“I’d kept an eye on Marc. Watched his successes in Montreal. When they sold their home and bought down here I knew the signs.”
“Signs of what?” Gamache asked.
“Burnout. I wanted to help.”
He was just beginning to appreciate the power of those two simple words. And that help came in different forms.
“By doing what?” asked Gamache.
“By making sure he was all right,” Gilbert snapped. “Look, they’re all upset up there about the body. Marc did a stupid thing moving it, but I know him. He’s not a murderer.”
“How do you know?”
Gilbert glared at him. His rage back in full force. But Armand Gamache knew what was behind that rage. What was behind all rage.
Fear.
What was Vincent Gilbert so afraid of?
The answer was easy. He was afraid his son would be arrested for murder. Either because he knew his son had done it, or because he knew he hadn’t.
A few minutes later a voice cut across the crowded bistro, aimed at the Chief Inspector, who’d arrived seeking a glass of red wine and quiet to read his book.
“You bugger.”
More than one person looked up. Myrna sailed across the room and stood next to Gamache’s table, glaring down at him. He got up and bowed slightly, indicating a chair.
Myrna sat so suddenly the chair gave a little crack.
“Wine?”
“Why didn’t you tell me why you wanted that?” She gestured toward
“Secrets.”
“And how long did you think it’d remain a secret?”
“Long enough. I hear he was over here having a drink. Did you meet him?”
“Vincent Gilbert? If you can call ogling and sputtering and fawning ‘meeting,’ then yes. I met him.”
“I’m sure he’ll have forgotten it was you.”
“Because I’m so easily mistaken for someone else? Is he really Marc’s father?”
“He is.”
“Do you know, he ignored me when I tried to introduce myself? Looked at me like I was a crumb.” The wine and a fresh bowl of cashews had arrived. “Thank God I told him I was Clara Morrow.”
“So did I,” said Gamache. “He might be growing suspicious.”
Myrna laughed and felt her annoyance slip away. “Old Mundin says it was Vincent Gilbert in the forest, spying on his own son. Was it?”
Gamache wondered how much to say, but it was clear this was not much of a secret anymore. He nodded.
“Why spy on his own son?”
“They were estranged.”
“First good thing I’ve heard about Marc Gilbert,” said Myrna. “Still, it’s ironic. The famous Dr. Gilbert helps so many kids, but is estranged from his own.”
Gamache thought again about Annie. Was he doing the same thing to her? Was he listening to the troubles of others, but deaf to his own daughter? He’d spoken to her the night before and reassured himself she was fine. But fine and flourishing were two different things. It had clearly gotten bad when she was willing to listen to Beauvoir.
“
“I’m not staying,” said Myrna.
Olivier hovered. “I hear you found out where the dead man lived. He was in the forest all along?”
Lacoste and Beauvoir arrived just then and ordered drinks. With one last gulp of wine, and taking a large handful of cashews, Myrna got up to leave.
“I’m going to be paying a lot more attention to the books you buy,” she said.
“Do you happen to have
“Don’t tell me you found Thoreau back there too? Anyone else hiding in our woods? Jimmy Hoffa perhaps? Amelia Earhart? Come by after dinner and I’ll give you my copy of
She left and Olivier took their orders then brought warm rolls smothered in melting monarda butter and spread with pate. Beauvoir produced a sheaf of photographs of the cabin from his satchel and handed them to the Chief.
