A Fatal Grace (30 page)

Em gazed down and her finger crept along the wooden table toward it, but stopped just short.

‘David came in second in the competition. He called, so excited.’ She could hear him still, breathless, as though unable to contain his happiness. ‘They were thinking of staying to hear some other contestants but I’d been watching the weather and there was a storm coming in, so I convinced them to leave right away. You can guess the rest. It was a beautiful day, like today. Clear and cold. But it proved to be too cold, too bright. Black ice, they said. And the sun right in Gus’s face. Too much light.’

TWENTY-FOUR

‘So who’s CC’s mother?’ Beauvoir asked. They’d been in the morning meeting in the Incident Room for half an hour and he was feeling like his old self again.

With one significant difference.

His old self had despised Agent Yvette Nichol, but this morning he found himself quite liking her and not quite remembering what had been the problem. They’d had breakfast together at the B. & B. and ended up laughing hysterically at her description of trying to warm up his hot water bottle. In the microwave.

‘Sure you find it funny,’ said Gabri, plopping two Eggs Benedicts in front of them. ‘You didn’t come home to find what looked like the cat exploded in the micro. Never liked the cat. Loved the hot water bottle.’

Now they all sat round the conference table listening to reports. The Li Bien ball had been produced and dusted for prints. They found three sets which had been transmitted to the lab in Montreal.

Nichol had reported her findings. She’d gone into Montreal to interview the school about Crie.

‘I wanted to get more than just a report card. Seems she’s considered a smart girl, but not very bright, if you follow. Plodding, methodical. I get the impression Crie was a bit of a blight for Miss Edward’s School for Girls. The vice principal called her Brie once then corrected herself. Crie’s best subject is science, though she was beginning to show some interest in the theatre. She’d hidden away for the past few years doing the technical stuff, but this year she was actually in the play. Bit of a disaster apparently. Stage fright. Had to be led off the stage. The other kids weren’t very kind. Neither were the parents, apparently.’

‘And the teachers?’ Gamache asked.

Nichol shook her head. ‘But there was something interesting. The tuition cheque bounced a few times. So I looked into their finances. Seems CC and her husband were living way beyond their means. In fact, they were a couple of months away from complete disaster.’

‘Was CC insured?’ Beauvoir asked.

‘For two hundred thousand dollars. Richard Lyon comes from a modest background. Gained a degree in engineering from Waterloo but never achieved professional status. Went to work at his current job eighteen years ago. He’s a kind of low-level manager. Organizes schedules. An under-achiever. He makes forty-two thousand a year, clears thirty. She hasn’t seen a profit in the six years she’s had her company. Does small interior design jobs here and there, but seems to have spent most of the last year writing the book and coming up with her own line of household items. Here.’ Nichol tossed a catalogue onto the table. ‘That’s the prototype for the catalogue she was planning to put out, the one the photographer was working on, I guess.’

Beauvoir grabbed it. Li Bien soaps, Serenity coffee mugs, Be Calm bathrobes.

‘CC had lined up a meeting for next week with Direct Mail Inc.,’ Nichol continued. ‘It’s the biggest marketer of catalogue items in the United States. She was planning to sell them on her line. If she had, it would have been huge.’

‘What do they say?’ Isabelle Lacoste asked.

‘I have a call in to them,’ said Nichol, a smile she hoped said
thank you for asking
on her face.

‘Any word from the lab on those pictures he took at the curling?’ Beauvoir asked Lacoste.

‘I’ve sent an agent to get the negatives developed. Should hear soon.’

‘Good,’ said Gamache, then told them about niacin,
The Lion in Winter
, and Psalm 46:10.

‘So who’s CC’s mother?’ Beauvoir asked the key question.

‘There’re a few women in Three Pines who’re the right age,’ said Lacoste. ‘Émilie Longpré, Kaye Thompson, and Ruth Zardo.’

‘But only one of them has the initial L,’ said Agent Lemieux, speaking for the first time. He was watching Agent Nichol closely. He wasn’t sure why, but he didn’t like her, didn’t like her sudden appearance and certainly didn’t like this newfound camaraderie with Inspector Beauvoir.

‘I’ll check them out,’ said Lacoste, and the meeting broke up.

Gamache reached for the wooden box on his desk, turning it over automatically to stare at the letters stuck to the bottom.

‘What’s that?’ Beauvoir pulled up a chair beside the chief.

‘A piece of evidence from another case,’ said Gamache, handing it to Beauvoir. As he took it Gamache suddenly had the impression Beauvoir would be able to see something he hadn’t. He’d look at the letters on the outside and inside and put it all together. Gamache watched the Inspector handle the box.

‘One of your Christmas cases?’

Gamache nodded, not wanting to break Beauvoir’s concentration.

‘Collected letters? What a nutcase.’ He handed the box back to Gamache.

Well, so much for intuition.

As he left Gamache bent down and spoke to Lacoste. ‘Add Beatrice Mayer to your list.’

The curling stone thundered down the rough ice and hit the rock at the far end with a huge bang that moments later bounced off the hills surrounding Lac Brume. It was a bitterly cold morning, the coldest of the winter so far and the mercury still falling. By midday their flesh would freeze in seconds. The sun, teasing them with light but no warmth, hit the snow and magnified, blinding anyone not wearing dark glasses.

Billy Williams had cleared the curling surface on Lac Brume for them, and now he, Beauvoir, Lemieux and Gamache watched tiny Émilie Longpré straighten up, her breath coming out in jagged puffs.

Not long, thought Gamache. We’ll have to get her in soon before she freezes. Before we all do.

‘Your turn,’ she said to Beauvoir, who’d been watching her with polite attention. Curling was not to be taken seriously. As Beauvoir crouched and stared at the other end of the ice, twenty-five feet away, he could see where this was going. He’d astonish them with his natural ability. Soon he’d be fighting off pleas to join the Canadian Olympic curling team. He’d turn them down, of course, too embarrassed to be associated with such a ridiculous pastime. Though maybe, when he could no longer do any real sports, he’d consider joining the Olympic curling team.

Clara slipped into the claw-foot tub. She was still pissed off at Peter for dumpster diving, but was beginning to feel better. She slid down into the hot scented water, her toes playing with lumps of herbal bath, a Christmas gift from Peter’s mother. She knew she should call to thank her, but that could wait. His mother insisted on calling her Clare and up until this year had given her cooking gifts. Books, pans, an apron once. Clara hated cooking and suspected Peter’s mother knew it.

Clara swished her hands back and forth and let her mind wander to her favorite fantasy. The director of the Museum of Modern Art in New York knocking on her door. His car would have stalled out in the bitterly cold temperatures, and he’d need help.

Clara could see it all. He’d come into the house and she’d make him a cup of tea, but when she turned to give it to him he’d have disappeared. Into her studio. She’d find him there, staring.

No. Weeping.

He’d be weeping at the beauty, the pain, the brilliance of her art.

‘Who did these?’ he’d ask, not bothering to wipe the tears away.

She’d say nothing, just let him realize the great artist was before him, humble and beautiful. He’d declare her the greatest artist of her generation, or any other. The most gifted, astonishing, brilliant artist that ever lived, anywhere, any time.

Because she was nothing if not fair, she’d show him Peter’s studio, and the chief curator of MOMA would be polite. But there’d be no doubt. She was the real talent in the family.

Clara hummed.

‘Now kneel down, Inspector. You grab the handle of the rock as though you’re going to shake hands.’ She was bending over him. ‘Now, you bring the rock back with your right arm and your left leg also swings back, then you bring both forward at the same time and slide down the ice, the rock leading the way. Don’t shove it, mind. Just release.’

Beauvoir looked down the curling rink to her stone at the far end. It suddenly seemed very far away.

Gamache watched Beauvoir take a deep breath and bring his right hand back, the rock threatening to overbalance him already. Beauvoir remembered the silly broom and leaned over on it, feeling his boots begin to slip. This couldn’t be right.

The rock thumped onto the ice and he gave a great heave, knowing he’d somehow lost the momentum he was meant to build up. His right arm shot out, still clinging to the stone, and his left leg scrambled for purchase. He could feel himself falling.

Beauvoir fell flat on the ice, arms and legs splayed, the stone still in his grip.

‘Whale oil beef hooked,’ said Billy Williams, laughing.

Clara was thinking about the movie the night before. It’d been a while since she’d watched a video. Almost all their movies were on DVD, mostly because Peter’s favorite videos were ruined. He’d kept pausing them at his favorite spots to watch over and over and the tape had stretched. Gone wonky.

Clara sat up in the bath, bits of fragrant herbs clinging to her body. Could that be it?

‘Honey, Mom’s on the phone from Montreal, calling to thank us for our gift.’ Peter walked in holding the phone. Clara waved him off, but it was too late. Wiping her hands she glared at Peter.

‘Hello, Mrs Morrow. Well you’re welcome, and Merry Christmas to you too. My job at the pharmacy? It’s going very well, thank you.’ She looked daggers at Peter. Clara hadn’t worked at the pharmacy in fifteen years. ‘And thank you for your gift. Very thoughtful. I’m using it now. Yes,
bon appétit
.’ Clara hung up and handed the phone to Peter. ‘Seems she gave me a pack of dried soup. Vegetable.’

Looking down at her toes, Clara noticed a pea bobbing on the surface, next to a bright orange rehydrated carrot.

‘Did I win?’ Beauvoir brushed himself off and stared at the curling stone at his feet.

‘Depends what game you’re playing.’ Em smiled. ‘You’ve definitely mastered the stationary stone game.
Félicitations
.’

‘
Merci, madame.
’ The terrible cold of the day was kind to the Inspector. It hid any blush he might have produced. As he looked at the rock sitting forlornly at his feet a grudging, and secret, respect for curlers was born in Beauvoir.

Gamache took out the photos his people had taken of the crime scene. Five curling stones were imbedded in the snow where Mother had ‘cleared the house’.

An idea started to form in Gamache’s mind.

TWENTY-FIVE