Nothing.
No sign of a murder scene or a murder weapon. Not even at the old Hadley house, whose new floors proved bloodless. The lab tests had come back on Olivier’s pokers, confirming neither was the weapon. It was still out there, somewhere.
They did find Guylaine’s missing boots, and a root cellar under Monsieur Béliveau’s house, long overgrown and abandoned, but still housing pickled beets and cider. There was a squirrel’s nest in Ruth’s attic, not perhaps surprisingly, and suspicious seeds in Myrna’s mudroom that turned out to be hollyhock.
Nothing.
“I’ll widen the search area,” said Beauvoir to the Chief, over the phone.
“Probably a good idea.” But Gamache didn’t sound convinced.
Through the receiver Beauvoir could hear bells and music and laughter.
Armand Gamache was at the fair.
* * *
The Brume County Fair was more than a century old, bringing people in from all over the townships. Like most fairs it had started as a meeting place for farmers, to show their livestock, to sell their autumn produce, to make deals and see friends. There was judging in one barn and displays of handicraft in another. Baking was for sale in the long aisles of open sheds and children lined up for licorice and maple syrup candy, popcorn and freshly made doughnuts.
It was the last celebration of summer, the bridge into autumn.
Armand Gamache walked past the rides and hawkers, then consulted his watch. It was time. He made for a field to the side of the barns, where a crowd had gathered. For the Wellington Boot Toss.
Standing on the edge of the field he watched as kids and adults lined up. The young man in charge settled them down, gave them each an old rubber boot, and standing well back he raised his arm. And held it there.
The tension was almost unbearable.
Then like an ax he dropped it.
The line of people raised their arms in unison and shot them forward, and to whoops of encouragement from onlookers a storm of Wellington boots was released.
Gamache knew in that instant why he’d gotten such an unexpectedly good spot at the side of the field. At least three boots shot his way.
He turned and hunched his back, instinctively bringing his arm up to protect his head. With a series of thuds the boots landed around him, but not on him.
The young man in charge ran over.
“You okay?”
He had curly brown hair that shone auburn in the sun. His face was tanned and his eyes a deep blue. He was stunningly handsome, and pissed off.
“You shouldn’t be standing there. I thought for sure you’d move.”
Gamache was treated to the look of someone recognizing they were in the presence of immeasurable stupidity.
“C’était ma faute,” admitted Gamache. “Sorry. I’m looking for Old Mundin.”
“That’s me.”
Gamache stared at the flushed and handsome young man.
“And you’re Chief Inspector Gamache.” He stuck out his hand, large and calloused. “I’ve seen you around Three Pines. Didn’t your wife take part in the clog dancing on Canada Day?”
Gamache could barely look away from this young man, so full of vigor and light. He nodded.
“Thought so. I was one of the fiddlers. You’re looking for me?”
Behind Old Mundin more people were forming up and looking in his direction. He glanced at them, but seemed relaxed.
“I’d like to talk, when you have a moment.”
“Sure. We have a couple more heats, then I can leave. Want to try?”
He offered Gamache one of the boots that had almost brained him.
“What do I do?” asked Gamache as he took the boot and followed Mundin to the line.
“It’s a Wellington Boot Toss,” said Old Mundin, with a laugh. “I think you can figure it out.”
Gamache smiled. This perhaps wasn’t his brightest day. He took his place beside Clara and noticed Old Mundin jog down the line to a beautiful young woman and a child who’d be about six. He knelt down and handed the boy a small boot.
“Charles,” said Clara. “His son.”
Gamache looked again. Charles Mundin was also beautiful. He laughed and turned the wrong way, and with patience his parents got him sorted out. Old Mundin kissed his son and jogged back to the line.
Charles Mundin, Gamache saw, had Down syndrome.
“Ready?” called Mundin, raising his arm. “Set.”
Gamache gripped his boot and glanced down the line at Peter and Clara, staring intently ahead of them.
“Toss!”
Gamache swung up his arm and felt his boot whack his back. Then he sliced forward, losing his grip on the muddy boot. It headed sideways to land about two feet ahead of him and to the side.
Clara’s grip, while stronger, didn’t last much longer, and her boot went almost straight up into the air.
“Fore!” everyone yelled and as one they reeled back, straining to see as it plunged toward them out of the blinding sun.
It hit Peter. Fortunately it was a tiny, pink child’s boot and bounced off him without effect. Behind Gamache, Gabri and Myrna were taking bets how long it would take Clara to come up with an excuse and what it would be.
“Ten dollars on ‘The boot was wet,’” said Myrna.
“Nah, she used that last year. How about ‘Peter walked into it’?”
“You’re on.”
Clara and Peter joined them. “Can you believe they gave me a wet boot again?”
Gabri and Myrna hooted with laughter and Clara, smiling broadly, caught Gamache’s eye. Money changed hands. She leaned into Gamache and whispered, “Next year I’m saying Peter leaned into it. Put some money down.”
“Suppose you don’t hit him?”
“But I always do,” she said earnestly. “He leans into it, you know.”
“I had heard.”
Myrna waved across the field to Ruth, limping along with Rosa beside her. Ruth gave her the finger. Charles Mundin, seeing this, waved, giving everyone the finger.
“Ruth doesn’t do the Wellington Boot Toss?” asked Gamache.
“Too much like fun,” said Peter. “She came to find children’s clothing in the craft barn.”
“Why?”
“Who knows why Ruth does anything,” said Myrna. “Any headway with the investigation?”
“Well, there was one important finding,” said Gamache, and everyone crowded even closer around him. Even Ruth limped over. “The coroner says the dead man wasn’t killed in the bistro. He was killed somewhere else and taken there.”
He could hear the midway clearly now, and hawkers promising huge stuffed toys if you shot a tin duck. Bells jingled to call attention to games and the ring announcer warned people the horse show was about to start. But from his audience there was silence. Until finally Clara spoke.
“That’s great news for Olivier, isn’t it?”
“You mean it makes him less of a suspect?” said Gamache. “I suppose. But it raises a lot more questions.”
“Like how’d the body get into the bistro,” said Myrna.
“And where he was killed,” said Peter.
“We’re searching the village. House by house.”
“You’re what?” asked Peter. “Without our permission?”