“Fueled by gin,” said Clara. “Funny how that works.”
“Speaking of which, there’s no gin. Someone must’ve drunk it all. Get some more,” she said to Myrna.
“Get your own—”
“Church,” Clara interrupted Myrna.
“We’re at a child’s funeral,” Olivier said to Ruth. “There is no alcohol.”
“If there ever was an occasion to drink, this is it,” said Ruth.
She was holding Rosa in much the same way Evelyn Lepage had held Laurent. To her chest. Protectively.
“He was a strange little kid,” said Ruth. “I liked him.”
And there was Laurent Lepage’s real eulogy. Stories of his stories. Of the funny little kid with the stick, causing havoc. Creating chaos and monsters and aliens and guns and bombs and walking trees.
That was the boy they were burying.
“How many times did we look out at the village green and see Laurent hiding behind the bench, firing his ‘rifle’ at invaders,” asked Clara as they left the church and wandered down the dirt road into the village.
“Lobbing pine cones like they were grenades,” said Gabri.
“Bambambam.” Olivier held an imaginary machine gun and made the sounds they’d heard as Laurent engaged the enemy.
Clara tossed an imaginary grenade. “Brrrrccch.” As it exploded.
“He was always prepared to defend the village,” said Reine-Marie.
“He was,” said Olivier.
Gamache remembered the pine cone seeds found in Laurent’s pocket. He’d been on a mission to save the world. Armed to the teeth. When he died.
“I actually thought his death was no accident,” Armand confided to Myrna as the others walked ahead, across the village green. “I thought it might be murder.”
Myrna stopped and looked at him.
“Really? Why?”
They sat on the bench in the afternoon sun.
“I’m wondering the same thing. Is it possible I’ve been around murder so long I see it when it doesn’t exist?”
“Creating monsters,” said Myrna. “Like Laurent.”
“Yes. Jean-Guy thinks part of me wanted it to be murder. To amuse myself.”
“I’m sure he didn’t put it that way.”
“No. It’s how I’m putting it.”
“And how are you answering that question?”
“I suppose there might be some truth in it. Not that I’m bored, and certainly not that homicide amuses me. It revolts me. But…”
“Go on.”
“Thérèse Brunel was down last week and offered me the job of Superintendent overseeing the Serious Crimes and Homicide divisions.”
Myrna raised her brows. “And?”
“The truth is, I’ve never felt so at peace, so at home as I do here. I don’t feel any need to go back. But I feel as though I should.”
Myrna laughed. “I know what you mean. When I quit my job as a psychologist, I felt guilty. This isn’t our parents’ generation, Armand. Now people have many chapters to their lives. When I stopped being a therapist I asked myself one question. What do I really want to do? Not for my friends, not for my family. Not for perfect strangers. But for me. Finally. It was my turn, my time. And this is yours, Armand. Yours and Reine-Marie’s. What do you really want?”
He heard the thump of pine cones falling and stopped himself from turning to look for the funny little kid who’d thrown the “grenades.” Kaaa-pruuuchh.
Then another one fell. And another. It was as though the three huge pines were tapping the earth. Asking it to admit Laurent. The magical kid who’d made them walk.
Armand closed his eyes and smelled fresh-cut grass and felt the sun on his upturned face.
What do I want? Gamache asked himself.
He heard, on the breeze, the first thin notes. From Neil Young’s Harvest. Armand looked up to the small cemetery on the crest of the hill. Outlined against the clear blue afternoon sky was a large man with a guitar in his arms.
And down the hill the words drifted … and there’s so much more.
CHAPTER 7
“There you are,” said Olivier, as he and Gabri sat down at the Gamaches’ table in the bistro. “We’ve been looking for you.”
“You can’t have been looking hard,” said Reine-Marie. “Where else would we be?”
“Home?” said Gabri.
“This isn’t our home?” Gamache whispered to Reine-Marie.
“Yes it is, mon beau,” she patted her husband’s leg reassuringly.
