“Constance was the only one left,” said Myrna. “Her sister, Marguerite, died in October. A stroke.”
“Did Constance marry?” asked Olivier. “Is that where Pineault came from?”
“No, none of the Quints married,” said Myrna. “They went by their mother’s maiden name, Pineault.”
“Why?” asked Gabri.
“Why do you think, numb nuts?” asked Ruth. “Not everyone craves attention, you know.”
“So how did you know who she was?” Gabri demanded.
That shut Ruth up, much to everyone’s amazement. They’d expected a brusque retort, not silence.
“She told me,” Ruth finally said. “We didn’t talk about it, though.”
“Oh, come on,” said Myrna. “She told you she was a Ouellet Quint and you didn’t ask a single question?”
“I don’t care if you believe me,” said Ruth. “It’s the truth, alas.”
“Truth? You wouldn’t know the truth if it bit you on the alas,” said Gabri.
Ruth ignored him and focused on Gamache, who’d been watching her closely.
“Was she killed because she was a Ouellet Quint?” Ruth asked him.
“What do you think?” he asked.
“I can’t see why,” Ruth admitted. “And yet…”
And yet, thought Gamache, as he rose. And yet. Why else would she be killed?
He looked at his watch. Almost nine. Time to get going. He excused himself to make a phone call from the bar, remembering in time that his cell phone didn’t work in Three Pines, and neither did email. He almost expected to see messages fluttering back and forth in the sky above the village, unable to descend. Waiting for him to head up the hill out of Three Pines, and then dive-bombing him.
But as long as he was here, none could reach him. Armand Gamache suspected that partly explained his good night’s sleep. And he suspected it also explained Constance Ouellet’s growing ease in the village.
She was safe there. Nothing could reach her. It was only in leaving that she’d been killed.
Or …
As the phone rang his thoughts sped along.
Or …
She hadn’t been killed when she left, he realized. Constance Ouellet had been murdered when she’d tried to return to Three Pines.
“Bonjour, patron.” Inspector Lacoste’s bright voice came down the landline.
“How’d you know it was me?” he asked.
“The caller ID said ‘Bistro.’ It’s our code word for you.”
He paused for a moment, wondering if that was true, then she laughed.
“You’re still in Three Pines?”
“Yes, just leaving. What do you have?”
“We got the autopsy and forensics from the Montréal police, and I’m reading through the statements from the neighbors. It’s all been sent to you.”
Among the messages hovering overhead, thought Gamache.
“Anything I should know?”
“Not so far. It seems the neighbors didn’t know who she was.”
“Do they now?”
“We haven’t told them. Want to keep it quiet for as long as possible. There’ll be a media storm when it comes out that the last Quint hasn’t just died, but been murdered.”
“I’d like to see the scene again. Can you meet me at the Ouellet home in an hour and a half?”
“D’accord,” said Lacoste.
Gamache looked up, into the mirror behind the bar. In it he saw himself reflected, and behind him the bistro, with its Christmas decorations, and the window into the snowy village. The sun was now up, cresting the tree line, and the sky was the palest of winter blues. Most of the patrons of the bistro had gone back to their conversations, excited now, animated by the news that they’d met, in person, a Ouellet Quint. Gamache could sense the ebb and flow of their emotions. Excitement at the discovery. Then remembering she was dead. Then back to the Quint phenomenon. Then the murder. It was like atoms racing between poles. Unable to rest in any one place.
Around the fireplace, the friends were commiserating with Myrna. And yet— He’d had the impression that as he’d looked into the reflection, there’d been a movement. Someone had been staring at him and had quickly dropped their eyes.
But one set of eyes remained on him. Staring, unyielding.
Henri.
The shepherd sat perfectly contained, oblivious to the hubbub around him. He stared at Gamache. Transfixed. Waiting. He would wait forever, secure in the absolute certainty that Gamache would not forget him.