Read How the Light Gets In: A Chief Inspector Gamache Novel Online

Authors: Louise Penny

Tags: #Mystery, #Thriller, #Adult, #Contemporary, #Suspense

How the Light Gets In: A Chief Inspector Gamache Novel (33 page)

He glanced again to the map on the wall. And the mark that was almost invisible.

“We’ll come back tomorrow night and start fresh,” said Gamache.

Jérôme Brunel looked like a man who’d had his execution stayed. Not sure if this was a kindness, not sure if this was a trick. After a moment his shoulders rolled forward and he sighed.

With what felt like the last of his energy, Dr. Brunel erased the code and handed the paper back to Gamache.

As he returned it to his pocket, Gamache caught Thérèse’s eye. And nodded.

“Can you unplug us, please?” Jérôme asked Nichol.

She was about to argue, but decided against it, too tired herself to fight. Once again she slid off her chair and crawled under the desk.

When the cable was unplugged, they turned the lights out and Gamache relocked the door. Hoping he hadn’t made a mistake. Hoping he hadn’t just given Francoeur that critical twenty-four hours to complete his plan.

As they trudged back to Emilie Longpré’s home, Gamache caught up with Thérèse.

“You were right. I—”

Thérèse held up her Minnie Mouse hand and Gamache fell silent.

“We were both wrong. You were afraid to stop and I was afraid to go.”

“You think we’ll have less fear tomorrow?” he asked.

“Not less fear,” she said. “But perhaps more courage.”

Once in the warm house, they went to bed, falling asleep as soon as their heads hit the pillow. Just before drifting off, Gamache heard Henri groan contentedly, and the house creak in ways that felt like home.

*   *   *

Gamache opened his eyes and found himself staring directly into Henri’s face. How long the dog had been sitting there, his chin on the side of the bed, his wet nose within inches of Gamache’s face, was impossible to say.

But as soon as Armand’s eyes fluttered open, Henri’s entire body began to wag.

The day had begun. He looked at the bedside clock.

Almost nine. He’d had six hours of sleep, and felt as though he’d had double that. Rested and refreshed, he was certain now he’d come close to making a disastrous decision the night before. They’d rest up today, and go back that night, no longer battling fatigue and confusion and each other.

As he dressed, Gamache could hear the scrape of shovels. He drew back the curtains and saw the whole village covered in white, and the air filled with it. Flakes drifted down and piled up on the three gigantic pines, on the forest, on the homes.

There was no wind at all, and the snow fell straight down. Gentle and relentless.

He could see Gabri and Clara, out clearing their paths. He first heard, then saw, Billy Williams’s plow coming down the hill into the village. Past the small church, past the schoolhouse. And around the village green.

Parents skated on the frozen pond with shovels, clearing away the snow, while children with hockey sticks and ants in their pants waited on the makeshift benches.

He went downstairs and found he was the first one up.

While Henri ate, Gamache put on a pot of coffee and laid a new fire in the living room hearth. Then they went for a walk.

“Come on over to the bistro for breakfast,” Gabri called. He wore a tuque with an immense pom-pom and was leaning on his snow shovel. “Olivier will make you blueberry crêpes with some of Monsieur Pagé’s maple syrup.”

“And bacon?” asked Gamache, knowing he was already lost.

“Bien sûr,”
said Gabri. “Is there any other way to eat crêpes?”

“I’ll be right back.”

Gamache hurried home, wrote a note for the others, then he and Henri returned to the bistro. The Chief settled in by the fireplace and had just taken a sip of
café au lait
when Myrna joined him.

“Do you mind company?” she asked. But she was already in the armchair opposite him and had signaled for a coffee of her own.

“I was going to come over to your shop after breakfast,” explained the Chief Inspector. “I’m looking for gifts.”

“For Reine-Marie?”

“No, for everyone here. To say thank you.”

“There’s no need, you know,” said Myrna.

Gabri brought her coffee, then pulled up a chair and joined them.

“What’re we talking about?” he asked.

“Gifts,” said Myrna.

“For me?” he asked.

“Who else?” asked Myrna. “You’re all we ever think about.”

“We have that in common,
ma chère,
” said Gabri.

“What’re we talking about?” asked Olivier, as he placed two plates of blueberry crêpes and maple-smoked bacon in front of Myrna and Gamache.

“Me,” said Gabri. “Me, me, me.”

“Oh, good,” said Olivier, bringing over another chair. “It’s been thirty seconds since we visited that subject. So much must have happened.”

“Actually, there is something I want to ask you two,” said Gamache. Myrna passed him the jug of maple syrup.

“Oui?”
asked Olivier.

“Did you open Constance’s gifts?” the Chief asked.

“No, we put them under the tree. Would you like us to open them?”

“No. I already know what she gave you.”

“What?” asked Gabri. “A car? A pony?”

“I won’t tell you, but I will say that I think it’s something you can use.”

“A muzzle?” asked Olivier.

“What’re we talking about?” asked Clara, dragging over a chair. Her cheeks were red and her nose was running and Gamache, Gabri, Myrna and Olivier all handed her a napkin, just in time.

“Gifts,” said Olivier. “From Constance.”

“We’re not talking about you?” Clara asked Gabri.

“I know. An abomination of nature. Though, to be fair, we have been talking about the gifts Constance gave me.”

“Us,” said Olivier.

“Yes, she gave me one too,” said Clara, and turned to Gamache. “You dropped it off the other day.”

“Did you open it?”

“I’m afraid I did,” Clara admitted, and took a piece of Myrna’s bacon.

“That’s why I keep your presents under my tree until Christmas morning,” said Myrna, moving her plate away.

“What did Constance give you?” asked Gabri.

“This.”

Clara unwound the scarf from her neck and gave it to Myrna, who took it, admiring the bright and cheerful lime green.

“What’re these? Hockey sticks?” Myrna pointed to a pattern at either end of the scarf.

“Paintbrushes,” said Clara. “Took me a while to figure it out.”

Myrna passed it back to Clara.

“Oh, let’s get ours,” said Gabri. He rushed off, and by the time he returned Myrna and Gamache had finished their breakfasts and were on their second
cafés au lait.
Gabri handed one of the packages to Olivier and kept the other for himself. They were identical, both wrapped in bright red paper with candy canes all over it.

Gabri ripped the wrapping off his. “Mitts,” he exclaimed, as though they were a pony and a car rolled into one magnificent present.

He tried them on. “They even fit. It’s so hard to find ones for hands this large. And you know what they say about big hands…”

No one pursued that.

Olivier tried on his mitts. They also fit.

There was a bright yellow crescent moon pattern on each mitt.

“What do you think the pattern means?” Clara asked.

They all thought.

“Did she know about your habit of mooning?” Myrna turned to Gabri.

“Who doesn’t?” said Gabri. “But a half moon?”

“It’s not even a half moon,” said Clara. “It’s a crescent moon.”

Gabri laughed. “A croissant moon? My two favorite things. Croissants and mooning.”

“Sadly, this is true,” Olivier confirmed. “And he has such a full moon.”

“Paintbrushes for Clara and croissants for the guys,” said Myrna. “Perfect.”

Gamache watched them admiring the gifts. Then the thought that had eluded him last night drifted into his consciousness, like a snowflake, and landed.

He turned to Myrna. “She didn’t give you a present.”

“Well, just coming down was more than enough,” said Myrna.

Gamache shook his head. “We found these gifts in her suitcase, but nothing for you. Why not? It doesn’t make sense that Constance would make gifts for everyone else, but not bring anything for you.”

“I didn’t expect one.”

“Even so,” said Gamache. “If she brought them for the others, she’d bring one for you, no?”

Myrna saw his logic. She nodded.

“Maybe that photograph she packed was for Myrna,” Clara suggested. “The one with the four sisters.”

“Possibly, but why not wrap it, like your gifts? Returning for Christmas wasn’t part of the original plan, was it?” he asked, and Myrna shook her head. “She initially came for a few days?”

Myrna nodded.

“So, as far as she knew, when she first came down, she wasn’t coming back,” said Gamache, and they looked at him strangely. The point had already been made, why pound it home?

“Right,” said Myrna.

Gamache stood up. “Can you come with me?”

He meant Myrna, but they all followed him through the door connecting the bistro to the bookstore. Ruth was already there, putting books into her oversized purse, whose bottom had long since taken on the shape of a Scotch bottle. Rosa stood beside Ruth, and looked at them as they arrived.

Henri stopped dead and lay down. Then he rolled over.

“Get up, you wretched thing,” said Gamache, but Henri only looked at him upside down and swished his tail.

“God,” Gabri stage-whispered. “Imagine their children. Big ears and big feet.”

“What do you want?” Ruth demanded.

“It’s my store,” said Myrna.

“It’s not a store, it’s a library.” She snapped her bag shut.

“Idiot,” they both muttered.

Gamache walked over to the large Christmas tree.

“Can you look at them, please?” He pointed to the presents under the tree.

“But I know what’s there. I wrapped them myself. They’re for everyone here, and Constance.”

And Constance,
thought Gamache. Still that, even in death.

“Just look anyway, please.”

Myrna got on her knees and sifted through the wrapped gifts.

“Now there’s a full moon,” said Gabri with admiration.

Myrna sat back on her heels. In her hand was a gift wrapped in bright red paper, with candy canes.

“Can you read the card?” Gamache asked.

Myrna struggled to her feet and opened the small flap.
“For Myrna,”
she read.
“The key to my home. Love, Constance.”

“What does that mean?” Gabri asked, looking from face to face and settling on Gamache’s.

But the Chief only had eyes for the package.

“Open it, please,” he said.

 

TWENTY-NINE

Myrna took the Christmas present to a seat by the window of her bookshop.

Everyone leaned forward as she peeled off the tape, except Ruth, who remained where she was and looked out the window at the endless snow.

“What did she give you?” Olivier craned his neck. “Let me see.”

“More mitts,” said Clara.

“No, I think it’s a hat,” said Gabri. “A tuque.”

Myrna lifted it up. It was light blue and it was indeed a tuque. And on it was a design.

“What’s the pattern?” asked Clara. It looked like bats to her, but that probably didn’t make sense.

“They’re angels,” said Olivier.

They leaned closer.

“Isn’t that beautiful,” said Gabri, stepping back. “You were her guardian angel.”

“It’s wonderful.” Myrna held up the hat, admiring it and trying to hide her disappointment. Myrna had let herself believe that the package would magically reveal Constance. Her most private life. That the gift would finally let Myrna enter Constance’s home.

It was a lovely gesture, but it was hardly a key to anything.

“How’d you know it was there?” Clara asked Gamache.

“I didn’t,” he conceded, “but it seemed unlikely she’d give you a gift and not bring one for Myrna. Then I realized if she had brought one for Myrna it would have been on her first visit, since she didn’t expect to return.”

“Well, mystery solved,” said Gabri. “I’m heading back to the bistro. You coming, Maigret?”

“Right behind you, Miss Marple,” said Olivier.

Ruth got up with a grunt. She stared at the package, then at Gamache. He nodded to her, and she to him. Only then did she and Rosa leave.

“You two seem to have developed telepathy.” Clara watched the old poet walk carefully down the snowy path, the duck in her arms. “Not sure I’d want her in my head.”

“She’s not in my head,” he assured her. “But Ruth is often on my mind. Did you know that her poem ‘Alas’ was written for Virginie Ouellet, after she died?”

“No,” admitted Myrna, her hand resting on the tuque, watching Ruth pause and give the hockey players instructions, or hell. “It made Ruth famous, didn’t it?”

Gamache nodded. “I don’t think she’s ever recovered from that.”

“The fame?” asked Clara.

“The guilt,” said Gamache. “Of profiting from someone else’s sorrow.”

“Who hurt you once, / so far beyond repair / that you would greet each overture / with curling lip?”

Myrna whispered the words as she watched Ruth and Rosa, heads bowed into the snow. Making for home.

“We all have our albatrosses,” she said.

“Or ducks,” said Clara, and knelt by her friend’s chair. “Are you all right?”

Myrna nodded.

“Would you like to be alone?”

“Just for a few minutes.”

Clara stood, kissed Myrna on the top of her head, and left.

But Armand Gamache did not leave. Instead he waited for the connecting door to close, then he sat in the chair vacated by Ruth and stared at Myrna.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

Myrna lifted the tuque and put it on. The knitted hat perched on Myrna’s head like a light blue light bulb. Then she handed it to him. After examining it, Gamache lowered the hat to his knee.

“This wasn’t made for you, was it?”

“No. And it’s not new,” she said.

Gamache could see the wool was worn, slightly pilled. And he saw something else. A tiny tag had been sewn into the inside of the tuque. Putting on his reading glasses, he brought the hat to his face so that the rough wool almost rubbed his nose.

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