“The odd thing is, most suicides don’t happen in the fall or even in the winter,” said Myrna. “They happen in April, just as the weather is getting better.”

“Really?” Gabri turned to her, surprised. Gamache was not surprised. He knew that what she said was true.

“People rarely take their lives when things are at their worst,” said Myrna. “The sad fact is that they kill themselves when things are beginning to look better.”

“But that doesn’t make sense,” said Gabri, who could not imagine killing anyone as wonderful as himself.

“When people are really depressed, they don’t have the energy to kill themselves,” said Myrna, who had once been a therapist in Montreal. “But as soon as they start feeling a little better, their energy comes back. They’re still depressed, but now they can act.”

“How sad he must have been,” said Gabri.

“It’s not sadness that drives most people to take their lives,” said Myrna. “It’s emptiness. Loneliness.”

Chief Inspector Gamache leaned forward. “But Mr. Ellis didn’t kill himself. He was murdered.”

Two very surprised people looked back at him.

“Someone hanged him from a tree?” Myrna asked.

“I’m afraid so. They tried to make his death look like suicide. Even wrote a note. But it was murder.”

“How horrible,” said Gabri.

“His name was Ellis?” Myrna asked.

“Mean anything to you?” Gamache asked. “Is there an Ellis family nearby?”

Both Myrna and Gabri shook their heads. Myrna got up.

“If there’s anything I can do to help, let me know.” She walked away.

“Arthur Ellis,” said Gabri, almost to himself. “He sounds so normal. Seemed so normal.”

Gamache had to agree. But he also knew normal people were killed all the time. It was the murderer who wasn’t normal.

Unseen by either man, Myrna paused in the doorway of her bookstore.

She stared back at the two men, puzzled.

Chapter Seven

“Chief? It’s Beauvoir.”

Gamache stood at the bar of the bistro, holding the phone to his ear. Cell phones did not work in Three Pines. So Inspector Beauvoir had had to call the bistro to speak to his boss.

“Find anything?” Gamache asked.

“Not much,” said Beauvoir. “We searched Ellis’s room and took fingerprints. His car is in the lot. Ontario plates. The Ontario police are finding out who owns the car. Should know more soon. But I did find something interesting. That note you found in Ellis’s room?”

“Yes?”

“It was written by Ellis himself. Not the murderer. In fact, I’m not so sure there is a murderer.”

“How do you know Mr. Ellis wrote it?” asked Gamache, surprised.

“The writing matches his writing in the registration book at the Inn.”

Gamache took a long, deep breath and exhaled. This was unexpected. Was it possible that Arthur Ellis had killed himself after all?