comfort food for their dinner, Gabri suspected his guests would find very little peace in whatever Gamache discovered. And probably no comfort in the food.
As the kitchen filled with the aromas of sautéing garlic and onions and gravy and ground meat browning, he thought about the four friends and the close bond they shared. It had been obvious from that first visit, years earlier.
It had always seemed such a wonderful thing, this friendship. This camaraderie. This trust.
Until this visit.
Something had been off, from the start. And not just the timing of it. Late October instead of August, which itself was baffling. Why come when it was cold and gray and the world was going to sleep or going to die?
Why now?
The darkness and chill of November was not simply outside. It had crept into the B&B, with these guests. These friends.
They were friendly, but less friendly. They were happy. But less happy. They were enjoying being together. But less so. They spent less time together and, despite invitations, less time with Gabri and Olivier and the others in the bistro.
Then the cobrador had arrived and the chill had spread over the entire village.
And now this. Katie was dead. Someone had taken her life.
“Gone,” he said out loud, in hopes maybe it would sink in.
But more than Katie was gone. He could feel it in the living room. It was unmistakable.
They were still a close-knit circle. An old circle, that much was obvious. If the Stonehenge rocks could breathe, they’d be these friends. But now Gabri, as he drained the potatoes, found himself wondering what their relationship, through the years, over lifetimes, really had been.
Had they been comrades-in-arms in the trenches? Protecting each other? Brothers and sisters, perhaps, in the same nursery? Wives and husbands and lovers? Eternal best friends?
Or something else entirely. They were a circle, and probably always had been. But now something was clear that had been hidden before.
He had an image of the great Stonehenge rocks, leaning forward, leaning inward. Drawn to each other.
But the very force that drew them together made them fall.
And when the dust settled, they were all down. Crumbled. What was once mighty, a thing to behold, was now destroyed.
“Gone,” muttered Gabri as he poured cream onto the steaming Yukon Golds and slapped in pats of butter, then considered the potatoes.
“Oh, what the hell.”
Going to the fridge, he got out a brick of Gruyère and carved off chunks of cheese, watching them melt into the butter and cream and potatoes.
Then Gabri started to mash. Rocking back and forth, putting his considerable weight into getting every lump out.
“I don’t understand,” he mumbled as he rocked. Back and forth.
* * *
“How could this have happened?” Matheo whispered to Lea as they stood warming themselves by the fire.
This had been a bad idea from the beginning. But at least it hadn’t been his idea. That was some comfort and some protection.
But just now he’d begun to worry. It could be made to look like his idea. Easily.
It wouldn’t be hard to convince Gamache that he’d been the instigator. And from there it was a fairly short jump to murderer.
Matheo began to wonder if that’d been the plan all along. To not just have plausible deniability, but someone plausible to hang it on.
But that would mean this had been a very long time in the planning. Longer than even he realized. And it would need the collaboration of others. Of Lea.
Was that possible?
Matheo put his glass on the mantelpiece.
“What is it?” asked Lea. She could see his anxiety.
“It’d be easy to blame one of us,” he said, lowering his head and dropping his voice.
“For Katie’s murder?”
“For everything. Have you thought of that?”
The fact was, Lea was just coming to the same conclusion. That whoever got to Gamache first had the advantage of framing the story. Framing them.
There was a slight tapping on the windowpanes. Not rain. Not snow. But something in between.
The world outside was changing. And not for the better.
And they were out there. Everywhere, it seemed. Everywhere they turned. The police. Scurrying around. Crawling around. Looking in dark corners. Opening locked doors. Dragging things into the open that should remain hidden.
She and Matheo had been interviewed, while Patrick had slept. They’d been at a loss what to say, so they’d said nothing.
“They’re going to find out eventually.” Lea nodded toward Patrick. “I thought for sure he was going to tell them when they broke the news.”