A Fatal Grace (21 page)

Gamache, taking everything in, noticed Émilie and Beatrice exchanging smiles. Not maliciously but as a kind of familiar joke as though they’d lived with this all their lives.

‘Are we talking about the same thing, madame? Curling?’

‘Oh, I see.’ Kaye laughed. It was a nice laugh, Beauvoir realized. It changed her face from suspicious and pinched to very pleasant. ‘Yes, believe it or not I’m talking about the match. Mother is her.’ She pointed a gnarled finger at her friend in the caftan. For some reason it didn’t surprise him. He’d taken an immediate dislike to ‘Mother,’ and this was one more reason. Mother. Who insisted on being called Mother? Unless she was a Mother Superior, and, looking at her, Beauvoir doubted it.

She was trouble, he knew. He could sense it, though he’d never use those words and certainly never in front of Gamache.

‘What does that mean, madame?’ Beauvoir turned back to Kaye, and took a bite of corn bread, trying not to let the butter dribble down his chin.

‘“Clearing the house” is a curling term,’ said Kaye. ‘Em can explain better. She was the skip. That’s the captain of the team.’

Beauvoir turned to Madame Longpré. Her blue eyes were thoughtful and lively and perhaps a little tired. Her hair was dyed to a subtle light brown and styled beautifully to her face. She looked contained and kind and she reminded him of Reine-Marie Gamache. He looked briefly at the chief who was listening with his usual calm concentration. When he looked at Madame Longpré did the chief see his wife in thirty years?

‘Have you ever curled, Inspector?’ Em asked Beauvoir.

Beauvoir was surprised, even offended, by the question. Curl? He played center on the Sûreté hockey team. At thirty-six he creamed men ten years his junior. Curl? He felt embarrassed even thinking the word.

‘I can see you probably don’t,’ Em continued. ‘Shame really. It’s a marvelous sport.’

‘Sport, madame?’

‘
Mais oui.
Very difficult. It requires balance and a keen hand-eye co-ordination. You might want to try.’

‘Would you show us?’ It was the first time Gamache had spoken since they’d sat down. Now he looked at Em warmly and she smiled back, inclining her head.

‘How is tomorrow morning?’

‘Perfect,’ said Gamache.

‘Can you describe what was happening up to and including when you realized something was wrong?’ Beauvoir turned back to Émilie. Might as well try the sane one.

‘We’d been curling for almost an hour. It was a funspiel, so it was shorter than regular games, and being outside we didn’t want everyone to get too cold.’

‘Didn’t work. It was freezing. Coldest I remember,’ said Kaye.

‘We were losing, as usual,’ Em continued. ‘At some point I realized the other team had put a whole lot of rocks in the house.’

Seeing Beauvoir’s expression she explained. ‘The house is the bull’s-eye, those red rings painted on the ice. That’s where you want your rocks to end up. The other team had done a good job and the house was full of their stones. So I asked Mother to do what’s called “clearing the house”.’

‘I wind up and toss my stone down the ice.’ Mother stood up and moved her right arm out in front of her, then swung it behind her, then in one fast movement brought it down and out in front again, pantomiming a pendulum swinging. ‘The stone shoots down the ice and hits as many of the rocks out of the house as possible.’

‘It sounds like doing the break in pool,’ said Beauvoir and realized by their faces that made about as much sense to them as ‘clearing the house’ had to him.

‘It’s a lot of fun,’ said Mother.

‘In fact,’ added Em, ‘it’s so much fun it’s become a tradition at the Boxing Day funspiel. I’m convinced most people go just to see Mother clear the house.’

‘It’s very dramatic, rocks banging everywhere,’ said Mother.

‘Noisy,’ said Kaye.

‘It normally signals the end of the match. After that we give up,’ said Em. ‘Then we all go back to the Legion for a hot buttered rum.’

‘Except yesterday,’ said Beauvoir. ‘What happened yesterday?’

‘I didn’t know there was any problem until everyone started running toward where Kaye and CC de Poitiers were,’ said Mother.

‘Neither did I,’ said Em. ‘I was watching Mother’s stone. Everyone was. Then there was a huge cheer, but that suddenly stopped. I thought—’

‘What did you think, madame?’ Gamache asked, seeing her stricken face.

‘She thought I’d keeled over,’ said Kaye. ‘Didn’t you?’

Em nodded.

‘No such luck. She’ll outlive us all,’ said Mother. ‘She’s a hundred and forty-five years old already.’

‘That’s my IQ,’ said Kaye. ‘I’m actually ninety-two. Mother’s seventy-eight. You don’t meet many people whose age is greater than their IQ.’

‘When did you realize something had happened?’ Beauvoir asked Kaye, casually, trying not to show that this was the key question. Sitting in front of them was really the only witness to the crime.

Kaye thought about it for a moment, her small, wrinkled face looking like a Mrs Potato Head that had been left too long in the sun.

‘That woman who died, CC? She was sitting in Em’s chair. We always brought our own lawn chairs and put them under the heat lamp. People were very kind and allowed us the warmest seats. Except that horrible woman—’

‘Kaye,’ said Émilie, a reproach in her voice.

‘She was and we all know it. Always bossing people about, moving things, straightening things. I’d put the salt and pepper on the tables for the Legion breakfast and she went around moving them. And complained about the tea.’

‘That was my tea,’ said Mother. ‘She’d never had natural, organic, herbal tisane even though she pretended to have been in India.’

‘Please,’ said Émilie. ‘The poor woman’s dead.’

‘CC and I were sitting side by side, about five feet apart. As I said, it was quite cold and I was wearing a lot of clothing. I think I might have dozed off. The next thing I know CC’s standing at Mother’s chair gripping the back of it as though she’s going to pick it up and throw it. But she’s kind of trembling. Everyone around is cheering and clapping but then I realized CC wasn’t cheering at all, but screaming. Then she lets go of the chair and falls down.’

‘What did you do?’

‘I got up to see what had happened, of course. She was lying on her back and there was a strange smell. I think I must have called out because the next thing I knew there were all these people around. Then Ruth Zardo took over. Bossy woman. Writes horrible poetry. Nothing rhymes. Give me a good bit of Wordsworth any time.’

‘Why did she get out of her chair?’ Beauvoir asked hastily before Kaye or Gamache or both started quoting.

‘How should I know?’

‘Did you see anyone else around the chairs? Anyone bending over them, say? Or maybe spilling a drink?’

‘Nobody,’ said Kaye, firmly.

‘Did Madame de Poitiers speak to you at all?’ Gamache asked.

Kaye hesitated. ‘She seemed disturbed by Mother’s chair. There was something about it that was upsetting her, I think.’

‘What?’ Mother said. ‘You never told me that. What could possibly upset her about my chair, except the fact it was mine? She was out to get me, that woman. And now she died holding my chair.’

Mother’s face matched her caftan and her bitter voice filled the calm and tranquil room. She seemed to realize how she sounded and regained herself.

‘What do you mean, madame?’ asked Gamache.

‘About what?’

‘You said Madame de Poitiers was out to get you. What did you mean by that?’

Mother looked at Émilie and Kaye, as though suddenly lost and frightened.

‘She means,’ said Kaye, jumping in to save her friend, ‘that CC de Poitiers was a stupid, vapid, vindictive woman. And she got what she deserved.’

Agent Robert Lemieux was deep in the bowels of Sûreté headquarters in Montreal, a building he’d seen in recruitment posters, but never actually visited. In recruitment posters he’d also seen a whole lot of happy Québecois gathered respectfully round a Sûreté officer in uniform. That was something else he’d never seen in real life.

He’d found the door, closed, and the name Chief Inspector Gamache had given him stenciled onto the frosted glass.

He knocked and adjusted the leather of his satchel over his shoulder.

‘
Venez
,’ the voice barked. A thin, balding man looked up from his slanting desk. A pool of light from a small lamp shining on it was the only light in the room. Lemieux had no idea whether the room was tiny or cavernous, though he could guess. He felt claustrophobic.

‘You Lemieux?’

‘Yes sir. Chief Inspector Gamache sent me.’ He took a step further into the room with its formaldehyde smell and intense occupant.

‘I know. Otherwise I wouldn’t be seeing you. I’m busy. Give me what you’ve got.’

Lemieux dug into his satchel and pulled out the photograph of Elle’s dirty hand.

‘So?’

‘Well, here, you see?’ Lemieux waved an index finger over the middle of the hand.

‘You mean these bloodstains?’

Lemieux nodded, trying to look authoritative and praying to God this curt man didn’t ask him why.

‘I see what he means. Extraordinary. Right, tell the Chief Inspector he’ll get it when he gets it. Now go away.’

Agent Lemieux did.

‘Well, that was interesting,’ said Beauvoir as the two men walked through the gathering snow back to the Incident Room.

‘What struck you as interesting?’ Gamache asked, his hands behind his back as he walked.

‘Mother. She’s hiding something.’

‘Perhaps. But could she be the murderer? She was curling the whole time.’

‘But she might have wired up the chair before the curling began.’

‘True. And she might have spilled windshield washer fluid. But how did she get CC to touch the chair before anyone else? There were children running around. Any of them might have grabbed the chair. Kaye might have.’

‘Those two fought the whole time we were there. Maybe Madame Thompson was supposed to get electrocuted. Maybe Mother killed the wrong person.’

‘It’s possible,’ said Gamache. ‘But I don’t think Madame Mayer would risk other lives.’

‘So the curlers are out?’ Beauvoir asked, disappointed.

‘I think so, but when we meet Madame Longpré tomorrow at the lake we’ll have a better idea.’

Beauvoir sighed.

He was frankly astonished the entire community hadn’t died of boredom. Just talking about curling was sucking the will to live right out of him. It was like some Anglo joke, an excuse to wear plaid and yell. Most Anglos, he’d noticed, didn’t like to raise their voices. Francophones were constantly gesturing and shouting and hugging. Beauvoir wasn’t sure why Anglos even had arms, except perhaps to carry all their money. Curling at least gave them an excuse to vent. He’d watched the Briar once on CBC television, for a moment. All he remembered was a bunch of men holding brooms and staring at a rock while one of them screamed.

‘How could someone have electrocuted CC de Poitiers and no one notice?’ Beauvoir asked as they entered the warm Incident Room, stomping their boots to get the worst of the snow off.

‘I don’t know,’ admitted Gamache, walking right past Agent Nichol, who was trying to catch his eye. She’d been sitting at an empty desk when he’d left and she was still there.

Shaking his coat off Gamache hung it up. Beside him Beauvoir was fastidiously brushing the small drift from the shoulders of his own coat.

‘Glad I don’t have to shovel this.’

‘Let every man shovel out his own snow, and the whole city will be passable,’ said Gamache. Seeing Beauvoir’s puzzled expression he added, ‘Emerson.’

‘Lake and Palmer?’

‘Ralph and Waldo.’

Gamache walked back to his desk, knowing his mind should be on the case, but finding it lingering on Nichol, wondering whether they were both in too deep.

Emerson, Ralph and Waldo? What was that? thought Beauvoir. Some obscure hippy group from the ’60s probably. The lyrics didn’t even make sense.

While Beauvoir hummed ‘Lucky Man,’ Gamache downloaded his messages, read for half an hour, listened to reports, then put his coat, tuque and gloves back on and took himself off.

Round and round the village green he walked, through the falling snow. He passed people on snowshoes and others gliding along on cross-country skis. He waved at villagers shoveling their paths and driveways. Billy Williams came by, driving a snowplow, throwing cascades of snow off the road and onto people’s lawns. No one seemed to mind. What’s another foot?

But mostly Gamache thought.

EIGHTEEN