A Trick of the Light

He took a deep breath. “I do. We need to confirm, to backfill some of the dates and information, but I think we have a motive. And we know there was opportunity.”

When they’d finished breakfast Beauvoir and Lacoste went back to the Incident Room. But Gamache had something he still needed to do in the bistro.

Pushing open the swinging door to the kitchen he found Olivier standing by the counter, chopping strawberries and cantaloupe.

“Olivier?”

Olivier startled and dropped the knife. “For God’s sake, don’t you know enough not to do that to someone with a sharp knife?”

“I came in to talk to you.”

The Chief Inspector closed the door behind him.

“I’m busy.”

“So am I, Olivier. But we still need to talk.”

The knife sliced through the strawberries, leaving thin wafers of fruit and a small stain of red juice on the chopping block.

“I know you’re angry at me, and I know you have every right to be. What happened was unforgivable, and my only defense is that it wasn’t malicious, it wasn’t done to harm you—”

“But it did.” Olivier slammed the knife down. “Do you think prison is less horrible because you didn’t do it maliciously? Do you think, when those men surrounded me in the yard that I thought, Oh, well, this’ll be OK because that nice Chief Inspector Gamache didn’t wish me harm?”

Olivier’s hands shook so badly he had to grip the edges of the counter.

“You have no idea what it feels like to know the truth will come out. To trust the lawyers, the judges. You. That I’ll be let go. And then to hear the verdict. Guilty.”

For a moment Olivier’s rage disappeared, to be replaced by wonder, shock. That single word, that judgment. “I was guilty, of course, of many things. I know that. I’ve tried to make it up to people. But—”

“Give them time,” said Gamache quietly. He stood across the counter from Olivier, his shoulders square, his back straight. But he too grasped the wooden counter. His knuckles white. “They love you. It would be a shame not to see that.”

“Don’t lecture me about shame, Chief Inspector,” snarled Olivier.

Gamache stared at Olivier, then nodded. “I am sorry. I just wanted you to know that.”

“So that I could forgive you? Let you off the hook? Well, maybe this is your prison, Chief Inspector. Your punishment.”

Gamache considered. “Perhaps.”

“Is that it?” Olivier asked. “Are you finished?”

Gamache took a deep breath and exhaled. “Not quite. I have another question, about Clara’s party.”

Olivier picked up his knife, but his hand was still shaking too hard to use it.

“When did you and Gabri hire the caterers?”

“As soon as we decided to throw the party, three months ago I guess.”

“Was the party your idea?”

“It was Peter’s.”

“Who made up the guest list?”

“We all did.”

“Including Clara?” Gamache asked.

Olivier gave a curt nod.

“So a lot of people would’ve known about it weeks in advance,” said the Chief.

Olivier nodded again, no longer looking at Gamache.

“Merci, Olivier,” he said, and lingered a moment, looking at the blond head, bowed over the chopping block. “Do you think, maybe, we’ve ended up in the same cell?” asked Gamache.

When Olivier didn’t respond Gamache walked toward the door then hesitated. “But I wonder who the guards are. And who has the key.”

Gamache watched him for a moment, then left.

*   *   *

All morning and into the afternoon Armand Gamache and his team gathered information.

At one o’clock the phone rang. It was Clara Morrow.

“Are you and your people free for dinner?” she asked. “It’s so miserable we thought we’d poach a salmon and see who can come over.”

“Isn’t poaching illegal?” asked Gamache, confused as to why she’d be telling him this.