A Fatal Grace
Shaking snow off their coats Peter and Clara hung them on the rack by the door and looked around. The bistro was full, the conversation robust. Servers wound expertly between the little round wooden tables, balancing trays with drinks and food.
‘Over here.’ Myrna stood by the sofa in front of the fireplace. Ruth was with her and a couple was just getting up to leave.
‘You can take our seats,’ said Hanna Parra, their local elected representative, as she and her husband Roar wrapped scarves round their necks. ‘Snow begun?’
‘A bit,’ said Peter, ‘but the roads should be fine.’
‘We’re just off home. An easy drive.’ Roar shook their hands while Hanna kissed them on both cheeks. Departing was not an insignificant event in Quebec.
But then neither was arriving.
After making the rounds and kissing everyone on both cheeks Clara and Peter subsided into the soft wing chairs. Peter caught Gabri’s eye and soon the big man had arrived with two glasses of red wine and two bowls of cashews.
‘Can you believe what happened?’ Gabri took a sip of Clara’s wine and a handful of nuts.
‘Are they sure it was murder?’ Myrna asked.
Peter and Clara nodded.
‘That great oaf Gamache is in charge again,’ said Ruth, reaching for Peter’s wine, ‘and you know what happened last time.’ She took a swig.
‘Didn’t he solve the case?’ said Myrna, moving her Scotch to the other side of the table.
‘Did he?’ Ruth gave her an arch look. ‘Luck. I mean, look at it. This woman collapses on the ice and he thinks she was electrocuted? By what? The hand of God?’
‘But she was electrocuted,’ said Peter, just as Olivier arrived.
‘You’re talking about CC,’ he said, looking longingly at the empty chairs by the fire. But he had a restaurant full of patrons and to sit down now was to be lost.
‘Peter thinks you did it, Ruth,’ said Clara.
‘And maybe I did. And maybe you’re next.’ She smiled maniacally at Peter who wished Clara had kept her mouth shut.
Ruth reached for the nearest drink on the table.
‘What did you tell the police?’ Olivier asked Peter.
‘The Chief Inspector booked into the B. & B.’ Olivier picked up Peter’s empty wine glass and tilted it toward him in a silent question. Peter, surprised it was empty, shook his head. Two was his limit.
‘You don’t think she was electrocuted?’ Clara asked Ruth.
‘Oh, I know she was. Knew it right away. I was just surprised that nincompoop Gamache glommed onto it so quickly.’
‘How could you know right away?’ asked a skeptical Myrna.
Ruth said,
‘A smell of burning filled the startled air.
CC de Poitiers was no longer there.’
Myrna, despite herself, started to laugh. It was a particularly appropriate quote, or misquote. A smell of burning had indeed filled the startled air.
‘Actually,’ said Clara, ‘another poem came to my mind.
This world he cumbered long enough
He burned his candle to the snuff
And that’s the reason some folks think,
He left behind so great a stink.’
Clara’s poem fell into the silence round the fire. Behind them conversations ebbed and flowed, bursts of laughter were heard, glasses clinked together. No one was mourning the death of CC de Poitiers. Three Pines was not diminished by her passing. She’d left behind a stink but even that was lifting. Three Pines felt lighter and brighter and fresher for its loss.
Gamache could smell the stew before he made it through the door. Boeuf bourguignon, with its aroma of sirloin and mushrooms, of tiny pearl onions and Burgundy wine. He’d called Reine-Marie from the office to let her know he was back, and on her request had picked up a fresh baguette from the local bakery round the corner from their house. Now he struggled through the door carrying the evidence box, his satchel and the precious baguette. He didn’t want to break bread before he’d even made it through the door, though it wouldn’t be the first time.
‘Is that the pool boy?’
‘Non, Madame Gamache, désolé. It’s just the baker.’
‘With a baguette, I hope.’ She came out of the kitchen wiping her hands on a towel. When she saw him her face broke into a warm smile. She couldn’t help it. There he was standing in the hall, both hands holding the box, his leather satchel falling off his shoulder and trying to drag his giant caramel coat with it, and the baguette under his arm rubbing crust into his face.