Beauvoir thought. But he knew no answer would be coming.
The chief turned back to his walk, and continued to tiptoe between the squiggling worms. Beauvoir watched him for a moment, the tall, elegant, powerful man, avoiding the worms. Then he too started walking, tiptoeing, so that from any of the mullioned windows around the village green they looked like two grown men in an awkward, though familiar, ballet.
‘Do you remember the name?’ Beauvoir asked when he caught up with the chief.
‘Chauvet. They’re the caves at Chauvet.’
When they got back to the B. & B. they were met by the aroma of fresh-brewed café au lait, maple-cured back bacon and eggs.
‘Eggs Benedict,’ announced Gabri, rushing to greet them and take their coats. ‘Yummy.’
He pushed them along through the living room and into the dining room where their table was set up. Gamache and Beauvoir sat down and Gabri placed two steaming, frothy bols of coffee in front of them.
‘Patron, did you see a stack of books in the living room when you came down?’ Gamache asked, taking a sip of the rich brew.
‘Books? No.’
Gamache put his bol down and walked into the living room. Through the archway Beauvoir watched as he walked round and finally returned, replacing his white linen napkin on his lap.
‘They’re gone,’ he said, though he didn’t look upset.
‘The yearbooks?’
Gamache nodded and smiled. He hadn’t planned it, but this was good. Someone was rattled. Rattled enough to sneak into the B. & B., which everyone knew was never locked, and take the yearbooks from twenty-five years ago.
‘Yummy, yummy,’ said Gabri, placing the platters in front of his guests. Each held two eggs on a thick slice of Canadian back bacon which in turn rested on a golden toasted English muffin. Hollandaise sauce was drizzled over the eggs and fruit salad garnished the edges of each plate.
‘Mangez,’ said Gabri. Gamache reached out his hand and took Gabri’s wrist lightly. He looked up at the large, disheveled man. Gabri stood stock-still, staring. Then he lowered his eyes.
‘What is it? What’s happened?’ Gamache asked.
‘Eat. Please.’
‘Tell me.’
Beauvoir’s fork with a massive mound of egg, dripping hollandaise, stopped almost at his mouth. He stared at the two men.
‘There’s more. It’s the papers, isn’t it?’ said Beauvoir, suddenly knowing.
Both men followed Gabri into the living room. He pulled a newspaper out from where he’d stuffed it behind a cushion on the sofa. Handing it to Gamache he walked over to the television and turned it on. Then he walked to the stereo and turned the radio on.
Within seconds the room was full of accusations. Blaring from the stereo, from the morning news programs, from the newspaper headlines.
Daniel Gamache under investigation. Criminal record.
Annie Gamache on leave, her lawyer’s license suspended.
Armand Gamache suspected of everything from murder to running a puppy mill.
The picture on the front page this time wasn’t of Gamache, but of his son, in Paris, Roslyn behind him carrying Florence. All being jostled by reporters. Daniel looking angry and furtive.
Gamache could feel his heart pounding against his chest. He took a huge, ragged breath, realizing he’d been holding it. On the television was a live picture of a young woman leaving an apartment building, her briefcase up to her face.
Annie.
‘Oh, God,’ whispered Gamache.
Then she lowered the case and stood still. This seemed to stun the reporters who preferred their prey on the run. She smiled at them.
‘No, don’t,’ whispered Beauvoir.
Annie raised her arm and gave them the finger.
‘Annie,’ Gamache mouthed, but no sound came out. ‘I need to go.’
He rushed upstairs and grabbed his cell phone. He was surprised to see his finger shaking, barely able to connect with the speed dial. It was answered on the first ring.
‘Oh, Armand, have you seen?’
‘Just now.’
‘I just got off the phone with Roslyn. They’ve taken Daniel into custody in Paris. He’s suspected of drug-dealing.’
‘All right,’ said Gamache, some calm returning. ‘All right. Let me think.’
‘They won’t find anything,’ said Reine-Marie.
‘They might.’
‘But that was years ago, Armand. He was a kid, experimenting.’
‘It’s possible someone’s planted something on him,’ said Gamache. ‘How was Roslyn?’
