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Jean-Guy reached for the door handle, but Gamache stopped him.
“I have news too.”
He told Beauvoir about Sylvie Mongeau.
“I called the funeral home,” he said. “They’re sending her body to the coroner. I’ve alerted Dr. Harris to just take blood and tissue samples for now and get them analyzed quickly.”
“You think Madame Mongeau was murdered? By Fleming? But why would he?”
“I don’t know. Maybe she wasn’t. Or maybe she knew something, saw something. I think she met the Mountweazel woman. She specifically asked that they be assigned to Three Pines because some woman had told her it was a peaceful place. I think that woman was Mountweazel. Maybe Fleming was worried that Sylvie would recognize her.”
“So you think she’s here too?”
“I don’t know. Maybe she hasn’t arrived yet. Maybe that’s why Sylvie needed to be killed now, before she does.”
Maybe, maybe, maybe. But there was one more, and a big one.
“Sylvie asked Myrna to bring a book, even though they were only partway through the one they were reading. I think the book was an excuse to talk to Myrna. As a therapist, perhaps, but maybe it was as Harriet’s aunt. Maybe she recognized Sam from somewhere and wanted to warn Myrna.”
“Maybe,” said Jean-Guy, but Armand could interpret the look, the tone.
He thinks I’m unwilling to accept Fiona’s the one we need to watch, not Sam. And he might be right. Maybe it was Fiona she recognized. But then, why speak to Myrna and not Reine-Marie or me? No, it must be Sam …
He was desperate to believe that the monster in their midst was not the one he had released. Not Fiona.
Not Fiona.
Not Fiona.
But Sam.
Dear God, maybe it’s both.
“Maybe asking to see Myrna has nothing to do with her death,” said Jean-Guy. “She just liked books and wanted her company.”
Gamache nodded. It was the simplest explanation, and the most likely.
“Maybe.”
“Poor Mongeau,” said Jean-Guy.
“Oui.” Armand would try again to see if the grieving man would come over for dinner and stay the night.
He flipped through the file once more, his eyes coming to rest on the list of Fleming’s victims.
Armand, of course, knew them all by heart. Their names. Their families. Their communities and jobs and friends and faiths.
The Hudson’s Bay clerk. The fisherman. The bridge builder.
“Oh, my God,” Gamache whispered.
He stared at the list. Then, getting out of the car, he walked away. In the opposite direction of the Godin house. Jean-Guy was about to go after him, but knew enough to let the man just think. He watched as Gamache turned and walked back. Then turned again and walked away. His hands clasped behind his back, his head bent as though leaning into a whirlwind.
Then he stopped, turned, and stared at Jean-Guy.
“What is it?” asked Beauvoir.
But Gamache was on the phone. It rang and rang, then went to voice mail.
