Authors: Louise Penny
‘She has brains, your wife. She’s the first to notice that, or at least to ask. FINE stands for Fucked up, Insecure, Neurotic and Egotistical. I’m FINE.’
‘You certainly are,’ agreed Gamache.
Agent Robert Lemieux eased over into the slow lane, allowing the maniac tailgating him on the autoroute at 140 kilometers an hour to pass. If he’d been in the mood he’d have put his flasher on the roof and chased the psycho, but he had other things on his mind.
He was sure he’d done well in Montreal. He’d convinced the police artist to do the drawing. He’d visited the bus station and the Old Brewery Mission. He’d advanced the Elle case, which Gamache seemed to want to keep private.
He’d made a note of that in his book.
Agent Lemieux had achieved what he wanted and needed. He was pretty sure Chief Inspector Gamache trusted him. And that was the key. A lot was riding on gaining Gamache’s trust.
‘The only person I remember moving around at the curling match was that photographer person,’ said Myrna a few minutes later. As soon as she’d returned Peter and Clara had put the dinner out for people to help themselves. Gamache had taken her aside briefly and Myrna had agreed there was something very wrong with Crie. They arranged to get together the next day to talk.
Now their dinner was on tray tables in the living room. Clara had been right. It looked like something found in the bottom of the sink on Christmas Day once the dish water had been drained. But it tasted wonderful. Mashed potatoes, roast turkey, gravy and peas, all mushed together in a steaming casserole. Fresh bread and a green salad sat in bowls on the coffee table, with Lucy drifting around like a hungry shark.
‘The photographer popped up everywhere,’ agreed Clara, taking a hunk of bread and spreading it with butter. ‘But he only took pictures of CC.’
‘He was hired to do that. Where were all of you?’ asked Gamache. He took a sip of red wine and listened as the others talked.
‘In the stands, next to Olivier,’ said Ruth.
‘I was sitting between Myrna and Gabri,’ said Clara, ‘and Peter was curling.’
‘Richard Lyon was beside me,’ said Myrna.
‘Was he there the whole time?’ Gamache asked.
‘Definitely. I’d have noticed if he left. Body heat. But what about Kaye Thompson?’ Myrna looked at the others. ‘She was sitting right next to CC. She must have seen something.’
Everyone nodded and looked at Gamache expectantly. He shook his head. ‘I spoke to her today. She says she saw nothing. Only knew something was wrong when CC started screaming.’
‘I didn’t hear that,’ said Ruth.
‘Nobody did,’ said Gamache. ‘It was masked by the noise of Mother clearing the house.’
‘Oh, right,’ said Peter. ‘Everyone was cheering.’
‘How about Crie?’ Gamache asked. ‘Did anyone notice her?’
Blank stares.
Gamache was again struck by how sad it must be to be Crie. She’d swallowed all her feelings, all her pain. She carried such an enormous weight, and yet she was invisible. No one ever saw her. It was the worst of all possible states, he knew, to never be noticed.
‘Do you have a Bible?’ Gamache asked Clara. ‘Old Testament, if you have one. In English, please.’
They wandered over to the bookcase and Clara finally found it.
‘May I return it tomorrow?’
‘You can return it next year if you like. Can’t remember the last time I read the Old Testament,’ said Clara.
‘The last time?’ Peter asked.
‘Or the first time,’ admitted Clara with a laugh.
‘Would you like to watch the movie now?’ Peter asked.
‘Very much,’ said Gamache.
Peter reached out to pick up the cassette from the living room table, but Gamache stayed his hand.
‘I’ll do it, if you don’t mind.’ Gamache took out a handkerchief and slipped the movie out of its sleeve. Everyone noticed, but no one asked, and Gamache didn’t volunteer the information that this particular tape had been found in the garbage of the dead woman.
‘What’s it about?’ asked Myrna.
‘Eleanor of Aquitaine and her husband King Henry,’ said Ruth. Gamache turned to her, surprised. ‘What? It’s a great film. Katharine Hepburn and Peter O’Toole. All the action takes place at Christmas, if I remember well. Strange, isn’t it. Here we are at Christmas too.’
There were many strange things about this case, thought Gamache.
The opening credits started, the Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer lion roared, the powerful Gothic music filled their quaint little living room and grotesque images of gargoyles leered on the screen. Already the film reeked of power and decay.
And dread.
The Lion in Winter
began.
Agent Nichol’s car skidded round the snowy corner, barely making the turn off the main road onto the tiny secondary road that led to Three Pines. Gamache hadn’t invited her to stay at the B. & B. with them, but she would anyway, even if she had to pay her own way. While in Montreal, after interviewing the headmistress of Crie’s snooty private school, Agent Nichol had driven home to pick up a suitcase, stopping briefly to have a bite with her relatives gathered in the tiny, fastidious house.
Her father always seemed nervous on these occasions and had instructed his daughters never to mention the family history in Czechoslovakia. Growing up in the immaculate little home in east end Montreal Nichol had seen a parade of distant relatives and friends of friends come to live with them, though it was less a parade than a cortege. They trudged through the door, all in black with stone stern faces, speaking words she couldn’t understand and sucking all the attention the world had to offer. They demanded and yelled and wailed and complained. They came from Poland and Lithuania and Hungary and young Yvette listened to them and came to believe each person must have their own language. Hovering near the doorway in the tiny, crowded, chaotic living room, a room that had once been so pleasant and calm, young Yvette struggled to understand what was being said. At first the newcomers would speak kindly to her, then when she didn’t react they’d speak more loudly, until finally they screamed at her in the universal language that said she was lazy and stupid and disrespectful. Her mother, once so gentle and kindly, had become impatient too, and yelled at her. In a language she did understand. Little Yvette Nikolev had become the foreigner. All her life she’d stand just on the outside. Longing to belong, but knowing she didn’t, when even her mother sided with others.
It was then she began to worry. If her home was this baffling and overwhelming, what was waiting outside? Suppose she couldn’t make herself understood? Suppose something happened, but she couldn’t follow the instructions? Suppose she needed something? Who would give it to her? And so Yvette Nichol had learned to take.
‘So, you’re back with Gamache,’ her father had said.
‘Yes sir.’ She smiled at him. He was the only one who had ever stood up for her as a child. The only one who’d protected her again those invaders. He’d catch her eye and wave her over and give her a butterscotch candy wrapped in noisy cellophane. He’d instruct her to hide someplace to open it. Away from prying and greedy eyes. Their secret. Her father had taught her the value and necessity of secrets.
‘You must never tell him about Czechoslovakia. Promise me now. He wouldn’t understand. They only want pure Quebecers in the Sûreté. If he found out you’re Czech you’d be kicked out. Like Uncle Saul.’
The very idea of being compared to stupid Uncle Saul made her nauseous. Stupid Uncle Saul Nikolev who’d washed out of the Czech police and couldn’t protect the family. And so they’d all perished. Except her father, Ari Nikolev, and her mother and the discontented and bitter relatives who’d used their home like a latrine, dropping their shit all over the young family.
In the small, neat back bedroom Ari Nikolev watched as his daughter packed her suitcase with the dreariest, drabbest clothes in her closet. At his suggestion.
‘I know men,’ he’d said, when she’d protested.
‘But men won’t find me attractive in these.’ She’d jabbed her finger at the pile of clothes. ‘I thought you said you wanted Gamache to like me.’
‘Not to date. Believe me, he’ll like you in those.’
As she turned to find her toiletry bag he slipped a couple of butterscotch candies into the suitcase, where she’d find them that night. And think of him. And with any luck never realize he had his own little secret.
There was no Uncle Saul. No slaughter at the hands of the communists. No noble and valiant flight across the frontier. He’d made all that up years ago to shut up his wife’s relatives camped in their home. It was his lifeboat, made of words, which had kept him afloat on their sea of misery and suffering. Genuine suffering. Even he could admit that. But he’d needed his own stories of heroics and survival.
And so, after helping to conceive little Angelina and then Yvette, he’d conceived Uncle Saul. Whose job it was to save the family, and who had failed. Saul’s spectacular fall from grace had cost Ari his entire fictional family.
He knew he should tell Yvette. Knew that what had started as his own life raft had become an anchor for his little girl. But she worshipped him, and Ari Nikolev craved that look in her gray eyes.
‘I’ll call you every day,’ he said, lifting her light case from the bed. ‘We need to stick together.’ He smiled and cocked his head toward the cacophony that was the living room as the relatives shouted at each other from entrenched positions. ‘I’m proud of you, Yvette, and I know you’ll do well. You have to.’
‘Yes, sir.’
None of the fucking relatives lifted their heads as she left, her father carrying her case to the car and putting it in the trunk. ‘In case there’s a crash, it won’t hit you on the head.’
He hugged her and whispered in her ear, ‘Don’t mess up.’
And now she approached Three Pines. At the top of du Moulin she slowed, her car skidding slightly to the side on the slippery road. Below her the village glowed, the lights off the tall trees reflected red and green and blue on the snow and the ice, like a giant stained glass window. She could see figures moving back and forth in front of the windows of the shops and homes.
A feeling roiled in her chest. Was it anxiety? Resentment perhaps about leaving her own warm home to come here? No. She sat in the car for a few minutes, her shoulders slowly sagging from up round her ears and her breath coming in long, even puffs. Trying to identify this strange feeling. Then, knitting her brows together and staring out the windshield at the cheery little village, she suddenly knew what she was feeling.
Relief. Was this what it felt like to let the weight down, the guard down?
Her cell phone rang. She hesitated, knowing who it was, and not wanting to leave her last thought.
‘
Oui, bonjour.
Yes sir, I’m in Three Pines. I’ll be polite. I’ll win him over. I know how important this is. I won’t mess up,’ she said in response to his warning.
She hung up and took her foot off the brake. Her car glided into the village and came to a stop in front of the B. & B.
Eleanor and Henry were going at it hammer and tongs. Their sons were fracturing, turning on each other and their parents. Each character was exploding, sending shards into each other. It was devastating and brilliant. By the end Gamache looked down, surprised to see his plate empty. He didn’t remember eating. He didn’t remember breathing.
But he did know one thing. Given a choice, Eleanor and Henry would be the last people on earth he’d want as parents. Gamache sat staring at the closing credits, wondering what he’d missed, because he’d surely missed something. There was a reason CC had the tape and a reason she’d taken the name de Poitiers, and presumably a reason she’d thrown out a perfectly good video. This tape was found in her garbage. Why?
‘Maybe she bought a DVD,’ suggested Clara when he’d asked them for their theories. ‘We’ve been slowly switching our collection over to DVD. All Peter’s favorite movies eventually go screwy because he watches the good parts over and over.’
‘Hello, everyone,’ Gabri’s cheerful voice called from the kitchen. ‘I heard about the movie night. Am I too late?’
‘The film just finished,’ said Peter. ‘Sorry, old son.’
‘Couldn’t get away earlier. Had to minister to the sick.’
‘How is Inspector Beauvoir?’ Gamache asked, walking into the kitchen.
‘Still asleep. He has the flu,’ Gabri explained to the rest. ‘Am I feverish? Hope I didn’t get it.’ He offered his forehead to Peter, who ignored him.
‘Well, even if you’ve picked it up we’re not at risk,’ Ruth commented. ‘The chances of it jumping from Gabri to a human are pretty small.’
‘Bitch.’
‘Slut.’
‘So who’s looking after him?’ Gamache asked, wondering if he should head for the door.
‘That Agent Nichol showed up and booked herself in. Even paid for it herself using little rolled up bills. Anyway, she said she’d look after him.’
Gamache hoped Beauvoir was unconscious.
Beauvoir was having a nightmare. Through his fever he dreamed he was in bed with Agent Nichol. He felt nauseous again.
‘Here.’ A woman’s voice, quite pleasant, came to him.
Somehow the wastepaper basket had levitated and was right under his mouth. He heaved into it, though there was nothing much left in his stomach to bring up.
Falling back into the damp sheets he had the oddest sensation that a cool cloth had been laid on his forehead and his face and mouth had been wiped clean.
Jean Guy Beauvoir fell back into a fitful sleep.
‘I brought dessert.’ Gabri pointed to a cardboard box on the counter. ‘Chocolate fudge cake.’
‘Do you know, I think I’m beginning to like you,’ said Ruth.
‘What a difference a gay makes.’ He smiled and started unwrapping it.
‘I’ll make coffee,’ said Myrna.
Gamache cleared the plates and ran warm water in the sink to do the washing up. As he scrubbed the dishes and handed them to Clara to dry, he looked out the frosted window at the lights of Three Pines and thought about the film.
The Lion in Winter
. He went over the characters, the plot, some of the devastating repartee between Eleanor and Henry. It was a film about power and love warped and twisted and squandered.