A Fatal Grace
‘Where would you like to start?’
‘This morning, please. I understand there was a community breakfast?’
‘In the Royal Canadian Legion, on rue Larry in Williamsburg. Peter and I got there early to help set up. It’s a fundraiser for the hospital.’
‘We got there at about seven this morning,’ Peter picked up the story, ‘and were joined by a few other volunteers. Myrna Landers, Émilie Longpré, Bea Mayer and Kaye Thompson. We have it down pat by now. Put out the tables and chairs, Clara and I do that, while the others get the coffee going and organize the food.’
‘The truth is, by Boxing Day morning most people aren’t actually all that hungry. They pay ten dollars and get an all-you-can-eat breakfast,’ said Clara. ‘Peter and I do the cooking while Em and Kaye serve up. Kaye’s about two hundred years old and still manages to help but now she finds something she can do sitting down.’
‘Like bossing everyone around,’ said Peter.
‘She never bosses you. That’s my job,’ said Clara. ‘It’s voluntary.’
‘Very civic minded.’ Peter smiled with a long-suffering look.
‘What did the others do?’ Gamache asked. Lemieux was surprised by the question. He’d run out of notebook soon if they kept going into such detail over something that was hours away from the murder. He tried to write smaller.
‘Who’s left?’ Peter turned to Clara. ‘Myrna Landers and Bea Mayer.’
‘Her name’s Beatrice, but everyone calls her Bea.’ Peter spelled Beatrice for Lemieux.
‘Actually, everyone calls her Mother,’ said Clara.
‘Why?’ asked Gamache.
‘See if you can figure it out,’ said Clara. Lemieux looked at the chief to see if he was annoyed by her flippant and familiar tone, but he was smiling.
‘What did Myrna and Bea do at the breakfast?’ Gamache asked.
‘They cleaned up between sittings and served coffee and tea,’ said Peter.
‘Oh, yeah,’ said Clara, ‘Mother’s tea. It’s some herbal brew. Disgusting. I don’t mind tea,’ Clara raised her mug to them, ‘even tisane, but I hate to think what goes into the one Mother offers each year. She’s kind of amazing. No one ever takes it and yet she keeps on trying.’
‘I don’t really know,’ said Clara after a moment’s thought. ‘We were cooking the whole time so we didn’t get a chance to look out.’
Peter and Clara thought about it then shook their heads.
‘Peter was curling on Em’s team this year, for the first time, so he left early.’
‘By the time I got outside Em and Mother were already at the lake. It’s just down the road then off to the right. It’s about a five-minute walk from the Legion.’
‘And your team didn’t wait for you?’
‘Well, Georges did. He was the other man on our team. This was his first year curling as well.’
‘Georges who?’
‘Simenon,’ said Peter and smiled at Gamache’s raised brow. ‘I know. His mother was cursed with the pleasure of reading.’
‘And cursed her son,’ said Gamache.
‘Georges and I walked over to Lac Brume and found Em and Mother there. Billy Williams had already cleared the ice surface so we could curl and he’d put up the bleachers a few days before Christmas.’
‘Oh, long ago. Besides, it’s close to shore and I think Billy uses his auger to check the ice thickness. He’s a very prudent man is our Billy.’
‘What else did you notice at the lake?’
Peter cast his mind back. He remembered standing at the side of the road looking over the small incline down to the snow-covered lake. Mother and Bea were over by their chairs.
‘Chairs,’ said Peter. ‘Mother, Em and Kaye always bring chairs to sit close to the heat lamp.’
‘How many chairs were there this morning?’ Gamache asked.
‘Three. Two were close to the heat lamp, the other was a little way ahead.’
‘So what happened?’ Gamache leaned forward, cradling the warm mug in his large hands, his eyes lively and alert.
‘Everyone seemed to arrive at once,’ said Peter. ‘Em and Mother had been sitting on their chairs when Georges and I joined them. We talked strategy for a while then the other team arrived and soon it seemed the bleachers were full.’