder.
Caroline stiffened, and Hugo, after a pause in which his pudgy face opened in shock, reached out. And took his sister’s hand.
In, it seemed to Gamache, an automatic, unscripted, instinctive act of mutual support.
Adrienne, sitting alone in a wing chair, closed her fingers over the arms of the chair. And pressed until her knuckles were as white as her face. She looked, Gamache thought, as though she might pass out.
Beauvoir got up and went to the kitchen, returning with glasses of water. But not before going to the front door and signaling Inspector Dufresne.
Gamache could hear the murmurs of voices in the front hall and the rustling as the Sûreté homicide team entered the house.
The postmortem had begun.
Hugo had abandoned his glass and gone to the bar.
“Screw water,” he said, pouring three scotches. His hands trembled as he gave them to Caroline and Adrienne.
Adrienne took a great swig of the scotch, color returning to her face. Hugo downed his in a single shot. But Caroline simply took the glass and held it, as though she’d forgotten how to do everyday things. Like drink. And breathe.
“How?” she asked.
“Why?” asked Hugo.
“Are you sure?” Adrienne asked.
This last was the most natural of questions. Even though she knew the answer. Of course Chief Inspector Beauvoir was sure. He wouldn’t have said it otherwise. But still, she had to ask.
And yet the other two had not.
They’d asked other natural questions. How? Why? But what the other two hadn’t done was question the statement that someone had murdered their brother.
“We’re sure,” said Beauvoir. “Do you know of anyone who might want him dead?”
* * *
At that moment, on another continent, Kontrollinspektor Gund sat back in his chair.
It was getting on for midnight. A quiet evening in his precinct, and he’d had time to noodle around for the senior Québec cop.
He’d thought it would be a routine search into albeit a very old will.
An elderly event. He smiled as he remembered the epic struggle that poor man had had with the language.
But his smile faded as he read his screen. Then scrolled down.
Further. Further.
It was then he’d sat back and marveled.
* * *
“No life is blameless,” Caroline began, her voice prim. “But I can’t think that Anthony hurt anyone so badly they’d want him dead.”
“It’s not necessarily that he’s hurt someone,” Chief Inspector Beauvoir explained. “Motives can be”—he searched for the word—“complex. Your brother might have had something someone else wanted, badly. He might have stood in someone’s way at work, for instance. Or have found something out.”
Gamache sat quietly on the periphery of the circle and listened. And observed. Searching for some insight. Some reaction.
But all three were shaking their heads.
“Monsieur Baumgartner worked for Taylor and Ogilvy Investments,” said Beauvoir. “As an investment adviser, I believe.”
“That’s correct,” said Caroline.
“He invested people’s money.”
“He acted as a sort of money manager,” Hugo clarified. “He’d design a portfolio, get the client’s approval, and then others would do the actual trades.”
“I see.”
An agent, off to the side, was taking notes.
“We’ll follow up, of course,” said Beauvoir, “but was there anything at his work that was unusual? An unhappy client? A bad investment? Any suggestion of impropriety?”
“None,” said Caroline.
“Was he good at his job?”
“Very,” said Adrienne.
“I’m sorry to interrupt, but do you mind if I ask a question?” said Gamache.
“Please,” said Beauvoir.
“Did any of you invest with him?”
They looked at each other, then shook their heads.
“Why not?”
“I did. A long time ago. But then it didn’t seem a good idea to mix business with family,” said Caroline.
Hugo was being uncharacteristically quiet, and Adrienne was sitting bolt upright.
“Madame?” Gamache turned to her.
“When we divorced, I moved my money over to another firm, of course.”
“Even though you remained friends?”
“Well, that took a while.”
“I see. And your children?”
“What about them?”
“I’m wondering if they have any investments, any money in trust or a college fund. That sort of thing.”
“Yes, they each have an account.”
“With their father?”
“No.”
“That too was moved?”
“Oui.”
Beauvoir noticed that Madame Fournier’s answers were getting more and more clipped. And there was not much more to be clipped before she’d lapse into silence altogether.
And, indeed, silence fell.
Where other investigators pressed and pushed during interrogations, especially when finding a weak spot, Gamache had taught his agents the power of silence.
It could be, often was, far more threatening than shouting. Though that too had its place. But not here. Not now.
Now silence filled the room.
Hugo fidgeted. Adrienne reddened.
And Caroline? She smiled.
Slight. Fleeting. But unmistakable.
Satisfaction.
Hugo made a noise, but Caroline shut him up with a small sound of her own. A quiet cross between clearing her throat and a hum.
It was as though brother and sister understood each other at a primal level, where grunts were enough.
Again the silence encroached. Enveloping them, so that even the young agent off in the corner fidgeted.
“What do you want from me?” Adrienne finally said.
“We want to know what you know,” said Gamache. “That’s all.”
“Just tell them, Adrienne,” said Hugo. “It was years ago, and they’ll find out anyway. There’s no shame.”
“For you, maybe.” Again there was silence as everyone stared at Anthony Baumgartner’s ex-wife.
“My husband was having an affair with an assistant,” she finally said. “I found out about it, and it ended our marriage. That’s why I took not only my money but our children’s money away from the company. From him.”
“How long ago was this?” asked Beauvoir.
“Three years.”
“Are they still together?”
“No. That ended.”
“And the assistant’s name?” asked Beauvoir.
“Does it matter?”
“It might. People hold grudges. Her name, please.”
And again the slight smile from Caroline. Fleeting. Smug. Cruel.
“His name was Bernard.”
Beauvoir raised his brows. “I see.”
“Do you?” asked Adrienne. “I wonder what you see? The humiliation? The lies. The little ones and then that great shitty one that was our marriage? I loved a man who didn’t, couldn’t love me. Not in the same way. Never had, he admitted. Never would. We stood over there.” She pointed to the fireplace. “That’s where our marriage ended. Right there. When I confronted him and he admitted it. Didn’t even try to soften the blow. He just seemed relieved. The bottom had fallen out of my life, and all he felt was relief. Nothing for me. Or the children. He just wanted out, he said. Out.”
“Well, he didn’t get all that far out, did he?” said Hugo.
“He never came out?” Beauvoir asked.
“No.”
“And why not?”
Adrienne was on the verge of answering when she paused. Her shoulders, which had crept up to near her ears, slowly lowered.
She looked at Hugo, who gave her a small nod of support. Her eyes traveled past Caroline, not pausing, then stopped at Beauvoir.
“I don’t really know. I never asked. I think, if I’m honest, I was just relieved he was being discreet. For the children’s sake. Maybe,” she added, “for myself too. I never stopped loving him, you know. I’d have remained with him, had he wanted. I never admitted that to anyone. I loved him, not because he was a straight man but because he was Tony.”
She looked around. “I hate this room.”
Gamache wondered if it was just the room she hated.
CHAPTER 24
“Excuse me,” said Chief Inspector Beauvoir, ceding his place to Inspector Dufresne. “I’ll leave you with the Inspector and Chief Superintendent Gamache.”
He got up, and after nodding to his inspector he caught Gamache’s eye.
Gamache, of course, knew exactly what Beauvoir was about to do. The same thing he’d done when he was head of homicide.
Beauvoir had listened to the family. Now it was time to meet the dead man. Or as close as he could come.
Beauvoir walked from room to room, looking in. Sometimes going in.
Agents were photographing. Taking samples. Opening drawers and closets.
They acknowledged him.
“Chief.”
Beauvoir nodded back but was, for the most part, silent. Watching. Taking it in. Not monitoring their activity but absorbing the surroundings.
It was always an odd feeling, walking around a person’s home uninvited. Seeing it as they’d left it in the morning. Not realizing they’d never return. Not realizing it was the day of their death.
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