“It’s true,” said Gamache.
“But why?” Gabri reached for one of the toasted English muffins.
There it was again, thought Gamache. Like his partner, Gabri hadn’t asked who, but why.
Gamache, of course, could answer neither of those questions yet.
“What did you think of her?”
“She was only here a few days, you know,” said Gabri. Then he considered the question. Gamache waited, curious to hear the answer.
“When she arrived she was friendly but reserved,” said Gabri, finally. “She didn’t like gays, that was obvious.”
“And did you like her?”
“I did. Some people just haven’t met many queers, that’s their problem.”
“And once she had met you and Olivier?”
“Well, she didn’t exactly become a fag hag, but the next best thing.”
“Which is?”
Instead of a clever quip, Gabri grew serious. “She became very motherly, to both of us. To all of us, I think. Except Ruth.”
“And with Ruth, what was she like?”
“At first Ruth wouldn’t have anything to do with her. Hated Constance on sight. As you know, it’s a point of pride for Ruth, that she hates everyone. She and Rosa kept their distance and muttered obscenities from afar.”
“Ruth’s normal reaction, then,” said Gamache.
“I’m glad Rosa’s back,” Gabri confided in a whisper, then looked around in exaggerated concern. “But does she look a little like a flying monkey to you?”
“I wonder if we can stick to the point, Dorothy,” said Gamache.
“The funny thing is, after treating Constance like something Rosa pooped, Ruth suddenly warmed to her.”
“Ruth?”
“I know. I’d never seen anything like it. They even had dinner together one night, at Ruth’s home. Alone.”
“Ruth?” Gamache repeated.
Gabri put marmalade on his muffin and nodded. Gamache studied him, but Gabri didn’t seem to be hiding anything. And the Chief realized Gabri did not know who Constance was. If he did, he’d have said something by now.
“So as far as you can tell, nothing that happened here would explain her death?” asked Gamache.
“Nothing.”
Gamache finished his breakfast, with Gabri’s help, then he got up and called Henri.
“Should I keep your room for you?”
“Please.”
“And one for Inspector Beauvoir, of course. He’ll be joining you?”
“No, actually. He’s on another assignment.”
Gabri paused, then nodded. “Ahh.”
Neither man really knew what the “ahh” was supposed to mean.
Gamache wondered how long it would be before people stopped looking at him and seeing Beauvoir standing beside him. And how long would it be before he himself stopped expecting to see Jean-Guy there? It wasn’t the ache that was so difficult to bear, thought Gamache. It was the weight.
When the Chief Inspector and Henri arrived at the bistro, it was full with the breakfast rush, though “rush” might have been the wrong word. No one seemed in much of a hurry.
Many of the villagers were lingering over coffee, settling into seats by the fires with their morning papers, which came in a day late from Montréal. Some sat at the small round tables, eating French toast or crêpes or bacon and eggs.
The sun was just coming up on what would be a brilliant day.
As he walked through the door, all eyes turned to him. He was used to that. They would, of course, know about Constance. They knew she was missing, and now they’d know she was dead. Murdered.
The eyes that met his, as he scanned the open room, were curious, some pained, some searching, some simply inquisitive, as though he carried a sack of answers slung over his shoulder.
As he hung up his parka, Gamache noticed a few smiles. The villagers had recognized his companion, he of the ears. A returning son. And Henri recognized them, and greeted them with licks and wags and inappropriate sniffs as they walked through the bistro.
“Over here.”
Gamache saw Clara standing by a group of armchairs and a sofa. He returned the wave and threaded his way between tables. Olivier joined him there, a tea towel slung over his shoulder and a damp cloth in his hand. He wiped the table as the Chief greeted Myrna, Clara, and Ruth.
“Do you mind if Henri stays, or would you rather I leave him in the B and B?” Gamache asked.
Olivier looked over at Rosa. The duck was sitting in an armchair by the fire, a copy of the Montréal Gazette beneath her and La Presse slung over the arm, waiting to be read.
