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.”
The voice came from behind Michaud and now the elderly man stepped back and his wife stepped forward.
“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.”
“1959, Albert,” said Madame.
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.
Had she planned it, or was it a surprise to both her and Constance? Had she gone over there, only to discover Constance’s intention to return to the village, to tell Myrna everything, not out of spite, not to hurt her sister, but to finally free herself.
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.
“The Ouellet Quints?” she repeated. “The Ouellet Quints?” This time with the emphasis on “the.”
Gamache nodded.
“But that’s not possible,” said Albert.
“Why not?” asked Gamache.
Michaud sputtered, his brain tripping over his words. He turned to his wife. “Did you know this?”
“Of course not. I’d have told you.”
Gamache sat back and watched them try to absorb this information. They seemed genuinely shocked, but were they shocked at the news, or the news that he knew?
“You never suspected?” he asked.
They shook their heads, still apparently unable to speak. For this generation it really would have been akin to hearing their neighbors were Martians. Something both familiar and alien.
“I saw them once,” said Monsieur Michaud. “My mother took us to their home. They came out every hour on the hour and walked around the fence, waving to the crowds. It was thrilling. Show him what you’ve got, Annette.”
Madame Michaud got to her feet, and both men rose as well. She returned a minute later.
“Here. My parents bought this for me in a souvenir shop.”
She held out a paperweight, with a photo of the pretty little cottage and the five sisters in front.
“My parents took me to see them too, right after the war. I think my father had seen some terrible things and he wanted to see something hopeful.”
Gamache looked at the paperweight, then handed it back.
“They really did live next door?” asked Monsieur Michaud, finally grasping