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“Bumbling around?”
“Following every lead.”
“At least he found a body. We only got a ghost.” She held up the tiny seed in the evidence bag. Like so much of their work, the seed looked so small, so innocent. Until you took a closer look and saw the claws and horns.
“Now we just need to find that shithead Comeau,” said Jean-Guy.
The two men faced each other across the graves.
“What’re you doing here?” Gamache’s tone was civil, as though this was not a surprise. Which it was.
“I came looking for Jeanette.”
Armand nodded. Yes. Of course.
The latest report said they’d found Comeau’s fingerprints all over Bouchard’s overturned office. Though he’d denied it, Gaston Comeau was obviously the one who’d searched it. More than a search, there was an urgency about it. It was frantic.
“How did you know she’d be here?”
“Is she?”
Armand saw that familiar look in Comeau’s face. As realization dawned. How often he’d seen the same thing in the faces of parents, spouses. Loved ones. As courtesy to a stranger drained away when they recognized him. As courtesy became fear. Became disbelief. Then anger. Then despair. And from then on, forever more, those on the threshold would live in the presence of the absence.
“How did you know she’d be here?” Armand repeated, more softly this time. For all his wariness, he couldn’t help but feel Comeau’s pain. And know it was real.
“When I found the body and thought it was her, I was beside myself. That’s why I was so incoherent when I called you. Then when you told me it was Fillmore, I was confused. Relieved but confused. It’s not like Jeanette to just disappear. Not with her mother…” He regrouped. “The only lead I had was the name Daisy Wolcott. And the other notes Jeanette had scribbled. When you started asking about a plant called Miss Wolcott’s Ghost, it began to make sense. When you left, I figured you might’ve come here looking for clues to Miss Wolcott. I thought Jeanette probably had too. So…” He lifted his arms. Then looked around. “She’s not here?”
In the distance, they could just make out a sound. The unmistakable siren of a police car approaching. Still a ways off.
Comeau caught Gamache’s eyes. “Tell me.”
Help me, patron.
“When was the last time you heard from her?”
“Is she here?” He was looking wildly around. Then back to Gamache. “You have to tell me.”
“I will.” Armand’s voice remained calm. “But first, tell me when you last heard from her.”
“I don’t know, I don’t know.”
“Think.”
“Okay.” Comeau paused. “June, early June. Please.” He was pleading now. “I need to know.”
“What did she say?”
“She just asked me to look in on her mother.”
“That’s all?”
Comeau nodded.
The sun was below the horizon, and the dome of sky and wispy clouds above them were splendid in pinks and reds and shifting shades of blue.
“What’s your relationship with Jeanette?”
“Can it matter?” He was desperate, but still Gamache remained quiet. Finally Comeau answered the question.
