in quite a few times. Nonfiction. Gardening books. But also biography.”
“That’s me.”
Lucien introduced himself, and then she turned to Benedict.
“Benedict Pouliot,” he said. “Builder.”
“Come in, get warm.”
They followed her into the heart of the home, the kitchen, where a large woodstove was throbbing out heat.
As with her home, there was nothing pretentious about Madame Houle. She seemed to be someone without need to impress, who, because of that, was impressive. Like her strong, simple home.
“I have a pot of tea on. Would you like a cup?”
“Not for me, thank you,” said Myrna. The others also declined.
“We won’t take much of your time,” said Armand. “We just have a couple of questions.”
“Oui?” asked Patricia.
“Did you know the woman who lived next door?” Myrna asked.
“The Baroness? Oh yes, though not well. Why?”
She’d noticed her visitors exchanging glances but could not have known the significance of what she’d just said. Patricia Houle had just confirmed that Ruth was right. Bertha Baumgartner was the Baroness.
“Nothing,” said Myrna. “Go on.”
“Was it that I called her the Baroness?” asked Patricia, looking from one to the other. “It wasn’t our nickname for her. Believe me, we wouldn’t have chosen that one. She called herself that.”
“How long have you known her?” Lucien asked.
“A few years. Is everything all right?” She looked at Armand. “You’re not here officially, are you?”
“Not in the way you think,” he said. “We’re liquidators of her estate.”
“She died?”
“Yes, just before Christmas,” said Lucien.
“I hadn’t heard,” said Patricia. “I know she moved into a nursing home a couple of years ago, but I didn’t know she’d passed away. I’m sorry. I’d have gone to the funeral.”
“You witnessed her will?” asked Armand. When she nodded, he went on. “Did she strike you as competent?”
“Oh yes,” said Patricia. “She was all there. She was a little odd, granted. She did insist on being called Baroness, but we all have our eccentricities.”
“I bet I can guess yours,” said Myrna.
“I bet you can,” said Patricia.
“You like poisonous plants. Probably have a bed dedicated to them.”
“I do,” Patricia admitted with a laugh.
“How did you know that?” Benedict asked.
“The books she bought,” said Myrna. “The Poison Garden was one, as I remember. Another was…” Myrna strained her memory.
“Deadliest Garden Plants,” said Patricia. She looked at Armand and cocked her head. “Bit of a clue, that.”
Armand smiled.
“That’s how I first got to know the Baroness and how I learned about poison gardens. She had one. Walked me through it and pointed out that foxglove is digitalis. Deadly. She also had monkshood, and lily-of-the-valley, and hydrangea. All toxic. Among other perennials, of course. But, strangely enough, the poisonous ones are the most beautiful.”
Myrna nodded. She was also a keen gardener, though it had never occurred to her to dedicate a bed to plants that kill. But enough people did so that there were a number of books written about it. And Patricia Houle was right. The deadly flowers were among the most beautiful. And, perversely, the longest-lived.
“There’re flowers that’ll really kill someone?” asked Benedict.
“Supposedly,” said Patricia, “though I wouldn’t know how to get the poison out. You probably need a chemistry degree.”
“And a desire,” said Gamache.
His voice was pleasant, but his eyes took in Patricia Houle, and he amended his earlier impression. She gave off an aura not just of confidence but of competence.
He’d noticed her car parked outside, completely cleaned off. The snow around it shoveled with crisp, straight lines.
When she did a job, she did it well and she did it thoroughly.
He suspected if she needed to, she could figure out how to squeeze poison from a daffodil.
Thanking her for her help and hospitality, they left Madame Houle and headed next door.
Bertha Baumgartner’s home seemed to be tilting even further under the weight of the new snow. It would be folly to go anywhere near it, and Gamache made a note to call the local town hall and get warning tape put up. And, as soon as possible, a bulldozer should be brought in.
They dug out Myrna’s and Lucien’s cars, but when they’d cleared off Benedict’s pickup truck, Armand stopped the young man from getting in.
“You can’t drive without winter tires.”
“But I have to. I’ll be fine.”
Those were, Gamache knew, the last words of too many young people.
“Yes, you will be fine,” he said. “Because you’re not going anywhere in that.”
“And if I do drive?” asked Benedict. “What’re you going to do? Call the cops?”
“He wouldn’t need to call,” said Lucien, and saw that Benedict still didn’t get it. “You really