Chapter 12
“Frederick Castonguay.”
Armand had taken Jean-Guy aside as soon as they’d entered the house and whispered those words.
Beauvoir, who had not seen the bag being opened by Isabelle, stared, then gave a curt nod. Absorbing the news. They had other priorities at the moment, and Lacoste was more than capable of doing what was necessary with the body.
Still, it was unexpected, and Beauvoir struggled to keep his expression neutral.
He and Gamache were obviously thinking the same thing: How had the young assistant to Jeanne Caron ended up in a green garbage bag in a forest?
At one time, indeed until a few minutes ago, Gamache had wondered if Frederick Castonguay wasn’t deeply involved in the plots. Might he even be the one behind it all? It was unlikely, though wasn’t that often the way?
But Armand now knew he’d been at least partially mistaken. And partly right. Castonguay was not the leader, but he was obviously involved somehow and considered so dangerous that he needed to be silenced.
Frederick Castonguay had had access to all of Jeanne Caron’s documents, and she, in turn, as Lauzon’s Chief of Staff, had access to all the former Deputy Prime Minister’s papers and emails. She had control over his movements and even his finances. Or so she’d thought.
And Castonguay, as her assistant, had access to all of that.
Could he have sidestepped his immediate boss and been working directly with Lauzon? Was he the conduit for the money? Was Frederick Castonguay, that nondescript young man, one of the main conspirators?
By the same token, it would be equally easy for Frederick Castonguay to plant evidence. To plant that money. To set up Marcus Lauzon. To make it look like the Deputy PM was the one behind the plots. And leave the real conspirators free to finish what they started.
So, thought Armand as he slowly removed his coat and put on the old cardigan, so far there was a possibility Marcus Lauzon was, or was not, behind the plots.
There was a possibility the dead man was, or was not, work- ing with him.
There was a possibility the dead man was, or was not, working against him.
They did not seem further ahead.
What he did know was that there was a direct line from the man now standing in the heart of their home in Three Pines, looking around with interest, and the young man dead and decomposing hundreds of kilometers north. From Lauzon to Caron to Castonguay.
Quite a lineage.
Too many things led back to the former politician for Gamache not to wonder if Lauzon wasn’t the Black Wolf after all. The one who fed people’s fears, paranoia, greed, rage. He fed them and, in turn, was fed on them.
And few knew better than Armand Gamache what a bloated ruin this man was.
So why, why, he wondered as he watched Marcus Lauzon, did he harbor doubts? He was clearly the only one who did. Even his own team thought him mad to think Lauzon might have been wrongly convicted.
He put on the ragged old slippers and was aware everyone was looking at him. Waiting for him to take the lead. He glanced at Beauvoir, who also seemed distracted. Clearly struggling with the questions that emanated from that putrid find at the northern lake.
What was Frederick Castonguay looking for at the lake? How did he know that lake was of interest? Unless … was there some connection between the two young men?
Whose side was Frederick Castonguay on?
Who had followed, found, and killed him?
Who—
Armand’s phone alarm went off, startling everyone in the room. And just like that, the questions retreated, and his attention was brought sharply back home.
He turned to Marcus Lauzon. “That’s the chicken. It’s ready to be taken out. Let’s go into the kitchen.”
Beauvoir and Evelyn Tardiff exchanged glances. Were they mistaken, or did this sound like two friends about to prepare a meal together?
“I’m very good at gravy,” said Lauzon as he followed his host. “Should you need it.”
“As it turns out, that’s my specialty too,” said Armand, “but I’ll hand that duty over to you today. Perhaps best I carve.”
Lauzon actually laughed.
The kitchen smelled of tradition and safety and comfort. Of childhood dinners with family around the table. And yet Jean-Guy found that his stomach had soured. Probably because while the scent was of safety, this reeked of danger.
There was nothing normal, nothing comforting, about it.
The long pine table, worn and patinaed by more than a century of gatherings, was ready for them. Cutlery out, linen napkins folded at each place. Glasses waiting for drinks. A cheery arrangement of late fall flowers sat in a vase in the middle of the table.
The stage was set. Armand and Jean-Guy just had to make sure they did not fall off it.
“Smells good, Armand,” said Lauzon.
The use of Gamache’s first name shocked Jean-Guy. Said so casually, as though the two men were friends, equals, and not enemies. He watched to see how hearing his name come out of the mouth of this vile man had affected the Chief. But he seemed not to notice, or perhaps he hadn’t heard.
Armand put on oven mitts covered in hearts and rainbows, a birthday gift from his granddaughters Florence and Zora, and placed the roasting pan on top of the stove.
“Our friend Rocky gave us the secret. She always puts a couple of sprigs of tarragon and half a lemon in the cavity.”
“I’ll remember that,” said the prisoner.
This was, thought Beauvoir, getting weirder and weirder. Clearly he and Armand weren’t the only ones putting on an act. Only Chief Inspector Tardiff seemed to be without a script. Or apparent role. She was staring openly. More than a little lost.
“My wife and I used to host colleagues,” Lauzon continued, “from both sides of the aisle, for Sunday lunch. It was a good way to establish a rapport and put people at their ease.” He paused and held Armand’s eyes.
“And perhaps even make them say more than they intended, or was wise.” The former politician looked down at the handcuffs. “Tough to make gravy like this.”
“Désolé.” Armand turned to Jean-Guy. “Would you please take the restraints off our guest?”
As Lauzon held his hands out, he dropped his eyes to the angry red scars around Armand’s wrists, from the zip ties.
“How often in Parliament I’ve felt unnecessarily restrained from being able to pass legislation, especially on the environment. But I had no idea what real restraint felt like.”
He smiled slightly and rubbed his wrists. Somehow that smile, the action, those words, the surprisingly wistful tone snuck past Armand’s defenses and touched him. It was so unexpected, he wondered if the monthslong battle with the swarms of cicadas hadn’t drained him. Lowered his defenses.
If so, he’d better rebuild them fast. He could not allow this contemptable man, Black Wolf or not, into his head, and certainly nowhere near his heart. Bad enough he was in his home.
While the roast chicken rested under a tent of foil, Jean-Guy was put to work mashing the potatoes and Evelyn was asked to watch the Brussels sprouts, roasting in the oven amid sliced garlic and Parmesan and small dabs of red currant jelly.
“And maybe stir them a couple of times,” Armand suggested.
Raising her brows and picking up a wooden spoon, she bent over and looked through the oven window, her reflection superimposed on the caramelizing Brussels sprouts.
Really? What is happening?
Lauzon was making gravy, using the potato water and pan drippings and flour, while Armand opened a bottle of Pouilly-Fuissé. Once done, he picked up a sharp carving knife and balanced it in his open palm. Then he closed his fingers around the handle.
Only Jean-Guy noticed the momentary white knuckles and thinning lips, and the sound, low and deep in his throat. Almost a snarl.
Armand claimed, believed, that Dom Philippe, the murdered Abbot of Saint-Gilbert-Entre-les-Loups, had been the Grey Wolf.
The benign presence. The one you wanted on your side.
The one who could defeat the other. But anyone who knew the fable knew that the Grey Wolf was standing in the kitchen, clutching a carving knife.
Struggling to feed decency and not rage.
The familiar scents, the comfortable room, the jubilant sunshine streaming in only seemed to heighten the contrast between the physical world and the private thoughts. Between the apparent calm of the guests for Sunday lunch, and the inner turmoil.
“Jericho?” said Clara. “I know it well. I go down at least once a year. It’s where Snowflake Bentley lived.”
“Oh, of course,” said Reine-Marie. She metaphorically slapped her forehead. “That’s why it sounded familiar.”
“Who the hell was Snowflake Bentley?” demanded Ruth. She was into her second helping of the pasta traybake that Myrna had brought over, with roast tomatoes, the ubiquitous eggplant, and melted cheese.
Clara tore off another hunk of the crispy baguette. “Snowflake Bentley? You don’t know him?”
“Would I ask if I did? Okay, never mind. I’m already bored.”
“We should go down,” said Clara. “I haven’t been yet this year, and the museum shuts soon for the winter.”
“Ironic, for a place celebrating a man named Snowflake,” said Myrna. “But I’m game. When?”
“Why not now?” said Reine-Marie, suddenly curious to go deeper into Jericho. Where that young biologist might have been. Where the line he drew almost certainly passed through. Doing it with friends, visiting a museum, would not arouse suspicion should anyone be watching.
She felt ridiculous even thinking that. As though visiting a museum dedicated to a man named “Snowflake” could be dangerous. Still, Reine-Marie knew there was a difference between what things appeared to be and what they actually were. Best to be careful.
She sent off a quick text to Armand, letting him know; then they headed off.
Despite her predictable protests, Ruth joined them, though she left Rosa at home in case the Customs people decided ducks could fly into the country but not be driven.