didn’t care.
He went around the group, shaking hands with all of them. He came to Olivier last, obviously giving the younger man a chance to see it coming. Gamache extended his hand. And everyone watched. The body momentarily forgotten.
Olivier didn’t hesitate. He shook Gamache’s hand but couldn’t quite look him in the eye.
Chief Inspector Gamache gave them a small almost apologetic smile, as though the body was his fault. Was that how dreadful things started? Peter wondered. Not with a thunder clap. Not with a shriek. Not with sirens, but with a smile? Something horrible come calling, wrapped in civility and good manners.
But the something horrible had already been, and gone. And had left a body behind.
“How are you doing?” asked Gamache, his eyes returning to Clara.
It wasn’t a casual question. He looked genuinely concerned.
Peter could feel himself relax as the body was lifted from his shoulders. And given to this sturdy man.
Clara shook her head. “Stunned,” she said at last, and glanced behind her. “Who is she?”
“You don’t know?”
He looked from Clara to Peter, then over to Gabri and finally Olivier. Everyone shook their heads.
“She wasn’t a guest at your party?”
“She must have been, I suppose,” said Clara. “But I didn’t invite her.”
“Who is she?” asked Gabri.
“Did you get a look at her?” Gamache persisted, not quite ready to answer the question.
They nodded.
“After we called the police I went back into the garden, to look,” said Clara.
“Why?”
“I had to know if I knew her. See if she was a friend or neighbor.”
“She wasn’t,” said Gabri. “I was preparing breakfast for our B and B guests when Olivier called to tell me what had happened.”
“So you came over?” asked Gamache.
“Wouldn’t you?” asked the large man.
“I’m a homicide detective,” said Gamache. “I sort of have to. You don’t.”
“I’m a nosy son-of-a-bitch,” said Gabri. “I sort of have to too. And like Clara, I needed to see if we knew her.”
“Did you tell anyone else?” asked Gamache. “Did anyone else come into the garden to look?”
They shook their heads.
“So you all took a good look, and none of you recognized her?”
“Who was she?” asked Clara again.
“We don’t know,” admitted Gamache. “She fell on her purse and Dr. Harris doesn’t want to move her yet. We’ll find out soon enough.”
Gabri hesitated then turned to Olivier. “Doesn’t she remind you of something?”
Olivier was silent, but Peter wasn’t.
“The witch is dead?”
“Peter,” said Clara quickly. “The woman was killed and left in our garden. What a terrible thing to say.”
“I’m sorry,” said Peter, shocked at himself. “But she does look like the Wicked Witch of the West, with her red shoes sticking out like that.”
“We’re not saying she is,” Gabri hurried to say. “But you can’t deny in that get-up she doesn’t look like anyone from Kansas.”
Clara rolled her eyes and shaking her head she muttered, “Jesus.”
But Gamache had to admit, he and his team had talked about the same thing. Not that the dead woman reminded them of the Wicked Witch, but that she clearly was not dressed for a barbeque in the country.
“I didn’t see her last night,” said Peter.
“And we’d remember,” said Olivier, speaking at last. “She’d be hard to miss.”
Gamache nodded. He’d appreciated that as well. The dead woman would have stood out in that brilliant red dress. Everything about the woman screamed “look at me.”
He looked back at her and searched his memory. Had he seen anyone in a bright red dress at the Musee last night? Perhaps she’d come straight from there, as presumably many guests did. But none came to mind. Most of the women, with the notable exception of Myrna, wore more muted colors.
Then he had a thought.
