Chapters (43)
- A Fatal Grace
- ALSO BY LOUISE PENNY
- A Fatal Grace
- CONTENTS
- ONE
- TWO
- THREE
- FOUR
- FIVE
- SIX
- SEVEN
- EIGHT
- NINE
- TEN
- ELEVEN
- TWELVE
- THIRTEEN
- FOURTEEN
- FIFTEEN
- SIXTEEN
- SEVENTEEN
- EIGHTEEN
- NINETEEN
- TWENTY
- TWENTY-ONE
- TWENTY-TWO
- TWENTY-THREE
- TWENTY-FOUR
- TWENTY-FIVE
- TWENTY-SIX
- TWENTY-SEVEN
- TWENTY-EIGHT
- TWENTY-NINE
- THIRTY
- THIRTY-ONE
- THIRTY-TWO
- THIRTY-THREE
- THIRTY-FOUR
- THIRTY-FIVE
- THIRTY-SIX
- THIRTY-SEVEN
- THIRTY-EIGHT
- ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Armand Gamache at least had the sense to laugh at himself. Madame Longpré lived in Three Pines and might even have been one of the anonymous figures he’d watched walking across the village green. He’d been so angry at Agent Nichol he’d stormed out like the petulant child he believed her to be, gotten in his car and zoomed away. So there. And here he was, kilometers away from the witness who had in fact been just meters away in the first place. He smiled and the matron was left to wonder what the large man found so funny.
Instead of going straight back to Three Pines, Gamache parked the car at the Legion and walked in. It wasn’t locked. Most places weren’t. He wandered around the hall, his boots echoing slightly in the large, empty room. One wall was opened up to form a cafeteria-style pass-through from the kitchen. He imagined the bustle of the Boxing Day breakfast, the shouted greetings, the calls for more tea or coffee. Beatrice Mayer offering her noxious brew.
Now, why was she called Mother? Clara had seemed to think he could figure it out without even meeting her. Beatrice Mayer? Mother Bea? He shook his head, but knew he’d get it, eventually. It was the sort of little puzzle he enjoyed.
He went back to his imagination, joining these people for Boxing Day breakfast. The place warm and cheery and festooned with the tackiest Christmas decorations imaginable. He didn’t have to spend energy imagining them. They were still up. The plastic and crepe paper stars and snowflakes. The fake tree, missing at least half its plastic and wire branches. The paper bells and crayoned green and blue snowmen made by the excited and exhausted, and not overly gifted, daycare children. The upright piano in the corner almost certainly had pounded out carols. The room must have been full of the aroma of pancakes and maple syrup, drawn from trees surrounding the town. Eggs and cured Canadian back bacon.
And CC and her family? Where had they sat? Had anyone joined her for her final meal? Had any of them known it was her final meal?
One of them had. Someone had sat in this very room, eating and drinking and laughing and singing Christmas carols on Boxing Day, and planned a murder.