movie too. More times than he could count, with his children. And now his grandchildren. And he’d sung that haunting song to them as they fell asleep.
Edelweiss. Their heavy lids would close. Edelweiss.
“Can we continue?” asked Lucien. He handed around copies of Bertha Baumgartner’s will to her children, while the liquidators brought out their own copies.
“Please turn to page fifteen,” said Lucien. “I’ll go over the highlights. She leaves each of her three children five million dollars, as well as buildings in Geneva and Vienna.”
“And the title goes to the eldest son,” said Lucien, speaking earnestly, as though the title actually existed. He looked at Anthony. “To you.”
“Merci,” he said.
It could have come out as sarcastic, but instead he just sounded sad. And he wasn’t alone. Armand looked at the others. Their sorrow was palpable.
The Baroness might’ve been delusional. Might’ve even been bitter. But she loved these three, and they loved her.
Lucien read the rest of the document, and when he’d finished, he looked at them.
“Any questions?”
Benedict raised his hand.
“From the family,” said Lucien.
“How does this work?” Caroline asked. “Given that none of this exists?”
“And what about what does exist?” asked Anthony. “She had some small investments, a little in the bank. The home? We didn’t sell it while she was alive. Out of respect. She always hoped maybe she’d return.”
“I’m glad you mentioned the farmhouse,” said Gamache. “We were there yesterday. It’s in pretty bad shape and should probably be torn down.”
“No,” said Hugo. “I’m sure it can be saved.”
Armand shook his head. “It’s too dangerous. Especially with the weight of this snow. I’m afraid I’m going to have to make a call to have it inspected and possibly condemned.”
“That’s fine with me,” said Caroline. “We can just sell the land. Maman hadn’t lived there for a couple of years. I have no sentimental attachment.”
“You grew up there?” asked Myrna.
It was rare that kids, no matter how old they were, held absolutely no attachment to their childhood home. Unless it had been an unhappy place.
“Your father—” she began.
“What about him?” asked Anthony.
“Your mother was widowed, it says in the will.”
“Yes, he died thirty years ago.”
“Thirty-six,” said Hugo.
“Accident on the farm,” said Caroline. “He was run over by the combine while haying.”
Myrna winced, and while Armand’s professional face held, his mind conjured the image.
“Tony found him,” said Hugo. “Went out looking when he didn’t come in for lunch. He died right away. Probably didn’t feel a thing.”
“Probably not,” said Armand, and hoped his tone didn’t betray what he really thought.
“That’s when the Baroness went out to work,” said Caroline. “Had to support us.”
“I got a job bagging groceries at the IGA,” said Anthony. “And, Caroline, you went out babysitting.”
“Remember when that couple hired you to look after their goats?” asked Hugo with a laugh.
“Oh Jesus, yeah,” said Anthony, also laughing, as was Caroline. “You’d put up a notice in the church hall saying you loved kids and would like to look after them.”
“Hey, those kids were way better behaved than the human ones,” said Caroline. Relaxing back in her seat, her smile wide, her eyes gleaming.
“Except when they kicked,” said Hugo. “I remember going with you a few times to help.”
He rubbed his shins.
“They just didn’t like you.”
Armand listened as the brothers and their sister went over clearly familiar ground. Part of the family liturgy. The same stories, told over and over. They looked, for a moment, like the children in the photo.
For his part, Armand kept his eyes on Anthony Baumgartner.
He must have been all of sixteen when he found his father in the field.
That was a sight that could never be unseen. A memory that would take up more than its fair share of Anthony’s longhouse. Squeezing other, happy childhood memories into corners.
Armand’s own parents had died, in a car accident, when he was a child. And to this day he could remember every moment of when the police arrived at the door.
That day, that moment, had affected every moment of the rest of his life.
And he hadn’t found his parents. Had not seen their bodies. He remembered the scent of the peanut-butter cookies that had been baking, and to this day it made him nauseous.
This man remembered the mangled, bloody body of his father.
“I think we should try to save the place,” Hugo was saying.
“Why don’t you stay behind after everyone leaves,” said Anthony. “We can discuss it then.”
“As for the rest of her assets,” said Lucien, “we’ll do an inventory, and you can sign off.”
“Do you