How the Light Gets In (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #9) - Louise Penny Page 0,141

to play hockey,” said Myrna. “That it was Brother André’s favorite sport. They had a team and would get up a game with the neighborhood kids.”

“So?” asked Ruth, and Rosa, in her arms, quacked quietly as though mimicking her mother. “So, so, so,” the duck muttered.

Myrna turned to Olivier, Gabri, and Clara. “She gave you mitts and a scarf that she’d knitted, with symbols of your lives. Paintbrushes for Clara—”

“I don’t want to know what your symbol was,” Nichol said to Gabri and Olivier.

“She was practically leaking clues,” said Myrna. “It must’ve been so frustrating for her.”

“For her?” said Clara. “It’s really not that obvious, you know.”

“Not to you,” said Myrna. “Not to me. Not to anyone here. But to someone unused to talking about herself and her life, it must’ve seemed like she was screaming her secrets at us. You know what it’s like. When we know something, and hint, those hints seem so obvious. She must’ve thought we were a bunch of idiots not to pick up on what she was saying.”

“But what was she saying?” Olivier asked. “That Virginie was still alive?”

“She left her final clue under my tree, thinking that she wouldn’t be back,” said Myrna. “Her card said it was the key to her home. It would unlock all the secrets.”

“Her albatross,” said Ruth.

“She gave you an albatross?” asked Nichol. Nothing about this village or these people surprised her anymore.

Myrna laughed. “In a way. She gave me a tuque. We’d thought maybe she’d knitted it, but it was too old. And there was a tag sewn in it. MA, it said.”

“Ma,” said Gabri. “It belonged to her mother.”

“What did you call your mother?”

“Ma,” said Gabri. “Ma. Mama.”

There was silence, while Myrna nodded. “Mama. Not Ma. They were initials, like all the other hats. Madame Ouellet didn’t make that tuque for herself.”

“Well then, whose was it?” Ruth demanded.

“It belonged to Constance’s killer.”

* * *

Villeneuve rang the doorbell and his neighbor answered.

“Gaétan,” she said, “have you come to get the girls? They’re playing in the basement.”

“Non, merci, Celeste. I’m actually wondering if we could use your computer. The police took mine.”

Celeste glanced from Villeneuve to the large unshaven man with the bruise and cut on his cheek. She looked far from certain.

“Please,” said Villeneuve. “It’s important.”

Celeste relented, but watched Gamache closely as they hurried to the back of the house, and the laptop set up on the small desk in the breakfast room. Gamache wasted no time. He shoved the memory stick into the slot. It flashed open.

He clicked on the first file. Then the next. He made note of various words.

Permeable. Substandard. Collapse.

But one word made him stop. And stare.

Pier.

He clicked rapidly back. And back. And then he stopped and stood up so rapidly Celeste and Gaétan both jumped back.

“May I use your phone, please?”

Not waiting for an answer, he grabbed the receiver and began dialing.

“Isabelle, it’s not the tunnel. It’s the bridge. The Champlain Bridge. I think the explosives must be attached to the piers.”

“I’ve been trying to reach you, sir. They won’t close the tunnel. They don’t believe me. Or you. If they won’t close the tunnel, they sure as hell won’t close the bridge.”

“I’m emailing you the report,” he said, retaking his seat and pounding on the keys. “You’ll have the proof. Close that bridge, Isabelle. I don’t care if you have to lie across the lanes yourself. And get the bomb disposal unit out.”

“Yessir. Patron, there’s one other thing.”

By the tone of her voice, he knew. “Jean-Guy?”

“I can’t find him. He’s not in his office, he’s not at home. I’ve tried his cell phone. It’s shut off.”

“Thank you for trying,” he said. “Just get that bridge closed.”

Gamache thanked Celeste and Gaétan Villeneuve and made for the door.

“It’s the bridge?” Villeneuve asked him.

“Your wife found out about it,” said Gamache, outside now and walking rapidly to his car. “She tried to stop it.”

“And they killed her,” said Villeneuve, following Gamache.

Gamache stopped and faced the man. “Oui. She went to the bridge to get the final proof, to see for herself. She planned to take that proof, and this”—he held up the memory stick—“to the Christmas party, and pass it on to someone she thought she could trust.”

“They killed her,” Villeneuve repeated, trying to grasp the meaning behind the words.

“She didn’t fall from the bridge,” said Gamache. “She was killed underneath it when she went to look at the piers.” He got in his car. “Get your girls. Go to a hotel and take