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“Poor man,” said Olivier, putting linen napkins on the table. Beauvoir watched all this and wondered if they’d pull a candelabra out of the hamper next. “Can’t win.”

While food was being organized, Gamache picked up a landline and went into the storage room. No need for the others to hear this call.

“Alouette Organization,” came the cheery voice.

“The general manager, please.”

“I’m afraid he’s in a meeting. Can I take a message?”

“If you could ask him to step out for a moment, this won’t take long.”

Gamache explained who he was, and a minute or so later the phone was picked up.

They talked for less than a minute. When Gamache hung up, he thought for a moment, then returned to the table.

Olivier and Gabri had left, and now, as they ate, the Sûreté officers compared notes.

“So this Gerald Bertrand denies knowing Vivienne Godin,” said Beauvoir.

“Oui.” Lacoste picked up an egg salad sandwich on a fresh baguette, spiked with just a little curry, poached raisins, and arugula. “He says it was a wrong number. Says she was slurring her words and upset. Probably drunk.”

Beauvoir casually reached out and took the peanut butter, honey, and banana sandwich on crusty white bread after noticing Cloutier also eyeing it.

“Not drunk,” said Gamache. “Beaten. The coroner’s report says she’d had a few ounces, but not intoxication level.” He passed around hard copies of the preliminary report. “The slurring was probably from being hit.”

He put down his sandwich.

“Nothing more from Dr. Harris?” asked Lacoste after quickly scanning the coroner’s report.

Beauvoir checked the emails again and shook his head. “Nothing. What else did you find?”

“Gerald Bertrand’s alibi checks out,” said Agent Cloutier. “His friends confirm they were over at his place watching the hockey game on Saturday night. They arrived just before seven. None of them knew anything about Bertrand having an affair with Vivienne Godin. In fact, none had even heard of her.”

“The other thing is the baby,” said Lacoste. “He was looking after his niece until six on Saturday night. Not much time to meet Vivienne on the bridge and get home before his friends arrived.”

“You don’t think it was him, do you?” said Beauvoir, sitting back in his chair and taking a large bite of the sandwich.

“No,” admitted Lacoste. “I think logistically it would’ve been tough, but I also believe he’s telling the truth. I saw him with his niece. He likes kids. I think if his lover had told him she was pregnant, he might not have been thrilled, but he wouldn’t have killed her and the baby.”

Gamache looked at Beauvoir to continue the questioning but saw he was struggling to chew the sandwich, his mouth apparently glued almost shut.

“So the other possibility is that he was telling the truth,” said Gamache, picking up the mantle. “He didn’t know her. Which means Vivienne was calling the wrong number. But over and over?”

“Looks like it.”

“I wonder who she was trying to call?” he said. “They were made in a cluster, right? At six fifteen.”

“Starting then. There were four calls over ten minutes. All to Bertrand’s number.”

“Strange to have called the same wrong number over and over,” said Gamache. “Once, maybe, if you hit the wrong button. We’ve all done it. But to make the same mistake over and over? Even if disoriented you’d think she’d hit different numbers.”

“What do you think it means?” asked Lacoste.

Once again Gamache looked at Beauvoir, who was now regretting not the sandwich itself but taking such a huge bite. Jean-Guy chewed more vigorously and gestured to Gamache to continue.

“I think,” he said, “that Vivienne was given a number to call but had written it down wrong. So while she was dialing correctly, she didn’t realize she was calling the wrong number. Was there a piece of paper found on her body, with a number?”

“No,” said Lacoste. “In her wallet we found paper, but it was wet through. Disintegrated.”