A Fatal Grace
Before long Peter had emerged from his studio and the others had arrived, Myrna enveloping everyone in her generous arms and Ruth making for the bar.
‘Thank God,’ was Ruth’s reaction when told Gamache wanted to watch a video. ‘I thought I’d have to make conversation yet another night.’
Clara prepared a basket with dinners for Richard and Crie and Myrna volunteered to deliver it.
‘May I drive you up?’ Gamache offered.
‘It’s a short walk. Besides, if I walk that’ll give me permission to have seconds.’ Myrna smiled as she wrapped a huge colorful scarf round her neck until she looked like an African tribesman in a cold spell.
‘Could you check on Crie when you’re there?’ Gamache lowered his voice. ‘I’m worried about her.’
‘What’re you thinking?’ Myrna asked, her normally jovial face searching and serious. ‘It’s natural for a child who just saw her mother murdered to be abnormal for a while.’
‘True, but this seems like more. Could you just see?’
She agreed and was off.
Agent Yvette Nichol edged up to the car in front of her in the fast lane of the autoroute, heading from Montreal back to the Townships. Her bumper was just inches from the car in front. Any minute now the driver would notice.
That was the moment. That exquisite moment. Would he hit the brake? Even a slight tap would send their cars careering together at 140 kilometers an hour and they would be a fireball within seconds. Nichol gripped her steering wheel tighter, her eyes keen with concentration and rage. How dare he slow her up? How dare he use her lane? How dare he not pull over? Slow, stupid man. She’d show him, as she showed anyone who stood in her way. Rage made her invincible. But there was something else too.
Glee.
She was going to scare the shit out of the driver.
‘I read your book,’ said Gamache to Ruth as the two of them sat in front of the cheery fire while Peter puttered in the kitchen and Clara browsed her bookshelves for something to read.
Ruth looked as though she’d rather be sitting in scalding oil than next to a compliment. She decided to ignore him and took a long gulp of her Scotch.
‘You have a wife? Someone agreed to marry you?’
‘She did and she was only a little drunk. She wants to know what FINE means in your title.’
‘I’m not surprised your wife has no idea what fine means. Probably doesn’t know what happy or sane means either.’
‘She’s a librarian and she was saying in her experience when people use capital letters it’s because the letters stand for something. Your title is I’m FINE with the FINE in capitals.’
‘She has brains, your wife. She’s the first to notice that, or at least to ask. FINE stands for Fucked up, Insecure, Neurotic and Egotistical. I’m FINE.’
‘You certainly are,’ agreed Gamache.
Agent Robert Lemieux eased over into the slow lane, allowing the maniac tailgating him on the autoroute at 140 kilometers an hour to pass. If he’d been in the mood he’d have put his flasher on the roof and chased the psycho, but he had other things on his mind.
He was sure he’d done well in Montreal. He’d convinced the police artist to do the drawing. He’d visited the bus station and the Old Brewery Mission. He’d advanced the Elle case, which Gamache seemed to want to keep private.
He’d made a note of that in his book.
Agent Lemieux had achieved what he wanted and needed. He was pretty sure Chief Inspector Gamache trusted him. And that was the key. A lot was riding on gaining Gamache’s trust.
‘The only person I remember moving around at the curling match was that photographer person,’ said Myrna a few minutes later. As soon as she’d returned Peter and Clara had put the dinner out for people to help themselves. Gamache had taken her aside briefly and Myrna had agreed there was something very wrong with Crie. They arranged to get together the next day to talk.
Now their dinner was on tray tables in the living room. Clara had been right. It looked like something found in the bottom of the sink on Christmas Day once the dish water had been drained. But it tasted wonderful. Mashed potatoes, roast turkey, gravy and peas, all mushed together in a steaming casserole. Fresh bread and a green salad sat in bowls on the coffee table, with Lucy drifting around like a hungry shark.
‘The photographer popped up everywhere,’ agreed Clara, taking a hunk of bread and spreading it with butter. ‘But he only took pictures of CC.’
‘He was hired to do that. Where were all of you?’ asked Gamache. He took a sip of red wine and listened as the others talked.