Myrna patted Mercier’s hand, and Mercier stared back at her.
“Now,” she said. “How did you rise from the dead?”
Mercier looked at her like she was the crazy one, then his eyes shifted, and both Gamache and Myrna turned to follow his gaze out the window.
Another vehicle had pulled up. A pickup truck. And out hopped a young man, his mitts falling into the snow. But he swiftly stooped and picked them up.
Armand caught Myrna’s eye.
The newest arrival wore a long red-and-white-striped hat. So long that it tapered to a pom-pommed tail that trailed down his back and dragged in the snow as he stepped away from his truck.
Noticing this, the young man lifted the end of the tuque and wrapped it once around his neck like a scarf before tossing it over his shoulder in a move so rakish that Myrna found herself smiling.
Whoever this was, he was as vibrant as their dead host was desiccated.
Dr. Seuss meets Charles Dickens.
The Cat in the Hat was about to enter Bleak House.
There was a knock on the door, then he walked in. Looking around, his eyes fell on Gamache, who’d gotten to his feet.
“Allô, bonjour,” said the cheerful young man. “Monsieur Mercier?”
He put out his hand. Gamache took it.
“Non. Armand Gamache.”
They shook hands. The newcomer’s hand was callused, strong. His grip was firm and friendly. A confident handshake without being forced.
“Benedict Pouliot. Salut. Hope I’m not late. Traffic over the bridge was awful.”
“This is Maître Mercier,” said Armand, stepping aside to reveal the notary.
“Hello, sir,” said the young man, shaking the notary’s hand.
“And I’m Myrna Landers,” said Myrna, shaking his hand and smiling, Armand thought, just a little too broadly.
Though it was hard not to smile at the handsome young man. Not that he was laughable. But he was affable and almost completely without affectation. His eyes were thoughtful and bright.
Benedict took off his hat and smoothed his blond hair, which was cut in a fashion Myrna had never seen before and hoped never to see again. It was buzz-cut short on the top then, at his ears, it became long. Very long.
“So,” he said, rubbing his hands together in anticipation and perhaps because it was so cold. “Where do we begin?”
They all looked at Mercier, who continued to stare at Benedict.
“It’s the haircut, isn’t it?” said the young man. “My girlfriend did it. She’s taking a stylist course, and the final exam is to create a new cut. What do you think?”
He ran his hands through it as the others remained silent.
“Looks great,” said Myrna, confirming for Armand that love, or infatuation, was indeed blind.
“Did she also make your hat?” Armand asked, pointing to what was now a large red-and-white lump of wet wool at the end of the table.
“Yes. Final marks in her design class. Do you like it?”
Armand gave what he hoped might be a noncommittal grunt.
“You sent the letter, didn’t you, sir?” Benedict said to Mercier. “Now, do you want to show me around first, or should we look at plans? Is this your house?” he asked Armand and Myrna. “To be honest, I’m not sure it can be saved. It’s in pretty rough shape.”
Gamache and Myrna looked at each other and realized what he was saying.
“We’re not together,” said Myrna, laughing. “Like you, we were invited here by Maître Mercier.”
She brought out her letter, as did Armand, and they placed them on the table.
Benedict bent over, then straightened up. “I’m confused. I thought I was here to bid on a job.”
He put his own letter on the table. It was, except for his name and address, identical to the other two.
“What do you do?” Myrna asked, and Benedict handed her one of his cards.
It was bloodred and diamond shaped, with something unreadable embossed.
“Your girlfriend?” asked Myrna.
“Yes. Her business class.”
“Final marks?”
“Oui.”
Myrna handed it to Gamache, who had to put on his reading glasses and tip the card toward the window to have any hope of reading the bumps.
“‘Benedict Pouliot. Builder,’” he read out loud, then turned it over. “There’s no phone number or email.”
“No. Marks were deducted. So am I here to bid on a job?”
“No,” said Mercier. “Sit.”
Benedict sat.
More like a puppy than a cat, really, thought Gamache as he took the seat next to Benedict.
“Then why am I here?” Benedict asked.
“We want to know too,” said Myrna, ripping her eyes off Benedict and directing them back to the notary.
CHAPTER 3
“State your name, please.”
“You know my name, Marie,” said Jean-Guy. “We’ve worked together for years.”
“Please, sir,” she said, her voice pleasant but firm.
Jean-Guy stared at her, then at the two other officers assembled in the boardroom.
“Jean-Guy Beauvoir.”
“Rank?”
He gave her a filthy look now, but she just held his stare.
“Acting head of homicide for the Sûreté du Québec.”
“Merci.”
The inspector gazed at the laptop in front of her, then back at him.
“This isn’t about you, you’ll be happy to hear.” She smiled, but he did not. “Your suspension was lifted several months ago. But we still have serious questions about the decisions and actions of Monsieur Gamache.”
“Chief Superintendent Gamache,” said Beauvoir. “And how can you still have questions? You’ve asked, and he’s answered, every possible question. You must’ve cleared him by now? It’s been almost six months. Come on. Enough.”
Again he looked at who he thought were his colleagues. Then back at her. His gaze becoming less hostile and more baffled.
“What is this?”
Jean-Guy had been in many such interviews and had felt confident he could control the situation, knowing they were all on the same side. But as they stared at him from the other side of the table, he realized his mistake.
He’d entered the room expecting this would just be a formality. A last interview before, like him, the Chief was exonerated and returned to work.
The atmosphere had indeed been convivial, almost jovial. At first.
Beauvoir was sure they’d tell him that a sternly worded statement was being drafted, explaining that a rigorous investigation had been held. It would lament the fact that the covert Sûreté operation in the summer had ended with such bloodshed.
But it would, ultimately, voice support for the unconventional and bold decisions taken by Chief Superintendent Gamache. And unwavering support for the Sûreté team involved in what turned out to be a wildly successful action. A commendation would be given to Isabelle Lacoste, the head of homicide, whose actions had saved so many lives but who’d paid so high a price.
It would end there.
Chief Superintendent Gamache would go back to work, and all would return to normal.
Though the fact an investigation that had begun in the summer was still going on in the depth of the Québec winter was disconcerting.