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Armed with the psychologist’s assessment and his belief in second chances, Armand decided to bring Comeau with them.

But the rookie agent wouldn’t be in the dining area, he’d be with Gamache in the manager’s office. Partly because the gang leaders could recognize him.

Partly so that the Chief could keep an eye on him.

It was the wrong decision.

CHAPTER 37

“Where can I put this, patron?”

The voice startled Henri, whose gigantic ears swung toward the garden gate. Fred barely raised his head to look, and Gracie was preoccupied with a butterfly.

Armand, jolted out of his reverie, turned to see Olivier holding a tray with luminous pink lemonades.

“Isabelle asked me to bring these. She’ll be over in a minute. Are you all right?”

“Just fine, merci. I think we’ll sit down there.” He opened the gate and waved toward the grouping of bright red Adirondack chairs at the bottom of the garden, beyond the apple trees. Where the Gamache property met the forest. “I can take it from here.”

“No need.” Olivier was already on his way down.

“Ahhh, good,” said Isabelle, greeting the Chief and watching Olivier.

“Where’s Jean-Guy?” Armand looked behind her. He’d expected Beauvoir a few minutes ago.

At that moment, Jean-Guy came out of the house. He’d called Annie, and after chatting, he asked to speak to the kids. It was ridiculous, he knew, but he just had to reassure himself that they were fine. Happy. Safe.

He wanted to reassure them that he loved them more than life. More than his life. To reassure himself that he’d die to protect them, even as he felt the cold, wet pajamas clinging to his legs.

That he would never, ever …

Papa! Help, Papa!

“I love you” was all he said. All they needed to hear.

Just as Olivier left, Gabri arrived with another tray. This one had a platter of sliced baguette and Québec cheeses, surrounded by slices of pear, with a little pot of honey from Le Rucher.

None of them had had a thing to eat all day, though none had been particularly hungry. Until now. In their own company, and in the comforting surroundings, their appetites had come roaring back.

After settling into a chair and thanking Gabri, Isabelle dipped a slice of ripe pear into the honey, watched very, very closely by Henri. The shepherd was torn between Isabelle and Jean-Guy, who was smearing a great hunk of Le Rassembleu onto a slice of baguette.

The message came in just as Armand was reaching for the Religieuse. Why the cheese was named “The Nun” was anybody’s guess, though Henri, who was busy praying for a miracle, knew.

“The body is Brian Fillmore,” Armand confirmed.

Sliding back in the warm chair, he replaced the phone on the arm and took a long sip of lemonade.

He’d have to contact Charles Fillmore soon with the news. But first they needed to compare findings. They now had at least one fact established. The identity of the body sat like a rock amid so much conjecture. Too much.

Drop the cheese, drop the cheese. There was no mistaking the intense focus of Henri. Fred had lost interest and hope. And little Gracie was still staring at the butterfly.

“I went over to Clara’s as soon as I received your message about Peter Morrow,” Isabelle reported. “We’re going through any papers of his still there. We’re also scouring the attic and crawl space.”

“Good. Clara must’ve gone through Peter’s papers after he died,” said Armand. “Nothing struck her as odd?”

“I asked, and no, nothing. But she might not have noticed. If there’s anything there, we’ll find it.”

“If Fillmore or Bouchard didn’t already,” said Jean-Guy. “That might be how Brian found Lost Nation.”