She too was determined not to lie, not to pretend everything was fine in the hope that fantasy might become reality. The truth was, the coffee did smell good. That at least was safe to say.
Peter sat down, screwing up his courage to tell her about what he’d done. He took a breath, closed his eyes briefly, then opened his mouth to speak.
“They’re back early.” Clara nodded out the window, where she’d been staring.
Peter watched as a Volvo pulled up and parked. Chief Inspector Gamache and Jean Guy Beauvoir got out and walked toward the bistro.
He closed his mouth and stepped back, deciding now wasn’t the time after all.
Clara smiled as she watched the two men out the window. It amused her that Inspector Beauvoir no longer locked their car. When they’d first come to Three Pines, to investigate Jane’s murder, the officers had made sure the car was always locked. But now, several years later, they didn’t bother.
They knew, she presumed, that people in Three Pines might occasionally take a life, but not a car.
Clara looked at the kitchen clock. Almost eight. “They must’ve left Montreal just after six.”
“Uh-huh,” said Peter, watching Gamache and Beauvoir disappear into the bistro. Then he looked down at Clara’s hands. One held the mug, but the other rested on the old pine table, a loose fist.
Did he dare?
He reached out and very slowly, so as not to surprise or frighten her, he placed his large hand on hers. Cupping her fist in his palm. Making it safe there, in the little home his hand created.
And she let him.
It was enough, he told himself.
No need to tell her the rest. No need to upset her.
* * *
“I’ll have,” said Beauvoir slowly, staring at the menu. He had no appetite, but he knew he had to order something. There were blueberry pancakes, crepes, eggs Benedict, bacon and sausages and fresh, warm croissants on the menu.
He’d been up since five. Had picked up the Chief at quarter to six. And now it was almost seven thirty. He waited for his hunger to kick in.
Chief Inspector Gamache lowered the menu and looked at the waiter. “While he’s trying to decide, I’ll have a bowl of
“It all looks so good,” said Beauvoir. “I’ll have the same thing as the Chief Inspector, thank you.”
“I thought for sure you’d have the eggs Benedict,” smiled Gamache, as the waiter left them. “I thought it was your favorite.”
“I made it for myself just yesterday,” said Beauvoir, and Gamache laughed. They both knew it was more likely he’d had a Super Slice for breakfast. In fact, just lately, Beauvoir had had just coffee and perhaps a bagel.
Through the window they could see Three Pines in the early morning sun. Not many were out yet. A few villagers walked dogs. A few sat on porches, sipping coffee and reading the morning paper. But most still slept.
“How’s Agent Lacoste doing, do you think?” the Chief Inspector asked once their
“Not bad. Did you speak with her last night? I asked her to run a few things by you.”
The two men sipped their coffees and compared notes.
Beauvoir looked at his watch as their breakfast arrived. “I asked her to meet us here at eight.” It was ten to, and he looked up to see Lacoste walking across the village green, a dossier in her hand.
“I like being a mentor,” said Beauvoir.
“You do it well,” said Gamache. “Of course, you had a good teacher. Benevolent, just. Yet firm.”
Beauvoir looked at the Chief Inspector with exaggerated puzzlement. “You? You mean you’ve been mentoring me all these years? That sure explains the need for therapy.”
Gamache looked down at his meal, and smiled.
Agent Lacoste joined them and ordered a cappuccino. “And a croissant,
“Already?” asked Beauvoir.
“Well, I got up early and frankly I didn’t want to hang around the B and B with those artists.”
“Why not?” asked Gamache.
“I’m afraid I found them boring. I had dinner with Normand and Paulette last night, to see if I could get anything else out of them about Lillian Dyson but they seem to have lost interest.”
“What did you talk about?” asked Beauvoir.
“They spent most of dinner laughing about the
