rather have a bruise any day.”
Beauvoir felt his nose throbbing, and knew she was right.
Gamache nodded, trying to imagine the scene. Julia, who’d probably never put a step wrong her whole life, is suddenly humiliated in front of all Montreal Anglo society. It might not be large, it might not be as powerful as it pretended, but it was where the Morrows lived. And suddenly Julia Morrow was branded a slut. Humiliated.
But the worst was to come. Instead of defending her, Charles Morrow, upright and upstanding and as immovable then as now, had attacked her as well, or at least failed to defend her. She’d loved him, and he’d stepped aside and let the hyenas have at her.
Julia Morrow had left. Gone as far from her family as she could. To British Columbia. Married David Martin, a man her father disapproved of. Divorced. Then come home. And been murdered.
“I spoke to Peter last night,” said Gamache and told them about his conversation.
“So he thinks Bert Finney killed Julia,” said Lacoste, “for the insurance?”
“OK, suppose he did it,” said Beauvoir, after swallowing a piece of savory sausage, dripping maple syrup. “Again, he’s like, a hundred and fifty. He’s older than he weighs. How could he shove that huge statue off the pedestal? You might as well say that kid did it.”
Gamache took a forkful of scrambled eggs with Brie and stared out of the window. Beauvoir was right. But then, it wasn’t any more likely that Peter or Thomas had done it. They were looking at an impossible murder. No one could have budged Charles Morrow, never mind shove him a foot or more until he’d tumbled. And if they did, it would have taken time and made noise. Julia wouldn’t have just stood there and let it happen. But Charles Morrow, like the rest of his family, had been silent.
Besides, the statue scraping along the marble would have made not just noise but scratches and blemishes, but the surface was pristine.
Impossible. The whole thing was impossible. And yet it’d been done.
But another thought dawned and Gamache looked over to the family. Bean couldn’t have done it. Finney couldn’t have done it. Nor could Madame Finney or Marianna or even the men. Not alone.
But together?
“Peter’s mistaken about Julia’s life insurance,” said Beauvoir. He’d waited all breakfast to tell them his news. He soaked up the maple syrup with the last bit of crêpe. “Madame Finney doesn’t get her daughter’s insurance.”
“Who does?” asked Lacoste.
“Nobody. She wasn’t insured.” Ha, he thought, loving the looks on their faces. He’d had the night to absorb this unexpected news. The wife of the wealthiest insurance executive in Canada, uninsured?
“You need to speak to David Martin,” said Gamache, after a moment’s thought.
“I have a call in to his lawyer in Vancouver. I hope to be speaking to him by noon.”
“Honoré Gamache?”
The name sped across the quiet room and landed on their table. Both Beauvoir and Lacoste jerked their heads up, then over to where the Morrows were sitting. Madame Finney was looking at them, a smile on her soft, attractive face.
“So Honoré Gamache was his father? I knew the name was familiar.”
“Mother, shhhh,” said Peter, leaning across the table.
“What? I’m not saying anything.” Her voice continued to pierce the dining room. “Besides, I’m not the one who should be embarrassed.”
Beauvoir looked over at the chief.
Armand Gamache had a curious smile on his face. He looked almost relieved.
TWENTY-ONE
Clara had left the table. She’d heard enough. She’d tried to feel sympathy for Peter’s mother, had tried to be compassionate and patient. But really, damn her, damn them all, thought Clara as she stomped across the lawn.
She could feel her heart racing and her hands trembling as they always did when she was enraged. And of course her brain didn’t work. It had run away with her heart, the cowards, leaving her defenseless and blithering. Proving to the Morrows once again she was an ill-bred idiot. Because leaving the breakfast table early was rude, but apparently insulting other people wasn’t.
The Morrows seemed to believe there was a special code that allowed them to say what they liked about others, deliberately within their hearing, without its being discourteous.
“Isn’t that the ugliest baby you’ve ever seen?”
“You shouldn’t wear white if you’re fat.”
“She’d be prettier if she didn’t scowl all the time.”
That last had been said about her, on her wedding day, as she’d walked down the aisle smiling and joyful on her father’s arm.
The Morrows could be counted on to choose the