A Fatal Grace

‘CC killed her own mother,’ repeated Beauvoir. ‘Why?’

‘Money,’ said Lacoste, who’d had time to think about it. ‘She was about to meet with American buyers, hoping to sell her philosophy to them. She’d market Li Bien and make a fortune.’

‘But that was probably fantasy on her part,’ said Lemieux.

‘Maybe, but as long as she believed it that’s all that mattered. Everything was riding on selling Li Bien to the Americans.’

‘Then along comes a drunken bag lady as a mother,’ nodded Gamache, ‘putting the lie to her carefully constructed life. Something had to die, either her dream or her mother. It wasn’t much of a choice.’ He looked down at the box in his hands. He turned it over, yet again.

B KLM.

Why had L collected those letters? He opened the box and his index finger swam through the other capital letters. Ks, Ms, Cs, Ls and Bs.

Slowly he closed the box and placed it on his desk, staring into space. Then he got up and walked round the room. Round and round he went, with a measured, unhurried pace, his head down and his hands clasped behind his back.

After a few minutes he stopped.

He had his answer.

THIRTY-THREE

‘Madame Longpré.’ Gamache rose and bowed to the slight woman in front of him.

‘Monsieur Gamache.’ She nodded slightly and accepted the chair he held for her.

‘What can I get you?’

‘An espresso, s’il vous plaît.’

The two of them settled into the bistro, their table slightly to one side of the fireplace. It was ten o’clock the next morning and flurries were falling. It was one of those not uncommon but still extraordinary meteorological phenomena that happened in Quebec in the winter: it was snowing and sunny at the same time. Gamache glanced out the window and marveled. Crystals and prisms, delicate and fragile, floated by and lay soft on Three Pines. Pink and blue and green sparkled from the trees and the clothing of villagers strolling through it.

Their coffees arrived.

‘Have you recovered from the fire?’ she asked. Em had been there, along with Mother and even Kaye. They’d spent the night serving sandwiches and hot drinks and providing blankets for the freezing volunteers. They’d all been exhausted and Gamache had decided to wait until this morning before speaking to Émilie.

‘It was a horrible night,’ he said. ‘One of the worst I can remember.’

‘Who was he?’

‘A man named Saul Petrov.’ Gamache waited to see if there was any reaction. There was only polite interest. ‘A photographer. He was taking pictures of CC.’

‘Why?’

‘For her catalogue. She was planning to meet with an American company in hopes of interesting them in her project. She had aspirations of becoming a style guru, though her aspirations seemed to have gone beyond style.’

‘A kind of “one-stop” shop,’ suggested Em. ‘She’d refurbish you inside and out.’

‘CC de Poitiers dreamed big, that’s certain,’ agreed Gamache. ‘You said you met CC a few times, but did you ever meet her family? Her husband and daughter?’

‘Only from a distance, not to speak to. They were at the Boxing Day curling, of course.’

‘And the Christmas Eve service at the church here, I understand.’

‘C’est vrai.’ Em smiled at the memory. ‘She’s deceptive, the daughter.’

‘How so?’ Gamache was surprised to hear this.

‘Oh, not in a devious way. Not like her mother, though CC wasn’t as deceptive as she would have liked to believe. Far too transparent. No, Crie was shy, withdrawn. Never looked you in the eye. But she had the most enchanting voice. Quite took our breath away.’

Émilie cast her mind back to the Christmas Eve service in the crowded chapel. She’d looked over at Crie and seen a girl transformed. Joy had made her lovely.

‘She looked just like David when he played Tchaikovsky.’

And then that scene outside the church.

‘What are you thinking about?’ Gamache asked quietly, noticing a troubled look settling on Em’s face.

‘After the service we were standing outside. CC was on the other side of the church. It’s a short cut to their home. We couldn’t see her, but we could hear her. There was also the strangest sound.’ Émilie pursed her lips, trying to recall it. ‘It was like Henri on the wood floors when I don’t clip his nails. A clicking, only louder.’

‘I think I can solve that mystery for you,’ said Gamache. ‘I believe those were her boots. She’d bought a pair of baby sealskin mukluks as a Christmas present for herself. They had metal claws attached to the soles.’