to open his own auberge and do for young people what was done for him.”
That was the other ingredient of the Manoir, thought Lacoste.
It was filled with suspects, it was filled with Morrows, huffing and silent. But more than that, it was filled with relief. It was like a sigh, with structure. Guests relaxed, kids found an unexpected home at a job that could have been agony. The Manoir Bellechasse might be built of wood and wattle, but it was held together by gratitude. A powerful insulator against harsh elements. It was filled with young people revolving through, learning French, learning hospital corners and reduction sauces and canoe repair. Growing up and going back to Prince Edward Island and Alberta and the rest of Canada with a love of Quebec, if not the subjunctive.
“So, all your workers are English?” asked Agent Lacoste. She’d noticed that the ones she’d interviewed were, though some seemed confident enough to conduct the interview in French.
“Almost all,” said Pierre. “Diane over by the sink’s from Newfoundland and Elliot, one of our waiters, is from British Columbia. Most are from Ontario, of course. It’s closest. We even get some Brits and a few Americans. Many of them are sisters and brothers of kids who worked here before.”
Chef Véronique poured iced tea into tall glasses, giving the first to Patenaude, her hand just brushing his, unnecessarily and apparently unnoticed by the maître d’. But not unnoticed by Agent Lacoste.
“We’re getting sons and daughters now,” said Madame Dubois, expertly snipping a sagging snapdragon from the beaker of flowers on the table.
“Parents trust we’ll look after their children,” said the maître d’. Then he stopped, remembering the events of the day. Thinking of Colleen, from New Brunswick, standing in the rain, her large, wet hands covering her plain face. Her scream would follow him, Pierre knew, forever. One of his staff, one of his kids, in terror. He felt responsible, though there was no way he could have known.
She seemed composed now, and gathered into the group of girls to be fussed over and comforted. That moment of horror had finally given the young gardener what she’d longed for. Company. Acceptance. It was too bad it came at such a cost, but then peace often did.
“How long have you been here?” Agent Lacoste asked Pierre.
“Twenty years,” he said.
“That’s a round figure,” Lacoste pointed out. “I need it exact.”
The maître d’ thought. “I came right out of school. It started as a summer job, but I never left.”
He smiled. It was something Lacoste realized she hadn’t seen. He always looked so serious. Granted, she’d only known him for a few hours, after a guest had been brutally murdered in his hotel. Not much opportunity for hilarity. But he smiled now.
It was a charming smile, without artifice. He wasn’t what she’d call an attractive man, not someone you’d pick out at a party or notice across a room. He was slim, medium height, pleasant, refined even. He carried himself well, as though born to be a maître d,’ or a multi-millionaire.
There was an ease about him. He was an adult, she realized. Not a child in adult’s clothing, like so many people she knew. This man was mature. It was relaxing to be around him.
He ran his Manoir in much the same way Chief Inspector Gamache ran homicide. There was order, calm, warmth about the Manoir Bellechasse, radiating from the three adults who ran it, and impressing the young adults who worked there. They learned more than another language from these people, Lacoste knew. Just as she learned more than homicide investigation from Chief Inspector Gamache.
“How long ago did you come here?” she asked again.
“Twenty-four years.” The number surprised him.
“About the same time the chef arrived.”
“Was it?”
“Did you know each other before coming here?” she asked the maître d’.
“Who? Madame Dubois?”
“No, Chef Véronique.”
“Chef Véronique?” He seemed puzzled and suddenly Agent Lacoste understood. She stole a look at the chef, large, powerful, cubing meat with fast, practiced hands.
Her heart constricted as she felt for this woman. How long had she felt this way? Had she lived almost a quarter-century in this log lodge on the edge of Lac Massawippi with a man who didn’t return her feelings? What did that do to a person? And what happened to a love that was spread over time and in such isolation? Did it turn into something else?
Something capable of murder?
“How’re you doing?” Clara put her arms around her husband. He bent down and kissed