How the Light Gets In (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #9)

How the Light Gets In (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #9) Page 29

“Slept well?” Gabri asked, looking up from pushing the bacon around the skillet.

“Very.”

And he had. It had been a deep and restful sleep, his first in a very long time.

“Breakfast will be ready in a few minutes,” said Gabri.

“I’ll be back by then.”

At the front door he met Olivier and the two men embraced.

“I heard you were here,” said Olivier, as they bent to put on their boots.

Straightening up, Olivier paused. “Gabri told me about Constance. What a terrible thing. Heart?”

When Gamache didn’t respond, Olivier’s eyes slowly widened, trying to take in the enormity of what he saw in the Chief’s somber face.

“It’s not possible,” he whispered. “Someone killed her?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“My God.” Olivier shook his head. “Fucking city.”

“Glass houses, monsieur?” asked Gamache.

Olivier pursed his lips and followed Gamache onto the front porch, where the Chief clipped Henri onto his leash. They were approaching the winter solstice, the shortest day of the year. The sun wasn’t yet up, but villagers were beginning to stir. Even as the two men and the dog stood there, lights appeared at windows around the green and there was a faint scent of wood smoke in the air.

They walked together toward the bistro, where Olivier would prepare for the breakfast crowd.

“How?” Olivier asked.

“She was attacked in her home. Hit on the head.”

Even in the dark, Gamache could see his companion grimace. “Why would anyone do that?”

And that, of course, was the question, thought Gamache.

Sometimes it was “how,” almost always it was “who.” But the question that haunted every investigation was “why.”

Why had someone killed this seventy-seven-year-old woman? And had they killed Constance Pineault, or Constance Ouellet? Did the murderer know she was one of the celebrated Ouellet Quints? And not just a Quint, but the last one?

Why?

“I don’t know,” Gamache admitted.

“Is it your case?”

Gamache nodded, his head dipping in rhythm with his steps.

They came to rest in front of the bistro and Olivier was about to say good-bye when the Chief reached out and touched his arm. Olivier looked down at the gloved hand, then up into the intense brown eyes.

Olivier waited.

Gamache lowered his hand. He was far from certain that what he was about to do was wise. Olivier’s handsome face was turning pink in the cold, and his breath was coming in long, easy puffs.

The Chief broke eye contact and concentrated on Henri, rolling in the snow, his feet thrashing in the air.

“Will you walk with me?”

Olivier was a little surprised, and more than a little guarded. It was rarely a good sign, in Olivier’s experience, when the head of homicide asked to speak privately.

The hard-packed snow of the road squeaked as they walked with a measured pace around the village green. A tall, substantial man and a shorter, slighter, younger man. Heads bent together, sharing confidences. Not about the murder, but about something else entirely.

They stopped in front of Emilie Longpré’s home. There was no smoke from the chimney. No light at the windows. But it was filled with memories of an elderly woman Gamache had greatly admired and Henri had loved. The two men looked at the house, and Gamache explained what he wanted.

“I understand, patron,” said Olivier after listening to the Chief’s request.

“Thank you. Can you keep this to yourself?”

“Of course.”

They parted, Olivier to open his bistro, Gamache and Henri for breakfast at the B and B.

A large bowl of café au lait was waiting for the Chief on the worn pine table in front of the fireplace. After feeding Henri and giving him fresh water, Gamache settled at the table, sipping his café and making notes. Henri lay at his feet but looked up when Gabri arrived.

“Voilà.” The innkeeper put a plate with two eggs, bacon, toasted English muffins, and fresh fruit on the table, then he made himself a café au lait and joined the Chief.

“Olivier called a few moments ago from the bistro,” said Gabri. “He told me that Constance had been killed. Is it true?”

Gamache nodded and took a sip of his own café. It was rich and strong. “Did he tell you anything else?” Gamache kept his voice light, but studied Gabri.

“He said she’d been at home.”

Gamache waited, but it seemed Olivier had kept the rest of their conversation secret, as he’d promised.