Page 115
Oddly, there was no record by the Monkees.
Humming “Last Train to Clarksville,” she put the loose papers into an archival box, then called Enid Horton’s daughter and drove to the home two villages over.
Édouard Tardif was formally charged with attempted murder, for which he pleaded not guilty, then was arraigned for trial.
His brother, Alphonse, was charged with being an accessory.
Once again, the two brothers didn’t speak. And while Édouard tried to catch Alphonse’s eye, the younger brother resolutely looked away.
What did come out was that Édouard and Alphonse Tardif’s elderly mother was in a nursing home, having been severely disabled by a stroke. Her mind was clear, but her body was crippled.
The elderly woman, having survived the pandemic, would not survive Abigail Robinson’s “mercy.”
Love, as much as hate, had pulled the trigger. And luck had intervened.
As Édouard was being led away, Lacoste said to him, “There was another attempt on Abigail Robinson’s life last night at the Auberge in Three Pines.”
“The Inn and Spa?” he asked. “What happened?”
“The wrong woman was killed.”
“Killed?”
She saw his surprise. But it went beyond that. Édouard Tardif was terrified.
“Do you know who did it?” he asked.
“No. Do you?”
Tardif shook his head, and was led off.
Jean-Guy Beauvoir found the caretaker, Éric Viau, in the basement of the old gym wiping everything down with disinfectant.
“I’m sorry,” said Beauvoir. “Did we leave a mess?”
“No. Habit.”
“I need your help with something. What can you tell me about Chancellor Roberge?”
“The Chancellor?” Viau stopped what he was doing. “I don’t know her, not well. I’ve seen her at big University events, like convocation.”
“Is she liked?”
“Yes, very. She always has a kind word, always seems cheerful. Never heard anything against her. But you do know she’s not really involved in University life. Not day-to-day stuff.” He paused. “I heard about what happened at the party last night. Terrible.”
“Out of interest’s sake, where were you last night?”
“We always have a fondue on New Year’s Eve. The kids stayed up for midnight, but my wife and I were in bed by ten.”
Thanking Monsieur Viau, Beauvoir walked across the campus to the pretty little fieldstone building where he’d arranged a meeting with the President of the University.
“Chancellor Roberge?” said Otto Pascal, as though he’d never heard of her before. Then, dragging his head out of ancient Mesopotamia, he said, “No, we have no grievances filed against her. Her role is ceremonial. She doesn’t have much contact with professors or students, though she does give two lectures a year, to first-year mathematics students. A sort of introduction to statistics. I’ve been to some. Quite fun, really.”
That seemed unlikely to Beauvoir, and unhelpful. As he left, he paused in the entrance to check the alert that had just come in on his phone.
A new video from the event at the gym had been posted online. Not, he noticed, sent to them, but put up on YouTube. With commercials. So far it had more than five thousand hits.
He almost didn’t watch it since the gunman had been arrested and charged, as had his accomplice. But Beauvoir was in no hurry to plunge back into the cold, gray winter day. He found a chair and clicked play.
