Bury Your Dead

“Inspector Beauvoir’s not here to recover from his injuries. He came down to unofficially reopen Olivier’s case.”

Myrna smiled. “I’d hoped that might be it. The only other explanation was that you’d lost your mind.”

“And you weren’t sure which it was?”

“It’s so hard to tell.” Myrna’s eyes were bright. “This is the best news. So they think maybe Olivier didn’t kill the Hermit? But then, who did?”

“That’s the question. Seems it comes down to Roar, Havoc, Marc, Vincent or Old Mundin. And I have to say, what The Wife said about killing was pretty strange.”

“That’s true,” said Myrna. “But—”

“But if she or Old were really involved she’d never have talked about killing. She’d have kept quiet.”

“There you are.”

The two women looked up with a guilty start. Inspector Beauvoir was standing in the doorway that connected the bookstore to the bistro.

“I was looking for you.” He gave them a mighty frown. “What’re you talking about?”

Unlike Gamache, who could make an interrogation sound like a pleasant conversation, Beauvoir managed to make niceties sound like accusations.

Though, both women knew, he had good reason.

“Tea?” Myrna offered and busied herself pouring another cup and putting more hot water and another bag into the Brown Betty on the woodstove. This left Clara trying not to catch Beauvoir’s eye. He sat beside Clara and glared at her.

The dog did it, the dog did it.

“I told Myrna everything.” Clara paused. “It’s Ruth’s fault.”

“Everything?” Beauvoir lowered his voice.

“So, I hear we still have a murderer among us,” said Myrna, handing the mug to Beauvoir and taking her seat.

“Just about,” said Clara.

Beauvoir shook his head. Still, it wasn’t perhaps unexpected, nor was it necessarily a bad thing. Myrna had helped the Chief in the past and while Beauvoir had never, until now, wanted to ask for help from the villagers he suspected they actually had some to give. And now he had no choice.

“So what do you think?” he asked.

“I’d like to hear more. Have you found out anything new?”

He told them about his conversation with Gamache and what the chief had found out in Quebec City about Old Mundin’s family and Carole Gilbert.

“Woloshyn?” Clara repeated. “Woo?”

“Perhaps,” Beauvoir nodded.

“The inn and spa has a lot of antiques,” said Myrna. “Could they have found them on rue Notre-Dame?”

“In the same store where Olivier sold the Hermit’s things?” said Beauvoir. “You’re thinking if they went in, they might have recognized some of Olivier’s items?”

“Exactly,” said Myrna. “All Carole Gilbert would have to do is casually ask how the owner got them. He would have directed her to Olivier and Three Pines, and voila.”

“No, it doesn’t work,” said Beauvoir.

“Of course it does. It’s perfect,” said Clara.

“Think about it,” Beauvoir turned to her. “Olivier sold those things to the antique shop years ago. If Carole Gilbert found them why’d they wait almost ten years to buy the old Hadley house?”

The three sat there, thinking. Eventually Clara and Myrna started batting around other theories, but Beauvoir remained lost in his own thoughts.

Of names. Of families. And of patience.

Armand Gamache folded back the sleeve of his parka so that he could see his watch.

Quarter past one. A little early for the meeting. He dropped his arm over the satchel, protecting it.

Instead of heading straight in to the Chateau Frontenac he decided to stroll along the Dufferin Terrace, the long wooden boardwalk that swept in front of the hotel and overlooked the St. Lawrence River. In the summer it was filled with ice cream carts and musicians and people relaxing in the pergolas. In the winter a bitter damp wind blew down the St. Lawrence River and hit pedestrians, stealing their breaths and practically peeling the skin off their faces. But still people walked along the outdoor terrasse, so remarkable was the view.

And there was another attraction. La glissade. The ice slide. Built every winter it towered above the promenade. As he turned the corner of the Chateau the wind hit Gamache’s face. Tears sprung to his eyes and froze. Ahead, midway along the terrasse, he could see the slide, three lanes wide with stairs cut into the snow at the side.

Even on this brittle day kids were lugging their rented toboggans up the steps. In fact, the colder the day the better. The ice would be keen and the toboggans would race down the steep slope, shooting off the end. Some toboggans were going so fast and so far pedestrians on the terrasse had to leap out of their way.