How the Light Gets In (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #9) - Louise Penny Page 0,41
said to Annie.
When everything had failed—the counseling, the intervention, the pleas to return to treatment—Annie had asked Jean-Guy to leave their home.
Armand had sat in the car that damp autumn evening, across the street from their apartment. Wet leaves were falling from the trees, caught in gusts of wind. They scudded across the windshield and the road. He’d waited. Watched. There in case his daughter needed him.
Jean-Guy had left without needing to be forced, but as he left he’d seen Gamache, who wasn’t trying to hide. Beauvoir had stopped, in the middle of the glistening street, dead leaves swirling around him, and had poured all his venom into a look so vile it had shocked even the Chief Inspector of homicide. But it had also comforted him. Gamache knew in that moment that if Jean-Guy was going to hurt any Gamache, it would not be Annie.
It was with relief that he’d driven home that night.
That was several months ago and as far as he knew Annie had had no further contact with Jean-Guy. But that didn’t mean she didn’t miss him. The man Beauvoir once was, and might be again. Given a chance.
As Gamache entered Emilie’s home, Thérèse struggled out of her seat by the fire.
“Someone knows you well,” she said, handing a cut glass to Armand. “They left a fine bottle of Scotch on the sideboard and a couple of bottles of wine and beer in the fridge.”
“And coq au vin in the oven,” said Jérôme, coming in from the kitchen carrying a glass of red wine. “It’s just warming up.”
He raised his glass. “À votre santé.”
“To your good health,” Gamache echoed, raising his own glass to the Brunels.
Then, after Thérèse and Jérôme had resumed their seats, Gamache sat down with a grunt, trying not to spill his Scotch in the descent. A soft pillow sat on the sofa beside him and, on a whim, he fluffed it.
No sound came out, but he softly hummed the first few notes of “The Huron Carol.”
“Armand,” said Thérèse. “How did you find this place?”
“Henri found it,” said Gamache.
“The dog?” Jérôme asked.
Henri raised his head upon hearing his name, then lowered it again.
The Brunels exchanged glances. Henri, while a handsome dog, would never get into Harvard.
“It was his home, you see,” said Gamache. “He’d been adopted from a shelter by Madame Longpré, when he was a puppy. So he knew the house. Madame Longpré died shortly after I met her. That’s how Reine-Marie and I came to have Henri.”
“Who owns the house now?” asked Thérèse.
Gamache explained about Olivier and the sequence of events that morning.
“You’re a sneak, Armand.” She leaned back in her seat.
“No more sneaky than that little charade in your office.”
“Oui,” she admitted. “Sorry about that.”
“What did you do?” Jérôme asked his wife.
“She called me into her office and gave me a dressing-down,” said Gamache. “Told me I was delusional and she wasn’t going to be sucked in anymore. She even threatened to go to Francoeur and tell him everything.”
“Thérèse,” said Jérôme, impressed. “You tormented and tricked this poor feeble man?”
“Had to, in case anyone was listening.”
“Well, you had me convinced,” said Gamache.
“Did I really?” She seemed pleased. “Good.”
“He is easily fooled, I hear,” said Jérôme. “Famous for his credulity.”
“Most homicide detectives are,” agreed Gamache.
“How’d you finally catch on?” Jérôme asked.
“Years of training. A keen knowledge of human nature,” said Gamache. “And she gave me this.”
From his pocket he took a piece of paper, neatly folded, and handed it over.
If Jérôme really has found something, I have to presume our home and my office are bugged. Have told Jérôme to pack for Vancouver, but don’t want to involve our daughter. Suggestions?
“After Olivier called and said we could use this home, I wrote a note on the one Thérèse gave me,” said Gamache, “and asked Inspector Lacoste to show it to her.”
Jérôme turned the note on its side. Scribbled there, in Gamache’s hand, was Go to the airport for your flight, but don’t board. Take a taxi to the Dix-Trente mall in Brossard. I’ll meet you there. I know a safe place.
Dr. Brunel handed the note back to Gamache. He’d noticed the first line of his wife’s message. If Jérôme really has found something …
As the other two talked, he sipped his wine and looked into the fireplace. It was no longer a matter of if.
He hadn’t told Thérèse, but after she’d finally fallen back to sleep, he’d done something foolish. He’d gone to his computer and tried again. He’d dug deeper