death. The murder, in their own garden.
She tipped the glass up and felt the wine on her lips. But over the flute she was staring at Peter, who suddenly looked less substantial. A little hollow. A little like a bubble himself. Floating away.
What were the lines just before that? Clara slowly lowered her glass to the counter. Peter had taken a long sip of the champagne. More of a swig, really. A deep, masculine, almost aggressive gulp.
Those were the lines, thought Clara, as she stared at Peter.
The champagne on her lips was sour, the wine turned years before. But Peter, who’d taken a huge gulp, was smiling.
As though nothing was wrong.
When had he died? Clara wondered. And why hadn’t she noticed?
* * *
“No, I understand,” said Inspector Beauvoir.
Chief Inspector Gamache looked across at Beauvoir in the driver’s seat. Eyes staring ahead at the traffic as they approached the Champlain Bridge into Montreal. Beauvoir’s face was placid, relaxed. Noncommittal.
But his grip was tight on the wheel.
“If Agent Lacoste is going to be promoted to inspector I want to see how she’ll handle the added responsibility,” said Gamache. “So I gave the dossier to her.”
He knew he didn’t have to explain his decisions. But he chose to. These weren’t children he was working with, but thoughtful, intelligent adults. If he didn’t want them to behave like children he’d better not treat them like that. He wanted independent thinkers. And he got them. Men and women who’d earned the right to know why a decision was taken.
“This is about giving Agent Lacoste more authority, that’s all. It’s still your investigation. She understands that, and I need you to understand that as well, so there’s no confusion.”
“Got it,” said Beauvoir. “I just wish you’d mentioned it to me beforehand.”
“You’re right, I should have. I’m sorry. In fact, I’ve been thinking it makes sense for you to supervise Agent Lacoste. Act as a mentor. If she’s going to be promoted to inspector and become your second in command you’ll have to train her.”
Beauvoir nodded and his grip loosened on the wheel. They spent the next few minutes discussing the case and Lacoste’s strengths and weaknesses before lapsing into silence.
As he watched the graceful span of the bridge across the St. Lawrence River approach, Gamache’s mind turned elsewhere. To something he’d been considering for a while now.
“There is something else.”
“Oh?” Beauvoir glanced over to his boss.
Gamache had been planning to speak to Beauvoir about this quietly. Perhaps over dinner that night, or a walk on the mountain. Not when they were hurtling down the autoroute at 120 kilometers an hour.
Still, the opening was there. And Gamache took it.
“We need to talk about how you’re doing. There’s something wrong. You aren’t getting better, are you.”
It was not a question.
“I’m sorry about the coin. It was stupid—”
“I’m not talking about the coin. That was just a mistake. It happens. God knows it’s just possible I’ve made a few in my life.”
He saw Beauvoir smile.
“Then what are you talking about, sir?”
“The painkillers. Why’re you still taking them?”
There was silence in the car as Quebec whizzed by their windows.
“How’d you know about that?” asked Beauvoir, finally.
“I suspected. You carry them with you, in your jacket pocket.”
“Did you look?” asked Beauvoir, an edge to his voice.
“No. But I’ve watched you.” As he did now. His second in command had always been so lithe, so energetic. Cocky. He was full of life and full of himself. It could annoy Gamache. But mostly he’d watched Beauvoir’s vitality with pleasure and some amusement, as Jean Guy threw himself headlong into life.
But now the young man seemed drained. Dour. As though every day was an effort. As though he was dragging an anvil behind him.
“I’ll be fine,” said Beauvoir, and heard how empty that sounded. “The doctor and therapists say I’m doing well. Every day I feel better.”
Armand Gamache didn’t want to pursue it. But he had to.
