Chapter 15
Isabelle placed a photograph on the worn pine table in front of the open fire.
Both Armand and Jean-Guy leaned forward.
She’d arrived down in Three Pines at about the same time Beauvoir returned from driving Lauzon back to the penitentiary. Chief Inspector Gamache had called ahead and asked that the inmate be placed, once again, in protective custody.
The three now sat on the sofa and comfortable armchairs, warming themselves by the hearth.
The bistro was never more inviting than on a cold night as winter approached.
The open fires on both ends of the intimate room were lit, sending the subtle scent of maple woodsmoke to join the aroma of rich coffee and coq au vin and boeuf bourguignon and fresh baguette.
Into that pleasant atmosphere Isabelle told her colleagues about breaking the news of Frederick’s murder to his parents. One of the worst parts was that she could not leave them to their grief. She needed information.
“He texted a number of weeks ago to say he was going away for a while. When the news broke about Marcus Lauzon, they understood why, but didn’t understand why he hadn’t been in touch since.”
“So his message to them was before Lauzon was arrested?” Beauvoir asked.
Putting his Coke down, he spread a thick smear of paté on a slice of baguette and popped the entire thing in his mouth.
“He sent it the night it all came to a head at the church,” she said, and glanced out the window toward St. Thomas’s. “And the water-treatment plant.”
“When he drove Jeanne Caron from here into Montréal and left her there,” said Beauvoir, after managing to swallow. “His family hasn’t heard from him since?”
“No.”
“You’re sure?”
“Well, that’s what they told me, and I don’t think they’re lying.”
“Do we know when he was killed?” asked Gamache.
“Dr. Harris hasn’t reported yet. I called again and left a message, stressing that we need to know not just when but also where. It seems obvious it must be where he was buried, but we need it confirmed.”
“His killers couldn’t have snuck up on him,” said Beauvoir. “You can only get to that lake by float plane. He’d have heard and seen them arrive. I think they must’ve flown up together.”
“That’s what I think,” said Isabelle. “It’s possible he was kidnapped and taken up there, but if the purpose was to kill him, why not just do it in the Montréal landfill, like they normally do?
No, I think he knew and trusted his killers.
And if they were mob, he must’ve also been working with Moretti. ”
“Do you have that last message he sent his family?” Gamache asked.
After those tense hours with Lauzon, he was finally able to relax. He’d been watching Jean-Guy demolish the cheese and paté. It was oddly compelling, almost rhythmic. A famished metronome.
Now Armand took a sip of his scotch and, replacing it on the table in front of the fire, he was momentarily mesmerized by the warm amber hue and the dancing light through the cut crystal.
“The text to his…,” he said, then paused. “His what?”
“Mother. They were in almost daily contact, before—”
Before. There would now, for the Castonguays, always be a “before” and “after.”
“I have it here.” Isabelle turned her phone around for them to see.
“Who’s Lapin?” asked Armand. “He says to give her his love and to tell her not to mess with the stuff he left in the closet.”
“His youngest sister. She’s twelve. Rabbit is her nickname. She moved into his old bedroom when he left for Ottawa.”
“So they’re sure it’s from him?” Beauvoir asked. Lacoste nodded. “Why didn’t they report him missing?”
“They didn’t want to get him into trouble. If they hadn’t heard by end of this week, they were going to go to the Ottawa police.”
“Did they approach Jeanne Caron?” asked Beauvoir. “She was his boss after all.”
“I asked. They said they didn’t. I asked why not. They didn’t say it in so many words, but I got the impression they don’t like or trust her. His mother went to his apartment in Ottawa two weeks ago but found nothing.”
“She wouldn’t necessarily know what to look for,” said Jean-Guy, reaching for another slice of baguette. By now Lacoste was also staring.
“True,” she said, watching him put a slab of Brie on the bread, then a delicate dab of red pepper jelly. “I have the address and keys and permission from the Castonguays and local cops to search. I’ve sent a team.”
“Bon,” said Gamache.
“But I did find something.” Isabelle reached into the satchel on the floor beside her armchair.
It was warmed by the fire. “After some persuasion, the girl brought out the box with the things Frederick left behind. Most of it’s junk.
Old trophies. Souvenirs from concerts and family vacations. A few photographs. Including…”
That was when she placed the picture on the pine table. Its corners were curled, and there was a small puncture in the top where it had probably been pinned to a corkboard at one time.
Armand picked it up. “It’s a class photo.”
“From fourth grade,” said Jean-Guy, reading the sign at the sneakered feet of those in the first row.
He looked up at Isabelle, his brows raised in a So?
“I didn’t get it either, until I turned it over.” She did so now and handed it back to the Chief.
It took just a moment for his own brows to rise. He passed the picture to Jean-Guy.
There in the back row was nine-year-old Frederick, grinning mischievously. Unrecognizable as the arrogant young man Jean-Guy had met. Frederick’s arm was slung lazily over the shoulder of the boy next to him.
Buddies.
It was, according to the chart on the back—
“Charles Langlois,” said Armand.
“Fucking hell,” Jean-Guy whispered into the mound of Saint André cheese almost at his lips.
“As soon as I saw this, I asked the Castonguays about Langlois. They looked blank at first, but when I showed them the photo, Frederick’s mother remembered him, but not his name.
The boys were best friends for a while, but there was a falling-out over something when they were still kids. But then the daughter—”
“Lapin,” said Beauvoir.
His daughter had her own nickname. When she was born, Honoré couldn’t get his mouth around “Idola” so had taken to calling her “Lala.”
Idola did not yet speak, though they had hopes that with her therapy she would one day. And maybe even, one day, be able to correct her epically lazy brother.
Most children with Down syndrome, he and Annie had learned from doctors and other parents, did eventually speak. Though the older Idola got, the less they worried or noticed. The little girl communicated clearly in every other way. Mostly through laughter.
“Oui, Lapin,” confirmed Isabelle. “She remembered that over Sunday dinner a while ago Frederick mentioned he’d run into an old friend from school. One who wasn’t doing so well.”
“He didn’t give a name?” Beauvoir asked. Incredibly he held another piece of bread, this one with a crumbly Bleu bénédictin cheese on it.
“If he did, none of them could remember. It didn’t seem a big deal, just a passing comment.”
The class photo was back on the pine table, the flickering light of the wood fire playing over the children’s faces. Almost animating them. Armand was reminded of the stained-glass young men in the church window. Also frozen in time. Forever young.
But each year, on a precise day, as the very first rays of the sun hit the window just so, the boys appeared to move, for a moment. It was, of course, an optical illusion. One not many had witnessed. But Armand had.
He’d woken early that day, troubled by a homicide that he could not seem to get a handle on. He’d gone to the church, not to pray, but to commune with his thoughts.
It had been September 18 of that first year he and Reine-Marie had moved to Three Pines. A day that was no longer summer. Not yet fall.
He’d walked up to the church in darkness, past the homes with sleeping friends and new neighbors.
Past the three tall pines. As he climbed the wooden steps and reached for the door of the white clapboard church, he turned and looked over the village.
There was a softening of the sky just at the tree line.
As he watched, the elderly poet was making her way to the bench, to help in the birthing of a new day.
Then he went into the church. Soon he’d drive into Montréal and meet again with the parents of Katie Vaslov, the young girl who’d been killed.
He’d listen to their pain. He’d absorb, again, their sorrow.
Their rage, now directed at him. And he’d have to admit he and his team were still searching for her killer.
He’d reassure them he would find whoever had done it. However long it took.
But for that moment he’d sat in the pew beneath the boys and closed his eyes. Hoping for clarity. Hoping to see what had so far eluded him.
A movement, a slight shimmering of light across his lids, made him open his eyes. The blues and greens and bright brittle reds were undulating across the polished wood, moving toward him. And when the light reached him, it rested warm and bright on his hands. As though holding them.
He looked up and could have sworn the boys were watching him. Just for an instant. And then they’d frozen again.
It was then that he’d read the plaque. Learned their names. Learned they were brothers who’d died on the same day in the infamous slaughter of the Somme.
They’d perished on September 18, 1916. Three among twenty-four thousand Canadians who were killed in that one battle. A number hauntingly imprecise.
He’d gone back the next morning, just before dawn, but it didn’t happen again until the next year, on September 18.
Armand was there. To greet them. Each and every September 18 since.
He thought of that now as he looked at the school photo. Here were two more dead boys. But unlike the stained-glass brothers, there was no fear in these faces. No indication they knew their lives would be limited. Their fates intertwined.