A Fatal Grace (29 page)

The bedside clock glowed 5:51. It was still dark and would be for a while. Gamache lay in bed, feeling the fresh freezing air from the slightly open window on his face, and the bed sheets warm around him.

It was time to get up.

He showered and dressed quickly in the cool room with its dark wood furniture, white walls and fluffy feather bedding. The room was elegant and way too inviting. Gamache tiptoed down the dark stairs of the B. & B. He’d put his warmest clothing on and got into his huge parka. He’d shoved his tuque and mitts into the sleeve of his parka when he’d come in the night before, and now, thrusting his right arm into the armhole, he hit the blockage. At a practiced shove the pompom of the tuque crowned the cuff followed by his mitts, like a tiny birth.

Once outside he started walking, his feet munching on the snow. It was a brittle crisp morning but without a breath of wind and Gamache thought the forecast might actually be accurate. It was going to be a cold one, even by Quebec standards. Leaning forward slightly, head down, his mittened hands clasped behind his back, Gamache walked and thought about this baffling case with its embarrassment of suspects and clues.

Puddles of anti-freeze, niacin,
The Lion in Winter
, booster cables, Psalm 46:10 and a long lost mother. And that was only what he’d uncovered so far. CC was two days dead and what he really needed was an epiphany.

Round the Commons the case took him in the dark, though in winter the night was never pitch black. The snow covering the ground had its own glow. Past the homes of sleeping villagers he trudged, smoke from the chimneys rising vertically, past the darkened shops, though a hint of a light in the basement of Sarah’s Boulangerie promised fresh croissants.

Round and round he went in the astonishing quietude and comfort of the hushed village, his feet crunching on the hardened snow and his breathing loud in his ears.

Was CC’s mother asleep in one of these houses? Was it an easy sleep she enjoyed, or did her conscience startle her awake, like a home invader intent on violence?

Who was CC’s mother?

Had CC found her?

Did Mom want to be found?

Was CC motivated by need for family or was there some other, darker, purpose?

And what about the Li Bien ball? Who’d thrown it away? And why not simply toss it into the frozen dumpster, smashing it into unrecognizable pieces?

Fortunately Armand Gamache loved puzzles. Just then a dark figure shot off the village green, racing toward him.

‘
Henri! Viens ici
,’ a voice commanded. For a dog with such big ears Henri didn’t seem to hear. Gamache stepped aside and Henri skidded past with great glee.

‘
Désolée
,’ said Émilie Longpré, puffing as she approached. ‘Henri, you have no manners.’

‘It’s a privilege to be chosen as Henri’s playmate.’

They both knew Henri also chose his own frozen poop as a playmate, so the bar wasn’t set so high. Still, Em gave a slight incline of her head, acknowledging his courtesy. Émilie Longpré was a dying breed of Québecoise. Les Grandes Dames, not because they pushed and insisted and bullied, but because of their immense dignity and kindness.

‘We’re not used to meeting anyone on our morning walk,’ explained Émilie.

‘What time is it?’

‘Just past seven.’

‘May I join you?’

He fell in beside her, the three of them making their slow progress round the Commons, Gamache tossing snowballs to an ecstatic Henri as one by one lights appeared in village windows. In the distance Olivier waved as he crossed from the B. & B. to the bistro. A moment later soft light came through the window.

‘How well did you know CC?’ Gamache asked, watching Henri skid lazily around on the frozen pond after a snowball.

‘Not well. I only met her a few times.’

In the dark Gamache couldn’t make out Em’s expression. He felt handicapped but focused intently on her tone.

‘She came to visit me.’

‘Why?’

‘I invited her. Then I met her a week or so later at Mother’s meditation center.’ Émilie’s voice held a touch of humor. She could still see it. Mother’s face the color of her caftan, which that day was crimson. CC, thin and righteous, standing in the middle of the meditation room, critiquing Mother’s entire way of life.

‘Of course, it’s understandable.’ CC condescended to Mother. ‘It’s been years since you’ve renewed your spiritual path and things get stale,’ she said, mixing her metaphors and picking up a bright purple meditation pillow with two fingers, as evidence of Mother’s woefully fossilized philosophy. And decorating scheme. ‘I mean, since when has the color purple been divine?’

Mother’s hands flew to the top of her head, her mouth open and silent. But CC didn’t see any of this. She’d tilted her head to the ceiling, palms up, and hummed like a large tuning fork.

‘No, there’s no spirit here. Your ego and emotions have squeezed it out. How can the divine live among all these loud colors? There’s too much you and not enough Higher Power. Still, you’re doing your best and you’re quite a pioneer, bringing meditation to the Townships thirty years ago—’

‘Forty,’ said Mother, finding her voice, though it was a squeak.

‘Whatever. It didn’t matter what you offered, since no one knew any better.’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘I came here hoping to find someone with some karma to share.’ CC had sighed and looked around, shaking her disillusioned, enlightened, bleached head. ‘Well, my path is clear. I’ve been given a rare gift and I intend to share it. I’ll be opening my home as a meditation center, teaching what I learned from my guru in India. Since my company and book are called Be Calm, that’s what I’ll be calling my meditation center. I’m afraid you’ll have to change the name of your little place. In fact, I’m feeling it might be time for you to close altogether.’

Em feared for CC’s life. Mother probably had just enough strength to throttle CC, and she looked as though she meant to.

‘I sense your anger,’ said CC, displaying an immediate grasp of the obvious. ‘Very toxic.’

‘Mother didn’t take her seriously, of course,’ said Em after she’d described the scene to Gamache.

‘But CC planned to use the name of her center. That could have been a disaster for Mother.’

‘True, but I don’t think Mother believed it.’

‘The center’s called Be Calm. That phrase seems to keep coming up. Wasn’t it the name of your curling team?’

‘Where’d you hear that?’ Em laughed. ‘That must have been fifty, sixty years ago. Ancient history.’

‘But interesting history, madame.’

‘I’m glad you think so. It was a joke. We didn’t take ourselves seriously, and didn’t much care whether we won.’

It was the same story he’d heard before but he wished he could see her expression.

Henri limped over, lifting first one paw then the other.

‘Oh, poor Henri. We’ve stayed out too long.’

‘Should I carry him?’ asked Gamache, feeling badly because he hadn’t remembered that the biting snow could burn a dog’s paw. Now he remembered last winter struggling to carry old Sonny the three blocks home when his feet couldn’t take the cold any more. It had broken both their hearts. And he remembered hugging Sonny to him a few months later when the vet came to put him to sleep. And he remembered saying soothing things into the stinky old ears and looking into the weepy brown eyes as they closed, with one final soft thump of the ragged, beloved, tail. And as he felt the final beat of Sonny’s heart Gamache had had the impression it wasn’t that his old heart had stopped but that Sonny had finally given it all away.

‘We’re almost there,’ said Em, her voice now thick, her lips and cheeks beginning to freeze in the cold.

‘May I offer you breakfast? I’d like to continue this conversation. Perhaps the bistro?’

Émilie Longpré hesitated just an instant, then agreed. They dropped off Henri then made their way through the dawn to Olivier’s Bistro.

‘
Joyeux Noël
,’ the handsome young waiter said to Gamache, showing them to the table by the freshly lit fireplace. ‘It’s good to see you again.’

Gamache held the chair for Em and looked after the young man going to the cappuccino machine to make their bowls of
café au lait.

‘Philippe Croft,’ said Em, following his gaze. ‘Nice young man.’

Gamache smiled delightedly. Young Croft. The last time he’d met Philippe, during an earlier case, he’d been less than likable.

It was just eight o’clock and they had the place to themselves.

‘This is a rare treat, Chief Inspector,’ said Em, surveying the menu.

Her hair was standing on end from the static caused when she’d removed her tuque. But then so was his. They both looked as though they’d had a small fright. Now they sipped their coffees, feeling the warmth spread through their bodies. Their faces were rosy and their cheeks beginning to thaw. The smell of fresh brewed coffee mingled with the wood smoke from the young fire, and the world seemed cozy and right.

‘Do you still want your curling lesson this morning?’ Em asked. Gamache hadn’t forgotten their date and was looking forward to it.

‘If it isn’t too cold.’

‘This morning should be perfect. Look at the sky.’ She nodded out the window. There was a delicate glow in the sky as the sun considered rising. ‘Clear and cold. By this afternoon it’ll be a killer.’

‘May I suggest the eggs and sausages?’ Philippe was at their elbow, his order pad ready. ‘The sausages are from Monsieur Pagé’s farm.’

‘They’re wonderful,’ confided Em.

‘Madame?’ Gamache invited her to order first.

‘I’d love the sausages,
mon beau Philippe
, but I’m afraid at my age they’re a bit much. Does Monsieur Pagé still provide your back bacon?’

‘
Mais oui
, home cured, Madame Longpré. The best in Quebec.’

‘
Merveilleux.
Such luxury.’ She leaned across the table to Gamache, genuinely enjoying herself. ‘I’ll take a poached egg,
s’il vous plaît
, on a piece of Sarah’s baguette and some of your perfect bacon.’

‘And a croissant?’ Philippe looked at her playfully. They could smell the croissants baking in the shop next door, the connecting door open and eloquent.

‘Perhaps just one.’

‘Monsieur?’

Gamache ordered and within minutes he had a plate of sausages and French toast. A jug of local maple syrup was at his elbow and a basket of croissants steamed between them, accompanied by jars of homemade jams. The two ate and talked and sipped their coffees in front of the lively and warm fire.

‘So what did you think of CC?’ he asked.

‘She struck me as a very lonely woman. I felt sorry for her.’

‘Others have described her as selfish, petty, hurtful and frankly a little stupid. Not someone you’d choose to be with.’

‘They’re right, of course. She was desperately unhappy and took it out on others. People do, don’t they? They can’t stand it when others are happy.’

‘Yet you invited her to your home.’

This was the question he’d wanted to ask since she’d mentioned it on their walk. But he’d needed to be able to watch her face.

‘I’ve been desperately unhappy in my life.’ Her voice was quiet. ‘Have you, Chief Inspector?’

It wasn’t a response he could have predicted. He nodded.

‘I thought so. I think people who have had that experience and survived have a responsibility to help others. We can’t let someone drown where we were saved.’

Now the room was very still and Gamache realized he was holding his breath.

‘I understand, madame, and I agree,’ he said finally. Gently he asked, ‘Could you tell me about your sadness?’

She met his eyes. Then she reached into her cardigan pocket and pulled out a ball of white Kleenex, and something else. On the table between them she placed a small black and white photograph, cracked and dusty from the tissues. She caressed it clean with one practiced finger.

‘This is Gus, my husband, and my son David.’

A tall man had his arm across the shoulder of a lanky young man, a boy really. He looked to be a teenager, with long shaggy hair and a coat with wide lapels. His tie was also wide, as was the car behind them.

‘This was just before Christmas 1976. David was a violinist. Well, actually, he only played one piece.’ She laughed. ‘Extraordinary, really. He heard it when he was a child, little more than a baby. Gus and I had it on the hi-fi and David suddenly stopped what he was doing and went right over to the console. He made us play it over and over. As soon as he had the words he asked for a violin. We thought he was kidding, of course. But he wasn’t. One day I heard him practicing in the basement. It was shaky, and squeaky, but sure enough, it was the same piece.’

Gamache could feel the blood run from his hands and feet and into his heart, which gave a squeeze.

‘David had taught himself the piece. He was six. His teacher eventually quit since David refused to practice or play anything else. Just the one piece. Willful child. Gus’s side of the family.’ She smiled.

‘What was it?’

‘Tchaikovsky’s violin concerto in D Major.’

Gamache couldn’t bring it to mind.

‘David was a normal teenager. He played goalie on his hockey team, dated one of the Chartrand girls for most of high school, wanted to go to the Université de Montréal to study forestry. He was a lovely boy, but not an extraordinary one, except in that one feature.’

She closed her eyes and after a moment one hand turned upward, exposing her slim wrist, blue with veins. The hand moved fluidly back and forth. The ghost notes filled the space between them and surrounded the table and eventually the entire bistro seemed filled with music Gamache couldn’t hear but could imagine. And knew Em heard perfectly clearly.

‘Lucky boy, to have found such a passion,’ he said quietly.

‘That’s exactly it. If I hadn’t ever met the divine I’d have known it in his face as he played. He was blessed, and so were we. Still, I don’t think he planned to take it any further, but then something happened. He came home just before his Christmas exams with a notice. Every year the Lycée held a competition. All the musicians had to play the same piece, chosen by the committee. That year,’ she nodded to the photo, ‘it was Tchaikovsky’s violin concerto in D Major. David was beside himself. It was to be held the fifteenth of December in Gaspé. Gus decided to drive him there. They could have taken the train or flown, but Gus wanted some time alone with David. You know what it’s like, perhaps, with teenagers? David was seventeen and a typical boy. Not very talkative about his feelings. Gus wanted to let him know, in his own way, that his father loved him and would do anything in the world for him. This picture was taken just before they left.’