A Fatal Grace

The book was called Be Calm.

Gamache tried to recall why that sounded familiar. It would come to him, he knew. Below the title was a black symbol.

‘What’s this?’ Gamache asked.

‘Oh, yes. That didn’t turn out so well. It’s supposed to be the logo for CC’s company. An eagle.’

Gamache looked at the black blotch. Now that Lyon had told him he could see the eagle. Hooked beak, head in profile, mouth open in a scream. He hadn’t taken any marketing courses but he supposed most companies chose logos that spoke of strength or creativity or trust, some positive quality. This one evoked rage. It looked like one pissed-off bird.

‘You can keep that. We have more.’

‘Thank you. But I still don’t know what your wife did.’

‘She was Be Calm.’ Richard Lyon didn’t seem to be able to grasp that not everyone rotated in CC de Poitiers’s orbit. ‘The design firm? Li Bien? Soft palettes?’

‘She designed dentures?’ Gamache made a guess.

‘Dentures? No. Houses, rooms, furniture, clothes. Everything. Life. CC created it all.’ He opened his arms wide like an Old Testament prophet. ‘She was brilliant. That book is all about her life and her philosophy.’

‘Which was?’

‘Well, it’s like an egg. Or really more like paint on a wall. Though not on the wall, of course, but Li Bien. Beneath the wall. Painting inside. Kinda.’

Lemieux’s pen hovered over his notebook. Should he write this down?

Dear God, thought Lyon. Shut up. Please, shut up. You’re a fat, ugly, stupid, stupid loser.

‘When did she leave this morning?’ Gamache decided to try another tack.

‘She was gone when I got up. I snore I’m afraid so we have separate bedrooms. But I could smell coffee so she must have just left.’

‘And what time was that?’

‘About seven thirty. When I got to the Legion about an hour later CC was already there.’

‘With the colleague?’

Did he hesitate again?

‘Yes. A man named Saul something. He’s rented a place down here for the Christmas holidays.’

‘And what does he do for your wife?’ Gamache hoped Lemieux had managed to keep a straight face.

‘He’s a photographer. He takes pictures. He took that picture. Good, isn’t it?’ Lyon pointed to the book in Gamache’s hand.

‘Was he taking pictures of the breakfast?’

Lyon nodded, his eyes round and puffy and somehow imploring. But imploring him to do what, Gamache wondered.

To not pursue this line of questioning, he suddenly knew.

‘Was the photographer there during the curling match?’ he pursued.

Lyon nodded unhappily.

‘You know what this means, don’t you?’

‘That’s just rumor. Vile, baseless lies.’

‘It means he might have taken a picture of the person who killed your wife.’

‘Oh,’ was Lyon’s startled reply. But try as he might Gamache couldn’t figure out whether Lyon was surprised-happy or surprised-terrified.

‘Who do you think did it?’ Clara asked, passing a glass of red wine to Peter before sitting back in the easy chair and sipping from her own.

‘Ruth.’

‘Ruth? Really?’ Clara sat up and stared at Peter. He was almost never wrong. It was one of his more annoying features. ‘You think Ruth killed CC?’

‘I think if I keep saying that eventually I’ll be right. Ruth’s the only one here, as far as I know, who could kill without a second thought.’

‘But you don’t really think that of her?’ Clara was surprised, though she didn’t necessarily disagree.

‘I do. It’s in her nature. If she hasn’t murdered someone before now it’s only because she’s lacked the motive and opportunity. The ability is there.’

‘But would she electrocute someone? I always figured if Ruth killed someone it would be with her cane, or a gun, or she’d run them down with her car. She’s not a great one for subtlety.’

Peter went to their bookcases and searched the volumes stacked and piled and crammed in together. He scanned the titles, from biographies to novels to literature and history. Lots of murder mysteries. And poetry. Wonderful poetry that sent Clara humming and moaning in the bath, her favorite place to read poetry since most volumes were slender and easy to hold with slippery hands. Peter was jealous of the words that brought such pleasure to his wife. She made sounds as though the words were caressing her and entering her and touching her in a way he wanted to keep just for himself. He wanted all her moans. But she moaned for Hecht and Atwood and Angelou and even Yeats. She groaned and hummed with pleasure over Auden and Plessner. But she reserved her greatest pleasure for Ruth Zardo.