‘Murdered? Both of them? CC and her mother? But what does that mean?’
‘It means someone might try to kill your daughter,’ said Gamache, his eyes hard on Lyon, full of meaning and warning. ‘The local police are sending a car – ’
‘It’s arrived sir,’ said Lemieux, who’d noticed the headlights.
‘ – so there’ll be a guard here twenty-four hours a day. Nothing will happen to that girl. Do I make myself clear?’
Lyon nodded. Things were happening so fast. Too fast. He needed time to think.
Gamache gave a brisk nod and left the house.
Olivier threw another log on the open fire at the bistro and stirred it. Jean Guy Beauvoir and Chief Inspector Gamache were talking quietly at their table by the fire. The bistro was half full, and a small murmur of conversation filled the room. Olivier picked up their bottle of red wine and refilled their glasses.
‘Here comes your dinner. Bon appétit.’ He smiled and left.
A steak frites was placed in front of Beauvoir, sizzling from the charcoal fire, the French fries thin and seasoned, a small dish of mayonnaise waiting for them on the side. Beauvoir sipped his wine, swirling the dark liquid around lazily and looked into the fire. This was heaven. It’d been a long, cold day but it was finally over. Now he and Gamache could talk and chew over the case. It was Beauvoir’s favorite part of the job. And if it came with a charcoal steak, fries, wine, and a lively fire, so much the better.
A rack of lamb, sending out an aroma of garlic and rosemary, sat in front of Gamache, tiny potatoes and green beans rounding out the plate. Between them on the table sat a basket of steaming rolls and a small dish of butter balls.
Across from him Gamache had moved his napkin so that the plate could be put down and now Beauvoir noticed the doodle Gamache had made. Upside down he read it.
B KLM. The L circled over and over again.
‘L’s box,’ said Beauvoir, recognizing the letters. ‘Must have been collecting those letters for years. Compulsive. Like her daughter. I wonder if those things run in families?’
‘I wonder.’ The warmth, the wine, the fire, the food were all seducing Gamache. He felt relaxed and pleased with the progress of the day, though worried about Crie. Still, he knew she’d be safe. He’d warned Lyon. They were watching. Armand Gamache was still convinced Richard Lyon was their man. Who else could it be? He ate his lamb, enjoying the subtle flavors. ‘Why did the murderer stop to take the necklace out of L’s hand, Jean Guy?’
‘It must have been important. Maybe it implicates him, gives him away.’
‘Maybe.’ Gamache took a roll and ripped it in two, sending a flurry of flakes falling onto the wooden table. ‘Why did he kill L? Why kill CC? Why kill them both? And why now? What happened that the murderer had to kill them both within days?’
‘CC was about to sign a contract with that American company. Maybe it was to stop her doing that.’
‘But why stop her? She’d be worth much more afterwards. Besides, I have a feeling that American contract was another of CC’s delusions. We’ll see. But even so, why kill her mother?’
‘Was L from Three Pines, do you think?’
‘I do, and we need to concentrate tomorrow on finding people who knew her. I have another one for you.’ Their plates were just about empty now and Beauvoir was mopping up the juices from his steak with a roll. ‘Why throw the video away? It was perfectly good, as we saw.’
A waitress took their plates and a cheese platter arrived.
‘These are all from the monastery at Saint-Benoît-du-Lac,’ said Olivier, waving a cheese knife over the platter. ‘Their vocation is making cheese and Gregorian chants. All their cheeses are named after saints. Here’s Saint-André, and this one’s Saint-Albray.’
‘And this one?’ Beauvoir pointed to a large wedge on the wooden platter.
‘That would be Saint-Blue Cheese,’ said Olivier. ‘And this is Saint-Cheddar. Damn. Another good theory blown.’ He cut them off slices of each and left a basket of baguette and crackers.
‘I know how he feels.’ Gamache smiled, spreading Saint-André on a thin cracker. They ate in silence and Gamache looked at the younger man across the table. ‘What’s bothering you?’
Beauvoir peered over the rim of his glass then drained the last of his wine just as their cappuccinos arrived. ‘Why’d you order Nichol to stay behind?’
‘Are you upset that I countermanded you?’
‘No,’ Beauvoir said, but knew that was indeed part of it. ‘I don’t like my orders contradicted, especially in front of the team.’
