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“Exactly. This murder wasn’t premeditated, we know that. So someone there sees the Chancellor and snaps.”
“You’re saying this might have nothing to do with Professor Robinson and her studies.”
“I’m saying it’s possible,” said Jean-Guy. “But there’s another possibility. A fairly obvious one.”
Gamache nodded. He’d thought of that too. It was the most obvious solution. “Colette Roberge killed Debbie Schneider while on their walk. But why?”
Isabelle barely suppressed a smile. A few weeks earlier, she and her family had been visiting the Gamaches. She’d gone into the bookstore in Three Pines and found Myrna and Clara drinking brandy eggnog and listening to A Child’s Christmas in Wales, read by Dylan Thomas himself. He talked about the gifts he’d been given, as a boy.
. . . And books which told me everything about the wasp, except why.
The Chief Inspector had just used exactly the same almost plaintive tone. Why?
“Why would anyone, never mind the Chancellor, want Debbie Schneider dead?” asked Gamache.
“And why now?” added Isabelle.
Why did Debbie Schneider have to die at that moment? Why not the day before, or after?
“Suppose,” said Beauvoir, thinking out loud, “suppose the killer supported what Professor Robinson was preaching. Suppose they saw that she was now more useful dead? A martyr to the cause. Isn’t that what Haniya Daoud suggested last night?”
Gamache nodded. Haniya had said that ideas could grow, flourish, fertilized by the body of a martyr. Yes, that could be it. An idea bloated by blood, made all the more potent.
“And Debbie Schneider was a mistake,” said Isabelle.
Or . . .
“Suppose she wasn’t a mistake?” Gamache said, leaning forward. “Suppose all this was set up by Professor Robinson? She got the idea after the attempt the day before. Suppose there was another attempt? A murder so obviously meant to be her, but tragically killing her best friend and assistant instead? Robinson would get international publicity for her campaign, without the inconvenience of having to die.”
“But does she really care that much? Would she kill her best friend?” asked Jean-Guy. “If she wanted publicity, wouldn’t she be more likely to kill the Chancellor? Remember what Myrna said last night? Abigail Robinson wants to be liked. So the last person she’d kill is the only person who genuinely likes, even loves, her.”
“True,” said Gamache, sitting back again.
“There’s something I found strange in your report, patron,” said Isabelle.
“Oh, no. What did I write? It was late. Probably a typo.”
She smiled. “Could be. You mention in passing that Debbie Schneider called the professor Abby Maria.”
“Yes.”
“It probably doesn’t mean anything, but her middle name’s Elizabeth, not Maria.”
“It was just a nickname,” said Jean-Guy. “Maybe an inside joke.”
“Like ‘numbnuts’?” said Isabelle, and saw Jean-Guy’s eyes narrow. “Your nuts aren’t actually numb.”
“They were last night.”
“Let’s divide up tasks,” said Gamache, before this went too far.
Beauvoir would follow up with Debbie Schneider’s parents and the university. Lacoste would go to the arraignment of the Tardifs and see what more she could find on that front.
Armand would speak to Abigail Robinson and Colette Roberge again.
Reine-Marie looked down at the pile of monkeys.
Most were cartoonlike figures drawn on documents, but some were stuffed dolls. There were two porcelain figurines and one children’s book, Curious George.
