talking about,” said Myrna, seeing the light in his eyes.
Gamache nodded.
But in his search he’d stumbled over some other memory, much more recent. And more worrisome. He got to his feet and walked over to the desk just as Lacoste hung up.
“Nothing, Chief,” she said and he nodded, taking the receiver from her.
Myrna rose. “What is it?”
“Just a thought,” he said, and dialed.
“Marc Brault.” The voice was clipped, official.
“Marc, it’s Armand Gamache.”
“Armand.” The voice became friendly. “How’re you doing?”
“Fine, thank you. Listen, Marc, I’m sorry to bother you—”
“No bother at all. What can I help you with?”
“I’m in the Eastern Townships. As we crossed the Champlain Bridge this morning at about quarter to eleven”—Gamache turned his back on Myrna and lowered his voice—“we noticed your people bringing a body up from the south shore.”
“And you want to know who it was?”
“I don’t want to pry into your jurisdiction, but yes.”
“Let me just look.”
Gamache could hear the clicking of keys as the head of homicide for the Montréal police accessed his records.
“Right. Not much on her yet.”
“A woman?”
“Yes. Been there for a couple days, apparently. Autopsy scheduled for this afternoon.”
“Do you suspect murder?”
“Not likely. Her car was found up above. Looks like she tried to jump from the bridge into the water and missed. Hit the shore and rolled under the bridge. Some workers found her there this morning.”
“Do you have a name?”
Gamache prepared himself. Constance Ouellet.
“Audrey Villeneuve.”
“Pardon?” asked Gamache.
“Audrey Villeneuve, it says here. Late thirties. Husband reported her missing two days ago. Didn’t show up for work. Hmmm…”
“What?” asked Gamache.
“It’s interesting.”
“What is?”
“She worked for the Ministry of Transport, in their roads division.”
“Was she an inspector? Could she have fallen by accident?”
“Let me see…” There was a pause while Chief Inspector Brault read the file. “No. She was a senior clerk. Almost certainly suicide, but the autopsy will tell us more. Want me to send it to you, Armand?”
“No need, but thank you. Joyeux Noël, Marc.”
Gamache hung up, then turned to face Myrna Landers.
“What is it?” she asked, and he could see her bracing for what he had to say.
“A body was brought up from the side of the Champlain Bridge this morning. I was afraid it might be your friend, but it wasn’t.”
Myrna closed her eyes. Then opened them again.
“So where is she?”
FIVE
Isabelle Lacoste and Chief Inspector Gamache sat in rush hour traffic, on the approach to the Champlain Bridge back into Montréal. It was barely four thirty, but the sun was down and it felt like midnight. The snow had stopped and Gamache looked past Isabelle Lacoste, out the window, and across the six lanes of traffic. To the spot where Audrey Villeneuve had chosen death over life.
By now her family had been told. Armand Gamache had done enough of that, and it never got easier. It was worse than looking into the faces of the dead. To look into the faces of those left behind, and to see that moment when their world changed forever.
It was a sort of murder he performed. The mother, the father, the wife or husband. They opened the door to his knock, believing the world a flawed but fundamentally decent place. Until he spoke. It was like throwing them off a cliff. Seeing them plummet. Then hitting. Dashed. The person they’d been, the life they’d known, gone forever.
And the look in their eyes, as though he’d done it.
Before they’d left, Myrna had given him Constance’s home address.
“When she was here, how’d she seem?” Gamache had asked.
“As she always did. I hadn’t seen her for a while, but she seemed her usual self.”
“Not worried about anything?”
Myrna shook her head.
“Money? Health?”
Myrna shook her head again. “She was a very private person, as you might expect. She didn’t tell me a lot about her life, but she seemed relaxed. Happy to be here and happy to be coming back for the holidays.”
“You noticed nothing odd at all? Did she have an argument with anyone here? Hurt feelings?”
“You suspect Ruth?” asked Myrna, a shadow of a smile on her face.
“I always suspect Ruth.”
“As a matter of fact, Constance and Ruth hit it off. They had a certain chemistry.”
“Do you mean chemistry or medication?” asked Lacoste, and Myrna had smiled.
“Are they alike?” Gamache asked.
“Ruth and Constance? Completely different, but for some reason they seemed to like each other.”
Gamache took that in, with some surprise. The old poet, as a matter of principle, disliked everyone. She’d have hated everyone if she could have worked up the energy hate required.
“Who