by Louise Penny
Even those who were bilingual preferred, at the end of their lives, to live it out in the tongue they’d learned from their mothers.
“Oui,” said Beauvoir. “We’d like to know about the death of Bertha Baumgartner.”
“The Duchess?”
“The Baroness,” said Gamache.
“Why? Is something wrong?”
“We just need a few questions answered,” said Beauvoir. “What did she die of?”
The head nurse turned to her computer and, after a moment, replied, “Heart failure.” She took off her glasses and turned back to them. “Vague, I realize. It’s almost always heart failure. Unless the family asks for an autopsy, that’s what the doctor writes. The people here are elderly and frail. Their hearts just stop.”
“Was it expected?” Beauvoir asked.
“Well, it’s almost always expected, and yet a surprise. She wasn’t sick. She just went to bed and didn’t wake up. It’s the way most of us hope to go.”
“Did she have many visitors?”
“Her sons and daughter would come, but they work and it’s difficult.”
Beauvoir heard what was unsaid. They did not visit often.
“They called her often, though,” said the head nurse. “Unlike some here, Madame Baumgartner clearly had a family who cared. They just couldn’t visit as often as they might have liked.”
“And the day she died?”
“I’d have to look it up.”
“Please do,” said Gamache, and they followed her to the reception desk, where there was a sign-in book.
Flipping back, she came to the date. It was empty.
“Joseph?” she called to a middle-aged man, who went over. “These men are with the Sûreté. They’re asking about Madame Baumgartner.”
“The Countess?”
“The Baroness,” said Beauvoir, barely believing he was defending the title. “You’re at the front desk?”
“Oui.”
“Did she have many visitors?”
“Non. Her family every now and then. Mostly on weekends. And the young woman, of course. She always made it a point to see her.”
“Young woman?” asked Beauvoir. “Do you have her name?”
“Yes, of course,” said the nurse, walking back to her office. “She’s the one we called when the Empress—”
“Baroness,” said Gamache.
“—died. Yes, here it is.” She was at her computer once again. “Katie Burke.”
“Can you spell that, please?” asked Beauvoir, pulling out his notebook.
He couldn’t see how the natural death of an elderly woman in what appeared to be a well-run and caring seniors’ home could possibly have anything to do with her son’s murder a month or more later. Still, he took down the information she gave him.
“Why did you call her when Madame Baumgartner died?” asked Gamache. “Is it that you couldn’t reach the family?”
“We didn’t try.”
“Why not?”
“Because Mademoiselle Burke’s name was at the top of the contact list. Ahead of her children.”
CHAPTER 26
“So, numbnuts, where’s your boss?”
“He’s at home, babysitting Ray-Ray,” said Jean-Guy, passing the salad bowl to Olivier, who was sitting next to him at Clara’s long kitchen table.
The fact he’d actually begun answering to “numbnuts” was a little worrisome to Beauvoir, though he’d been called worse. By murderers. Psychopaths. Ruth.
“Babysitting? Just the job for a fourteen-year-old girl,” said Ruth. “He’s reached his level of competence, I see.”
When Clara’s invitation for dinner came, Beauvoir at first thought to beg off. He was tired, and it was dark and cold.
He’d assigned an inspector to find this Katie Burke, then settled down to read the reports that were coming in. He’d head back to Montréal and the office first thing in the morning. But for now all he wanted was to put his feet up and nod off by the fire.
But then Annie had whispered the magic words.
Coq au vin.
There was a wild rumor, racing through the Gamache home, that Olivier had made his famous casserole and was taking it to Clara’s.
“Don’t toy with me, madame.”
“And for dessert? Salted,” she whispered again, her breath fresh and warm, “caramel—”
“Nooo,” he moaned.
“—and burnt-fig ice cream.”
“Okay, I’m in,” he said, getting up. “You coming?” he called into the study as he made his way to the front door.
When there was no answer, he backed up.
“Patron?”
Armand was peering at the computer, a book open beside it on the desk.
“What’re you doing?”
“Trying to translate something, isn’t that right, mein Liebling?”
He held Honoré on his knee as he read, consulted, blinked to clear his bleary eyes, and wrote longhand in a notebook.
“Coq au vin,” said Reine-Marie, joining Jean-Guy at the door.
“Ahh, so the rumor is true,” said Armand. “But we already have dinner plans, don’t we?” He looked at his grandson. “Sweet potatoes. Yum. Maybe some avocado. Yum-yum. Some gray stuff that they say is meat.” He looked up then. “You all head off, we’ll be fine. Eh, meyn tayer.”
“There you are,” said Annie. Her coat already on, she came over and kissed her son. “Don’t let him get into any mischief, now.”
“You’re talking to Honoré, aren’t you?” said her father.
“I am.”
“You sure you don’t want to bring him to Clara’s?” asked Reine-Marie.
“Non, merci,” said Armand. “We have a full evening planned. Dinner. A bath. A movie. A book. Some all-star wrestling—”
“Were you planning on putting him to bed at any stage?” asked Jean-Guy.
“Eventually. Maybe.”
“Dad,” said Annie.
“Okay, but we will read a book, right?” he asked the boy. “And I’ll recite ‘The Wreck of the Hesperus’: ‘It was the schooner Hesperus, / That sailed the wintry sea—’”
“Dear God,” said Jean-Guy. “Flee. Sauve qui peut.”
“What about Honoré?” asked Annie in mock terror.
“We can make more. Run, woman, run.”
Armand rolled his eyes as Reine-Marie laughed and wondered what would happen if anyone ever called Armand’s bluff and realized that all he knew of the dreadful poem were the opening lines.
“Work?” She nodded toward the computer.
“A bit.”
“Want me to stay?” Jean-Guy asked.
“And miss coq au vin?”
“Ruth will be there. Sorta evens out.”
“Myrna’s made her whipped potatoes,” said Reine-Marie.
“You’re on your own,” Jean-Guy said to Armand just as a rush of cold air hit them.
Annie, Reine-Marie, and Jean-Guy turned and shouted, “Close the door.”
It was a chorus more familiar than the national anthem.
“Man, it’s cold out there,” they heard, along with foot stomping. “And this one,” Armand could hear Benedict saying, “takes her sweet time doing her business.”
Armand smiled. Benedict couldn’t bring himself to say “poop” or even “pee.” He knew the young man was referring to Gracie, and he sympathized. He’d spent many a cold night begging the little creature to do something, other than chase Henri.
Benedict had taken it upon himself, in exchange for room and board while he waited for his truck to return, to walk the dogs.
Armand felt this left them owing Benedict.
“I’ll bring you back something,” said Reine-Marie, kissing the top of Honoré’s head before putting her hands on the side of Armand’s face and kissing him on the lips and whispering, “Meyn tayer.”
He smiled.
“Is that German?” she asked, glancing at the screen.
“It is. Taking me a wh
“Your eyes still sore?” she asked, looking into them and seeing the bloodshot.
“My German is a little rusty,” he said.
“Rusty. Is that German for ‘nonexistent’?”
He laughed. “Just about.”
She looked at the screen again. “It’s long. Who’s it from?”
“A police officer in Vienna.”
She tied the scarf at her neck. “See you soon.”
“Have fun.”
He returned to his computer, leaning over Ray-Ray and smelling his fragrance as he read about a family ripping itself apart.
* * *
Jean-Guy looked at the tender pieces of chicken along with mushrooms and rich, fragrant gravy, next to the mountain of potatoes.
Whipped, Myrna insisted. Not just mashed.
He was so hungry he thought he might weep.
“So it’s true, then,” said Ruth. “The Baroness’s son was murdered.”
Jean-Guy had told Clara and Myrna as soon as they’d arrived for dinner, taking them aside quietly. And word had spread, of course, as others arrived at Clara’s home.
“I thought you were lying,” said Ruth to Myrna.
“Why would I lie about that?”
“Why do you say your library is a bookstore?” asked Ruth. “Lying is just natural to you.”
“It is a bookstore,” said Myrna, exasperated. “Don’t think I don’t see you taking books out under your coat.”
“Oh, there’s a lot you don’t see,” said Ruth.
“Like what?”
“Like Billy Williams.”
“I see him. He shovels my walk and brushes off my car.”
“Doesn’t brush off my car,” mumbled Clara, and catching Olivier’s eye, they both grinned.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” asked Myrna. “He’s a nice man, that’s all.”
“Then why isn’t he here?” asked Ruth.
“Here?” said Myrna, looking around. “Why would he be here? Does something need fixing?” she asked Clara.
“I’d have to say yes,” said Ruth, and Rosa beside her nodded.
“Let’s change the subject,” said Reine-Marie.
“Well, if murder’s out,” said Ruth, “and the librarian here being prejudiced is something we’re not allowed to talk about—”
“Prejudiced? I’m not—”
“I saw one of your paintings today,” Jean-Guy leaped in, spouting the first thing that came into his head.
“You are prejudiced, you know,” said Ruth. “You only see the surface and then pass judgment. Billy Williams is just a handyman.”
“One of my paintings? Really?” asked Clara. “Where?”
“A print, actually,” said Jean-Guy. “One of the numbered prints.”
“And who’s calling the kettle black?” demanded Myrna. “Did you see the Baroness as anything other than a cleaning woman? Did you even know her name?”
“Isn’t it about time you proposed to Gabri?” Annie asked Olivier, jumping onto the conversational pile. “We’re all waiting.”
“You’re waiting?” said Gabri. “If he waits much longer, I won’t be able to fit into my going-away outfit.”
“And there’s your answer,” said Olivier.
“You don’t have to know someone’s name to care about them,” said Ruth.
“And you cared?” said Myrna. “Did you even know she’d died?”
“I saw your painting at Anthony Baumgartner’s place,” said Jean-Guy, raising his voice.
“The dead man?” asked Clara.
“Hey, I thought we weren’t allowed to talk about murder,” said Ruth. “That’s not fair.”
“We’re not talking about murder,” said Jean-Guy. “I’m talking about art.”
“You?” Annie, Gabri, Olivier, Clara, Myrna, Ruth, and even Reine-Marie said. As one.
Rosa looked startled. But then ducks often did. And often for good reason.
“What?” said Jean-Guy. “I’m cultured.”
“With a capital K,” said Annie, patting his hand.
“That’s right,” he said. “Merci.”
They laughed, then Myrna turned to Ruth.
“I’m sorry I snapped at you about the Baroness. But that’s a terrible thing to say about someone. That they’re prejudiced.”
“Not ‘they,’” said Ruth. “You. Just because you’re a pot, that doesn’t mean you can’t—”
“I’m a what?”
“Which painting did he have?” asked Reine-Marie.
“The one of—” Jean-Guy jerked his head toward Ruth. “Not the original, of course.”
“No, we have the good fortune of having the original here,” said Reine-Marie.
“I meant not the original painting,” said Jean-Guy.
“Did you?” said Reine-Marie, and she smiled.
“Oh that’s right,” said Clara. “I gave that print to the Baroness. I’d forgotten.”
“Annie’s not wrong, you know,” said Gabri to Olivier. “You’d better pop the question soon if you want a dewy husband. I’m not going to be thirty-seven forever.”
“Well, you have been thirty-seven for quite a while now,” said Olivier.
“I guess she gave it to her son,” said Clara. “It’s just tragic. Do you have any idea who killed him? Oh, sorry, not dinner-table conversation.”
Though it wouldn’t be the first time a murder had been discussed around that table, by those people, in the flickering candlelight.
* * *
“Well, Ray-Ray,” Armand murmured as he took his reading glasses off and wiped his hand over his weary eyes. “What do you make of that?”
They’d had dinner and a bath, and now they were on the sofa in the living room in front of the fireplace. Armand reading his rough translation of the Kontrollinspektor’s email. Honoré, in his favorite bear pajamas, was lying in the crook of his grandfather’s arm, with Henri on the sofa on one side and Gracie on the other.
Honoré knew exactly what to make of that. While not understanding the words that were spoken, he understood the deep, warm resonance coming from his grandfather’s body. Each word radiating into him.
So that they were in tune.
And it was a nice tune.
He gripped the large hand holding him securely and felt a soft pat. And a kiss planted on his head.
And he smelled the familiar scent. Of Papa.
While Papa read about a reason for murder.
And then Armand put down his notebook and carried Honoré upstairs to bed, where he picked up Winnie-the-Pooh. And Honoré fell asleep listening to the adventures of Tigger and Roo and Piglet and Pooh. And Christopher Robin. In the Hundred Acre Wood.
* * *
“It still gives me goose bumps,” said Reine-Marie, looking at the original oil painting in Clara’s studio.
“Almost gave me a heart attack,” said Jean-Guy. “When I saw Ruth in Baumgartner’s home. Hovering above his fireplace.”
“There must be a lot of these out there,” said Reine-Marie. “It was your big success. Your breakout work.”
“Nah, the gallery hardly sold any,” said Clara, contemplating her masterwork. “Though they did print lots. People love looking at it. And then they like leaving. Really, who wants that”—she jerked her spoon, with ice cream on it, toward the easel—“in their home?”
“Apparently Anthony Baumgartner,” said Jean-Guy.
All three looked at the rancid old woman in the painting, then leaned back and looked out the doorway of Clara’s studio, into the kitchen, at the rancid old woman at the table.
Ruth was still arguing with Myrna. This time, it seemed, about how choux pastry should be made.
“And that’s why they call them loafers,” they heard the old woman say.
“Like a loaf of bread? Really?” said Benedict.
“No, not really,” said Myrna. “It’s c-h-o-u-x. Not shoe. Or loafer.”
“Well, that doesn’t make any sense.”
They returned to the painting leaning against the wall of the studio.
“I wonder what it says about the dead man,” said Reine-Marie. “That he was drawn to this particular painting.”
“Besides that he had great taste in art?” asked Clara.
“But he wasn’t drawn to it,” said Jean-Guy. “His mother was. You said that she’s the one who wanted it. Then she gave it to him.”
“But he hung it,” said Reine-Marie. “He didn’t just put it away in the basement.”
“True.” Jean-Guy continued to stare at Ruth on canvas. “Do you think the Baroness understood what the painting’s about? Not bitterness but hope.”
They looked at him in undisguised—and fairly insulting, he felt—surprise. Annie came over and put her arm around his slightly thickening waist.
“We’ll make an art aficionado of you yet,” she said.
“Aficionado,” he said. “That’s a type of Italian ice cream, isn’t it? I think what you meant to say is an art gelato.”
“And I think you’re in the wrong conversation,” said Annie. “I believe the one you want is over there.”
She pointed to the trio of Myrna, Ruth, and Benedict. Who were now discussing the difference between semaphore and petit four.
“No thank you,” said Jean-Guy. “Besides, I already know all I need to about art. Chiaroscuro.” He said the word triumphantly, as though opening the Olympic Games or launching a ship. “That’s it. My one word of artspeak, but it impresses the pants off people.”
“What was that word again?” asked Gabri from the freezer, where he was getting more ice cream.
“Please don’t tell him,” said Olivier.
“Are there any leftovers? I’d like to take some home to Armand,” asked Reine-Marie, walking over to the kitchen.
Olivier pointed to a container on the island, filled with coq au vin and whipped potatoes. “All ready for you.”
“Merci, mon beau.”
“So,” Ruth was saying to Benedict, “if anyone offers you a semaphore, don’t eat it.”
“But a petit four?”
“You give that to me.”
Benedict was nodding, and both Myrna and Rosa were staring, glassy-eyed, at them.
Jean-Guy tapped Benedict on the shoulder. “Come and help me do the dishes.”
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