Chapter 13 #3
That had also occurred to him. But unlike everyone else involved, Jeanne Caron hadn’t tried to hide her complicity, at least in some of Marcus Lauzon’s illegal activities.
But there was no evidence that she was involved in the poisoning plot.
Just the opposite. It all pointed to her working with her uncle the Abbot to stop it.
Even approaching Gamache himself for help.
“Why didn’t you know about this, Evelyn?”
“What? That Moretti put out a hit on that kid? How’m I supposed to know?”
“Your informant?”
“You think Moretti tells my informant everything?”
“I think Moretti tells you everything.”
That sucked the air out of the room.
“What do you mean?” she finally managed to say.
He dropped his voice. “I know you’re the informant. You infiltrated Moretti’s organization during that arson investigation.”
She glared at him, suddenly afraid. She’d spent years hiding, and now she stood in this country kitchen, exposed.
“As Lauzon just reminded us, I was, briefly, the head of the S?reté,” he explained. “I’d already guessed that you must have placed someone in the Moretti organization, but I wanted it confirmed. Being the Superintendent gave me access to certain files. I found the evidence.”
“There’s evidence?” she asked, forgetting to dodge the question.
“I destroyed it.”
Now she heaved a deep sigh. “Is that why I’m here?”
“I need to know what you know about what’s happening next. Moretti’s involved. You met him yesterday morning at the Jean-Talon market. What did he tell you?”
“Nothing. I haven’t heard anything. And why in the world would you think anything else is happening? It’s been wrapped up. Lauzon’s in prison.” She looked toward the doorway. “Or should be.”
“Why would they murder Frederick Castonguay unless it was to shut him up?” asked Gamache, choosing not to directly answer her question.
“They’re just cleaning up. Moretti’s a tidy man, hates loose ends. You do too, obviously. Castonguay must’ve been a loose end.”
“Exactly. But what did he know?”
“It can’t matter now. It’s over, Armand.” She looked at him more closely. “How did you know about my visit to the market?” When he didn’t answer, her eyes opened wide. “My own assistant? Nichol? She’s spying on me? For you?”
“I assigned her there, yes.”
“You say that like it’s reasonable to spy on a colleague, a friend.” She was staring at him in disbelief.
“If the murder of thousands of citizens was a prelude, what the hell’s next? I’ll do whatever’s necessary, including placing my own people in your department, to find out.”
“Fuck you, Armand. How dare you lecture me about duty. I’ve risked my life every day for decades to get close to that psychopath Moretti, and you’re on the verge of blowing it and getting me killed. Over some self-aggrandizing fantasy.”
Gamache glanced again at the door. They didn’t have much more time.
“Look, I’ll protect you any way I can—”
“I don’t need you to protect me, Armand. Just back off.”
“—and for what it’s worth, Nichol seems devoted to you. I think she instinctively trusts you.”
“You say she’s your agent?”
“Yes.”
“That didn’t stop her from saying you should’ve been killed in the treatment plant.” It was vindictive of her to tell him that. But she was angry and frightened and needed to spread the pain.
To her surprise he gave a gruff laugh. She wondered if he’d heard her right.
“Well, she’s not wrong. I think there’ve been times she would’ve happily pulled the trigger. But I suspect she said it to gauge your reaction. And that was…?”
“I agreed with her, of course. If anyone is playing by a rule book, they’ll be dead and buried with it.”
There was a pause as both took deep breaths, literally and figuratively.
“Okay, Armand. I’ll look into Moretti’s connection to Castonguay and see what I can find out.”
“Find out what?”
Lauzon was at the kitchen door, watching them. Beauvoir, standing behind him, had tried to make enough noise to warn Gamache and Tardiff, but they were too deep in conversation.
“The recipe for the apple crisp,” said Evelyn, without missing a beat. “Armand won’t tell me.”
“It’s an old family secret,” said Armand, making for the door. “Reine-Marie would kill me if I told you.”
“She’d have to take a number,” said Evelyn.
“Are we leaving?” asked Lauzon, stepping aside to let Gamache pass.
Gamache could hear the fear in his voice. For all his haughtiness, Lauzon was afraid to go back to prison. And once again, against his will, Gamache found he sympathized.
“Not quite yet. I suggest we get some fresh air. Walk off some of our lunch. Perhaps through the woods.”
“Where no one can see us, Armand?”
“Do you want the world to know you’re out of prison and here?” Beauvoir asked.
“It would be more damaging to you than me. Imagine what the papers would say. What that young journalist whose purpose in life seems to be harassing you would say?”
Armand immediately felt alarms go off. What did this man know about Shona Dorion? Did he know that they’d met? That Shona was gathering information for him?
Having had Marcus Lauzon closer than ever before, having had a chance to study him, Armand Gamache found he was beginning to lean toward believing that Evelyn Tardiff was right. Beauvoir was right. Everyone he knew was right. Marcus Lauzon really was the Black Wolf.
Of course that would be good news. It would mean that maybe nothing else was planned. That he could go back to picking apples with Reine-Marie. To watching her tilt her head back and stretch her hand out and go up on tippy-toes for that perfect rosy apple, always just out of reach.
They could stroll around the village green, or go into Montréal and have dinner with the LaPierres. Or a quiet meal just the two of them. Talking about … nothing, as they walked back to their small apartment in the Outremont quartier.
He could feel her hand in his, even now. But then he always did.
If it was all over, he could exhale. For an instant he let himself believe it.
And yet, and yet …
As he hung up his father’s old cardigan and took off his godfather Stephen’s ratty old slippers, he glanced at Evelyn Tardiff.
Her insistence that nothing else was happening, even in the face of the murder of Frederick Castonguay, was worrisome. She did not seem willing to even entertain the other possibility.
He’d placed Agent Yvette Nichol in Chief Inspector Tardiff’s department to watch and report. To effectively spy on a fellow senior officer. And he’d just told Tardiff why Nichol was there.
How big a mistake that was, he wasn’t sure, but suspected he’d soon find out.
He scanned his messages, then put on his field coat, called the dogs and Gracie to his side, and headed out with the others into the autumn day.