Bury Your Dead

But when pushed, he faded faster than he’d expected.

They found a table by the window at Le Petit Coin Latin and ordered beers and sandwiches.

“What did you find?” Gamache asked, biting into a baguette stuffed with pheasant terrine, arugula and cranberry sauce. A micro-brewery beer was in front of him with a slight head of foam.

“Nothing I didn’t expect to find. There were a couple rare books on Champlain the Society would love to get its hands on, but since you were there I chose not to steal them.”

“How wise.”

Émile inclined his head and smiled. “You?”

“The same. There was nothing that didn’t relate directly to Champlain or the early 1600s. There was nothing on Chiniquy, on temperance, on anything to do with the 1800s. Still, we need to keep looking. I wonder where he got all his books.”

“Probably from used bookstores.”

“That’s true.” Gamache brought Renaud’s diary out of his satchel and flipped through it. “He made regular visits to the local secondhand bookstores and the flea markets in the summer.”

“Where else do you find old books? What is it?” asked Émile.

Armand Gamache had tilted his head to the side and narrowed his eyes. “Where do those used bookstores get their books?”

“From people who’re moving or cleaning house. From estate sales, buying them in lots. Why?”

“I think when we’re finished in the apartment we need to visit a few shops.”

“What’re you thinking?” asked Émile, and took a long sip of his beer.

“I’m remembering something Elizabeth MacWhirter told me.” But now it was his turn to look at his companion. Émile Comeau was staring at the diary. Reaching out he turned it around so that it was right-side up for him. His slim finger rested on the page, below Augustin Renaud’s clear printing. Below the words circled and underlined, below an assignation he had with a Patrick, and O’Mara, a JD and—

“Chin,” said Gamache. “But there’re no Chins in Quebec City. I thought I might ask at the Chinese restaurant on rue de Buade and find out if it’s a—”

Gamache stared into the beaming eyes of his mentor. He closed his own eyes almost in pain. “Oh, no.”

Opening them he looked down at the diary. “Is that it? Chin? Chiniquy?”

Émile Comeau was smiling and nodding. “What else?”

Jean-Guy Beauvoir took a soapy dish from Clara and dried it. He was standing in their large, open kitchen, doing the dishes. Something he rarely did at home, though he’d helped the Chief and Madame Gamache clean up a few times. It didn’t seem like a chore with them. And it didn’t, to his surprise, seem like a chore now. It was restful, peaceful. Like the village itself.

After lunch together, Peter Morrow had returned to his studio to work on his latest painting, leaving Clara and Jean-Guy to clean up after the soup and sandwiches.

“Did you get a chance to read the dossier?”

“I did,” said Clara, handing him another dripping dish. “I have to say, it’s a convincing case against Olivier. But let’s say he didn’t kill the Hermit, then someone else must have known the Hermit was hiding in the woods. But how would someone find him? We know he approached Olivier himself, to sell his things and because he wanted some companionship.”

“And needed someone to do his errands, get things he needed from town,” said Beauvoir. “He used Olivier and Olivier used him.”

“A good relationship.”

“People taking advantage of each other seems good to you?”

“Depends how you see it. Look at us. Peter’s supported me financially all our married life, but I support him emotionally. Is that taking advantage of each other? I suppose it is, but it works. We’re both happy.”

Beauvoir wondered if that was true. He suspected Clara would be happy just about anywhere but her husband was another matter.

“Didn’t seem equal to me,” said Beauvoir. “Olivier brought the Hermit some groceries every two weeks and in exchange the Hermit gave Olivier priceless antiques. Someone was getting boned.”

They carried their coffees into the bright living room. Unfiltered winter light streamed through the windows as they sat in large easy chairs by the hearth.

Her brow wrinkled as she looked into the mumbling fire. “But it seems to me the big issue, the only issue, is who else knew the Hermit was there? He’d been hiding in the forest for years, why was he suddenly killed?” ns class="adsbygoogle" style="display:block" data-ad-client="ca-pub-7451196230453695" data-ad-slot="9930101810" data-ad-format="auto" data-full-width-responsive="true">