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She looked from Beauvoir to Gamache. Neither of whom disagreed.
“Alors,” said Madame Fleury, raising her manicured hands. “All we can do is provide a safe place for those who do break free.”
“Would they know where to go, though?” asked Beauvoir.
The location of shelters was closely guarded. For good reason.
“We don’t advertise the location of shelters, if that’s what you mean.”
It clearly was not what Beauvoir meant. He was coming to deeply dislike this woman, who had a knack for taking what he said and exaggerating it, twisting it, into something ridiculous.
“If they want help, we arrange to meet them,” she continued. “And bring them to a shelter.”
“But still,” said Beauvoir, “must be hard in a small community to keep that secret. Neighbors and all.”
“It is. How did she die?”
“Pushed off a bridge into a river in flood. She either drowned or was battered against the rocks. She was pregnant.”
Simone Fleury raised her head so that she was looking down her long nose at Beauvoir.
He realized he was being brutal. Stating the facts as though they were just words. Matching her own matter-of-fact tone. Beside him, he heard Gamache take a deep breath of disapproval.
He pulled himself back in. “It’s a terrible thing.”
There was a pause, until through those thin lips came one word: “Yes.”
She turned to Gamache. “Her husband, of course, otherwise I wouldn’t be here.”
“He’s a suspect, oui.”
“If you have any trouble convicting him, just send him over to the shelter. We’ll take care of him.”
“Merci,” said Gamache. “We might have trouble.”
Barely under her breath, as she squeezed her tea bag, Madame Fleury muttered, “Cops.”
“If an abuser does show up at a shelter,” said Beauvoir, “what do you do?”
“Invite him in for tea and petits fours. What do you think we do?”
Is it true, is it kind, does it need to be said? Beauvoir held his tongue. Barely.
“You call the cops,” he finally said, through his own thin lips.
“Yeah, right. And wait the twenty minutes until they move their fat asses?”
“That’s not true,” said Gamache.
“Okay, that might be true, but not fast enough. Never fast enough when the guy’s pounding on the door.”
“So what do you do?” Beauvoir persisted.
“We take care of it.”
“How? Do you have a gun?”
“Are you kidding? Do I look crazy?”
