Empty. As though her life had simply run out. Drained, like a battery. It would have been a peaceful scene, except for the blood under her head and the broken lamp, its base covered in blood, beside her body.
“Looks unpremeditated,” said one of the investigators. “Whoever did this didn’t bring a weapon. The lamp came from there.” She pointed to the bedside table.
Gamache nodded. But that didn’t make it unpremeditated. It only meant the killer knew where a weapon could be found.
He looked back down at the woman at his feet and wondered if her murderer had any idea who she was.
* * *
“Are you sure?” Clara asked.
“Pretty sure,” said Myrna, and tried not to smile.
“Why didn’t you tell us?”
“Constance didn’t want anyone to know. She’s very private.”
“I thought they were all dead,” said Clara, her voice low.
“I hope not.”
* * *
“Frankly,” Marc Brault admitted as they prepared to leave the Ouellet home, “this couldn’t come at a worse time. Every Christmas husbands kill wives, employees kill employers. And some people kill themselves. Now this. Most of my squad is going on holiday.”
Gamache nodded. “I’m off to Paris in a week. Reine-Marie’s already there.”
“I’m heading to our chalet in Sainte-Agathe on Friday.” Brault gave his colleague an appraising look. They were out on the sidewalk now. Neighbors had begun to gather and stare. “I don’t suppose…” Marc Brault rubbed his gloved hands together for warmth. “I know you have plenty of your own cases, Armand…”
Brault knew more than that. Not because Chief Inspector Gamache had told him, but because every senior cop in Québec, and probably Canada, knew. The homicide department of the Sûreté was being “restructured.” Gamache, while publicly lauded, was being privately and professionally marginalized. It was humiliating, or would be except that Chief Inspector Gamache continued to behave as though he hadn’t noticed.
“I’ll be happy to take it over.”
“Merci,” said Brault, clearly relieved.
“Bon.” The Chief Inspector signaled to Lacoste. It was time to leave. “If your team can complete the interviews and forensics, we’ll take over in the morning.”
They walked to the car. Some of the neighbors asked for information. Chief Inspector Brault was vague, but reassuring.
“We can’t keep her death quiet, of course,” he said to Gamache, his voice low. “But we won’t announce her real name. We’ll call her Constance Pineault, if the press asks.” Brault looked at the worried faces of the neighbors. “I wonder if they knew who she was?”
“I doubt it,” said Gamache. “She wouldn’t have erased all evidence of who she was, including her name, just to tell her neighborhood.”
“Maybe they guessed,” said Brault. But, like Gamache, he thought not. Who would guess that their elderly neighbor was once one of the most famous people not just in Québec, or Canada, or even North America, but in the world?
Lacoste had started the car and put the heat on to defrost the windshield. The two men stood outside the vehicle. Instead of walking away, Marc Brault lingered.
“Just say it,” said Gamache.
“Are you going to resign, Armand?”
“I’ve been on the case for two minutes and you’re already asking for my resignation?” Gamache laughed.
Brault smiled and continued to watch his colleague. Gamache took a deep breath and adjusted his gloves.
“Would you?” he finally asked.
“At my age? I have my pension in place, and so do you. If my bosses wanted me out that badly, I’d be gone like a shot.”
“If your bosses wanted you out that badly,” said Gamache, “don’t you think you’d wonder why?”
Behind Brault, Gamache could see the snowman across the street, its arms raised like the bones of an ill-formed creature. Beckoning.
“Take retirement, mon ami,” said Brault. “Go to Paris, enjoy the holidays, then retire. But first, solve this case.”
SIX
“Where to?” Isabelle Lacoste asked.
Gamache checked the dashboard clock. Almost seven.
“I need to get home for Henri, then back to headquarters for a few minutes.”
He knew he could ask his daughter Annie to feed and walk Henri, but she had other things on her mind.
