A Trick of the Light

“So, what now?” asked Beauvoir. It was clear what he thought should happen. Gamache considered for a moment then turned to Agent Lacoste.

“Would you do the honors? Inspector, perhaps you could go with her.”

Agent Lacoste laughed. “You don’t expect trouble, surely.”

But she instantly regretted it.

The Chief, though, smiled. “I always expect trouble.”

“So do I,” said Beauvoir, checking his gun, as did Lacoste. The two headed out into the night while Chief Inspector Gamache sat down, and waited.

*   *   *

Monday being a quiet night at the bistro it was only half full.

As Lacoste entered she scanned the room, not taking anything for granted. Just because it was familiar, and comfortable, didn’t mean it was safe. Most accidents happen close to home, most murders happen in the home.

No, this was not the time, or place, to let her guard down.

Myrna and Dominique and Clara were having tisane and dessert, talking quietly at a table by the mullioned window. In the far corner, by the stone fireplace, she could see the artists, Normand and Paulette. And at a table across from them sat Suzanne and her dinner companions, Chief Justice Thierry Pineault and Brian, dressed in torn jeans and a worn leather jacket.

Denis Fortin and Francois Marois shared a table, Fortin telling some anecdote that amused him. Marois looked polite and slightly bored. There was no sign of Andre Castonguay.

“Apres toi,” Beauvoir murmured to Lacoste as they moved into the bistro. By now most had noticed the two Surete officers. At first the patrons looked, some smiled, then went back to their conversations. But after a moment some looked up again, sensing something different.

Myrna, Clara, Dominique grew quiet and watched as the officers walked between the tables, leaving silence in their wake.

Past the three women.

Past the art dealers.

At Normand and Paulette’s table they stopped. And turned.

“May I have a word?” Agent Lacoste asked.

“Here? Now?”

“No. I think perhaps someplace more private, don’t you?” And Agent Lacoste quietly placed the photocopied article on the round wooden table.

Then that table too fell silent.

Except for Suzanne’s groan, “Oh, no.”

*   *   *

Chief Inspector Gamache rose as they entered and greeted them as though it was his home and they honored guests.

No one was fooled. Nor were they meant to be. It was a courtesy, nothing more.

“Would you have a seat, please?” He motioned to the conference table.

“What’s all this about?” Chief Justice Thierry Pineault asked.

“Madame,” said Gamache, ignoring Pineault and concentrating on Suzanne, pointing to a chair.

“Messieurs.” The Chief then turned to Thierry and Brian. The Chief Justice and his tattooed, pierced, shaved companion took chairs across from Gamache. Beauvoir and Lacoste sat on either side of the Chief.

“Can you explain that, please?” Chief Inspector Gamache’s voice was conversational. He pointed to the old La Presse article in the middle of the table, an island between their sparring continents.

“In what way?” Suzanne asked.

“In any way you choose,” said Gamache. He sat quietly, one hand cupped in the other.

“Is this an interrogation, Monsieur Gamache?” the Chief Justice demanded.

“If it was, neither of you would be sitting with us.” Gamache looked from Thierry to Brian. “This is a conversation, Monsieur Pineault. An attempt to understand an inconsistency.”

“He means a lie,” said Beauvoir.

“You’ve gone too far.” Pineault turned to Suzanne. “I’m going to advise you to stop answering questions.”

“Are you her lawyer?” Beauvoir asked.

“I’m a lawyer,” snapped Pineault. “And good thing too. You can call this what you like, but using a soothing voice and nice words doesn’t disguise what you’re trying to do.”

“And what’s that?” demanded Beauvoir, matching the Chief Justice’s tone.

“Trap her. Confuse her.”

“We could have waited until she was alone and questioned her then,” said Beauvoir. “You should be glad you’re