How the Light Gets In
Page 122Gamache exited the bridge and negotiated the smaller back roads until he arrived at the Ouellet home. Dark. A hole in the cheerful Christmas neighborhood.
He parked his car and looked at the Michaud house. The walk had been shoveled, and one of the trees in the front yard was decked out in bright Christmas bulbs. Lights were on, though the curtains were drawn. The house looked warm, inviting.
A home like any other on the street. One among equals.
Is that what the famous Quints had yearned for? Not celebrity, but company? To be normal? If so, and if this was a long-lost Quint, she’d achieved it. Unless she’d killed to do it.
Gamache rang the doorbell, and it was answered by a man in his early eighties, Gamache guessed. He opened the door without hesitation, without worry that whoever was on the other side might wish him wrong.
“Oui?”
Monsieur Michaud wore a cardigan and gray flannels. He was neat and comfortable. His moustache was white and trimmed and his eyes were without suspicion. In fact, he looked at Gamache as though expecting the best, not the worst.
“Monsieur Michaud?”
“Oui?”
“I’m one of the officers investigating what happened next door,” said Gamache, bringing out his Sûreté ID. “May I come in?”
“But you’ve been hurt.”
“Come in,” said Annette Michaud, reaching out to Gamache.
The Chief had forgotten about his face and bloody shirt and now he felt badly. The two elderly people were looking at him with concern. Not for themselves, but for him.
“What can we do?” Monsieur Michaud asked, as his wife led them into the living room. A Christmas tree was decorated, its lights on. Beneath it some gifts were wrapped, and two stockings hung off the mantel. “Would you like a bandage?”
“No, no, I’m fine. Merci,” Gamache assured them. At Madame Michaud’s prompting he gave her his heavy coat.
She was small and plump and wore a housedress with thick stockings and slippers.
The home smelled of dinner, and Gamache thought of the dry cheese sandwich, still uneaten, in the cold car.
The Michauds sat on the sofa, side by side, and looked at him. Waiting.
Two less likely murderers would be hard to find. But Gamache, in his long career, had arrested more unlikely killers than obvious ones. And he knew the strong, wretched emotions that drove the final blow could live anywhere. Even in these nice people. Even in this quiet home with the scent of pot roast.
“How long have you lived in this neighborhood?” he asked.
“Oh, fifty years,” said Monsieur Michaud. “We bought the home when we married in 1958.”
Virginie Ouellet had died July 25, 1958. And Annette Michaud arrived here in 1959.
“No children?”
“None,” said Monsieur.
Gamache nodded. “And when did your neighbors move in, the Pineault sisters?”
“That would’ve been twenty-three years ago,” said Monsieur Michaud.
“So accurate,” said Gamache with a smile.
“We’ve been thinking about them, of course,” said Madame. “Remembering them.”
“And what do you remember?”
“They were perfect neighbors,” she said. “Quiet. Private. Like us.”
Like us, thought Gamache, watching her. She was indeed about the right age and right body type. He didn’t ask if she had the right temperament to kill. It wasn’t about that. Most murderers were themselves surprised by the crime. Surprised by the sudden passion, the sudden blow. The sudden shift that took them from good, kindly people to killers.
Virginie had been freed by a crime, Constance would be freed by the truth.
“You were friends?” Gamache asked.
“Well, friendly. Cordial,” said Madame Michaud.
“But they invited you over for drinks, I understand.”
“A lemonade, once. That hardly makes a friendship.” Her eyes, while still warm, were also sharp. As was her brain.
Gamache leaned forward and concentrated fully on Madame Michaud.
“Did you know that they were the Ouellet Quints?”
Both Michauds sat back. Monsieur Michaud’s brows shot up, surprised. But Madame Michaud’s brows descended. He was feeling, she was thinking.