The Murder Stone (25 page)

Lacoste was haunted by the sight of the body. She’d been in homicide for many years and had seen bodies in far more gruesome shape. What disturbed her, though, hadn’t been the stare on the victim’s face, or even the statue imbedded in her chest. It was Julia Martin’s arms. Flung out, open.

She knew that pose. She saw it each time she visited her mother. There on the steps of her modest east end Montreal home, her mother would be standing. Carefully turned out, always clean and proper. When they pulled up she’d open the door having stood just inside, waiting. She’d step onto the stoop and watch them park, then as Isabelle got out her mother’s face would break into a smile. And her arms would open wide, in welcome. It seemed involuntary, as though her mother was exposing her heart to her daughter. And Isabelle Lacoste would head down the walk, picking up speed until finally she was enfolded in those old arms. Safe. Home.

And Lacoste did the same thing when her own children raced down the walk, and into her open arms.

It was just such a gesture Julia Martin had made in the moments before she died. Had she welcomed what was coming? Why had she opened her arms as the massive statue tilted on top of her?

Agent Lacoste closed her eyes and tried to feel the woman. Not the terror of her last moment, but the spirit, the soul of the woman. During each investigation Lacoste quietly went to the site of the murder, and stood there alone. She wanted to say something to the dead. And now, silently, she assured Julia Martin that they would find out who had taken her life. Armand Gamache and his team wouldn’t rest until she rested.

So far they had a near perfect record, and she’d only had to apologize to a few spirits. Would this be one? She hated to bring negative thoughts to this moment, but this case disturbed Agent Lacoste. The Morrows disturbed her. But more even than that, the walking statue disturbed her.

Opening her eyes she saw the chief walking across the lawn and above the buzzing insects and chirps of birds she heard him humming and singing in his baritone.

‘Letter B, Letter B.’

Jean Guy Beauvoir had slept fitfully. After putting in a few calls to British Columbia and getting some interesting answers he’d done what he knew he shouldn’t. Instead of going to bed, or into the library to make more notes, on notepads, for God’s sake, he’d gone into the kitchen.

Some of the young staff were just sitting down to eat, the rest were cleaning up. Beauvoir arrived as Pierre Patenaude bustled in. Chef Veronique’s attention, momentarily on Beauvoir, shifted. As did Beauvoir’s mood. He’d been buoyant, feeling again the strange desire to laugh or at least smile in her company. It was a gladness of heart he rarely felt. But that shifted as her attention shifted, away from him to the maitre d’. And the Inspector surprised within himself an anger. A hurt. She seemed happy to see him, but happier to see the maitre d’.

And why shouldn’t she be? he told himself. It’s only natural.

But the rational thought glanced off the hard feelings forming as he watched Chef Veronique smile at Patenaude.

What sort of man waits on others all his life? he wondered. A weak man. Beauvoir hated weakness. Distrusted it. Murderers were weak, he knew. And he looked at the maitre d’ with new eyes.

‘Bonjour, Inspector,’ the maitre d’ had said, wiping his hands on a dish towel. ‘What can I do for you?’

‘I was hoping for a cup of coffee and perhaps a small dessert?’ He turned and looked at Chef Veronique as he spoke. He could feel his cheeks burn slightly.

‘Bon, parfait,’ she said. ‘I was just cutting some poire Helene for Monsieur Patenaude. Would you like some?’

Beauvoir’s heart raced and contracted at the same time, giving him a pain so sharp he wanted to press his fist into his chest. ‘May I help?’

‘You never help a chef in her own kitchen,’ said Pierre with a laugh. ‘Here’s your coffee.’

Beauvoir took it reluctantly. This wasn’t how he’d seen the encounter going. Chef Veronique would be alone in here. Washing up. He’d pick up a dish towel and dry as she washed, just as he’d seen the Chief Inspector do a thousand times after dinner at home. Unlike his own home. He and his wife ate in front of the TV then she took the dishes down and shoved them in the dishwasher.

He’d dry the dishes and then Chef Veronique would invite him to sit down. She’d pour coffee for both of them, and they’d eat chocolate mousse and talk about their days.

He certainly hadn’t imagined sitting with the maitre d’ and five pimply Anglo kids.

Chef Veronique had cut them each a wedge of poire Helene. Beauvoir watched as she put plump almost purple raspberries and coulis on each plate. One was larger than the other. Had more fruit, more custard. More rich pear pie on a dark chocolate base.

She’d put the plates in front of them. The larger one in front of the maitre d’.

Jean Guy Beauvoir had felt himself grow cold. In the hot kitchen, on a hot summer’s evening, he felt himself freeze over.

Now, in the bright, fresh, warm morning he felt hungover, as though he’d been drunk on emotion. Drunk and sick. But still, as he descended the wide stairs he felt himself pulled once again to the door into the kitchen. He stood outside for a moment, willing himself to turn round, to go into the dining room, or the library, or into his car and head home and make love with his wife.

The door suddenly swung open, knocking Beauvoir square in the face.

He fell back, swallowing with a massive effort the swear words that sprang to mind and tongue, in case it was Veronique who’d done it. For some reason, around her, he couldn’t bring himself to swear. He shut his eyes against the pain and his hand flashed up and held his nose, feeling something trickle between his fingers.

‘Oh, God, I’m so sorry.’

It was the maitre d’.

Beauvoir opened his eyes and his mouth at the same time. ‘Chalice, look at this.’ He stared down at his hand, covered in blood. Suddenly he felt a little lightheaded.

‘Here, let me help.’ The maitre d’ took Beauvoir’s arm, but he shook it away.

‘Tabernac! Leave me alone,’ he shouted, nasally, haemorrhag ing swear words and blood.

‘It wasn’t his fault.’

Beauvoir stood still, not wanting this to be happening.

‘You shouldn’t be standing right in front of a kitchen door at mealtime. Monsieur Patenaude was simply doing his job.’

The foghorn voice was unmistakable, as was the tone. A woman defending someone she cared about. More concerned about the attack on the maitre d’ than the bleeding policeman. That hurt more, far more, than the hard door to the soft nose. Beauvoir turned and saw Chef Veronique towering behind him, sheaves of paper in her beefy hand. Her voice had been hard, censorious, like his teachers at Catholic school when he’d done something particularly stupid.

Chalice, had he said chalice? And tabernac? Now he felt really nauseous.

‘Desole,’ he said, cupping the blood as it poured off his chin. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘What’s happened?’

Beauvoir turned and saw Gamache walk through the door. He felt relief, as he always did when Gamache was in the room.

‘It was my fault,’ said Pierre. ‘I opened the door and hit him.’

‘What’s going on?’ Madame Dubois waddled over, concern on her face.

‘Are you all right?’ Gamache looked into Beauvoir’s eyes. The younger man nodded. Gamache gave the Inspector his handkerchief and asked for more towels. After a moment he examined the damage, his large, sure fingers prodding Beauvoir’s nose and forehead and chin.

‘Right, nothing too bad. Your nose isn’t broken, just bruised.’

Beauvoir shot a look of loathing at the maitre d’. Somehow, Beauvoir knew, the man had done it on purpose. Somehow.

He went off and cleaned himself up, hoping to see in the mirror a heroic hockey player or a boxer wounded in the ring. What he saw was an idiot. A bloody idiot. After he’d changed he met the others for breakfast in the dining room. The Morrows were off in one corner, the police in another.

‘Better?’ asked Gamache.

‘It’s nothing,’ said Beauvoir, catching Lacoste’s amused look and wondering if everyone knew. Their cafe au lait arrived and they ordered.

‘What have you found out?’ Gamache asked Lacoste first.

‘You were wondering, Chief, why Julia Martin exploded at the mention of a public washroom? I asked Mariana Morrow last night. Seems Julia had a huge blow-up with her father about that.’

‘About a toilet?’

‘Uh huh. It was the reason she went to BC. Seems someone wrote on the men’s room wall in the Ritz that Julia Morrow gave good head. They even wrote the phone number. The family number.’

Beauvoir grimaced. He could just imagine how Mama and Papa Morrow would react to that. Men calling at all hours asking how much for a blow job.

‘Apparently Charles Morrow saw it himself. Whoever did it knew exactly where to put it. You know the Oyster Bar?’

Gamache nodded. It was closed now but it’d been the favourite cocktail lounge for generations of Montreal Anglos. It was in the basement of the Ritz.

‘Well, Julia Morrow gives good head was written in the men’s washroom of the Oyster Bar. According to Mariana her father saw it then heard a bunch of his friends laughing about it. He went ballistic.’

‘Who put it there?’ Gamache asked.

‘I don’t know,’ said Lacoste. It hadn’t occurred to her to ask Mariana.

Their breakfasts arrived. Scrambled eggs with spinach and Brie for the Chief Inspector. A few maple-cured rashers of bacon lay over the eggs and a small fruit salad garnished the plate. Lacoste had ordered eggs Benedict and Beauvoir had the largest dish on the menu. A platter heaped with crepes, eggs, sausages and back bacon sat in front of him.

A waiter left a basket of croissants along with a tray of homemade wild strawberry and blueberry confitures, and honey.

‘Someone had it in for her,’ said Lacoste, the hollandaise sauce dripping from her fork. ‘Girls who don’t give out are often labelled sluts by disappointed boys.’

‘It’s a terrible thing to do to a girl,’ said Gamache, thinking of wispy Julia. ‘How old would she have been? Twenty?’

‘Twenty-two,’ said Lacoste.

‘I wonder if Thomas could have written it,’ said Gamache.

‘Why him?’ asked Beauvoir.

‘It would need to be someone who knew the phone number, knew Charles Morrow’s habits, and knew Julia. And it would need to be someone cruel.’

‘According to Mariana they’re all cruel,’ said Beauvoir.

‘Could’ve been Thomas,’ said Lacoste. She reached for a croissant, still warm from the oven, and cracking it open she spread golden honey on it. ‘But that’s thirty-five years ago. We can’t judge the man by what the boy did.’

‘True, but Thomas lied and told Julia we were talking about men’s toilets when we weren’t,’ said Gamache. ‘We were talking about washrooms in general. He wanted her to react. He wanted to hurt her, I know that now. And he did. He’s still cruel.’

‘Maybe it’s a joke to him. Families have lots of in jokes,’ said Beauvoir.

‘Jokes are funny,’ said Gamache. ‘This was meant to hurt.’

‘It’s a form of abuse,’ said Lacoste and beside her Beauvoir groaned. She turned to him. ‘You think only a fist in a woman’s face is abuse?’

‘Look, I know all about verbal and emotional abuse, and I understand,’ he said and meant it. ‘But where does it end? The guy teased his sister about an event from years ago, and it’s supposed to be abuse?’

‘Some families have long memories,’ said Gamache, ‘especially for slights.’

He dipped a spoon into the honey and drizzled it on a warm croissant. He tasted it and smiled.

It tasted of fragrant summer flowers.

‘According to Mariana their father wasn’t so worried about whether Julia gave good head, but that everyone believed it,’ said Lacoste.

‘And Julia left because of that?’ said Gamache. ‘It’s not trivial, I know, but was it actually enough to send her across the continent?’

‘Hurt feelings,’ said Lacoste. ‘I’d rather have a bruise any day.’

Beauvoir felt his nose throbbing, and knew she was right.

Gamache nodded, trying to imagine the scene. Julia, who’d probably never put a foot wrong her whole life, is suddenly humiliated in front of all Montreal Anglo society. It might not be large, it might not be as powerful as it pretended, but it was where the Morrows lived. And suddenly Julia Morrow was branded a slut. Humiliated.

But the worst was to come. Instead of defending her, Charles Morrow, upright and upstanding and as immovable then as now, had attacked her as well, or at least failed to defend her. She’d loved him, and he’d stepped aside and let the hyenas have at her.

Julia Morrow had left. Gone as far from her family as she could. To British Columbia. Married David Martin, a man her father disapproved of. Divorced. Then come home. And been murdered.

‘I spoke to Peter last night,’ said Gamache and told them about his conversation.

‘So he thinks Bert Finney killed Julia,’ said Lacoste, ‘for the insurance?’

‘OK, suppose he did it,’ said Beauvoir, after swallowing a piece of savoury sausage, dripping maple syrup. ‘Again, he’s like, a hundred and fifty. He’s older than he weighs. How could he shove that huge statue off the pedestal? You might as well say that kid did it.’

Gamache took a forkful of scrambled eggs with Brie and stared out of the window. Beauvoir was right. But then, it wasn’t any more likely that Peter or Thomas had done it. They were looking at an impossible murder. No one could have budged Charles Morrow, never mind shove him a foot or more until he’d tumbled. And if they did, it would have taken time and made noise. Julia wouldn’t have just stood there and let it happen. But Charles Morrow, like the rest of his family, had been silent.

Besides, the statue scraping along the marble would have made not just noise but scratches and blemishes, but the surface was pristine.

Impossible. The whole thing was impossible. And yet it’d been done.

But another thought dawned and Gamache looked over to the family. Bean couldn’t have done it. Finney couldn’t have done it. Nor could Madame Finney or Mariana or even the men. Not alone.

But together?