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“You travel thousands of miles just to thank her, then when you’re feet away you stop?”
“Yes.”
He lifted his phone. “This was Ruth’s reply one month ago to Debbie Schneider’s request to use that line from her poem.”
No fucking way. Sincerely, Ruth Zardo.
Abigail looked at him. “She didn’t agree?”
“Seems pretty clear she did not. Was Madame Schneider in the habit of not sharing important information with you?”
“No, not at all. At least I didn’t think so. But Debbie might not have wanted to upset or disappoint me. She might’ve thought that, once here, she could convince Madame Zardo to let us use her quote.”
“And yet she didn’t approach Ruth either. Just so I’m clear about this. Madame Schneider lied to you.”
Beside him, Chancellor Roberge shifted and seemed about to say something when Gamache’s sharp look stopped her.
“No. Well, yes, but you have to know Debbie,” said Abigail, flustered now. “She’d never do it to hurt, she’d do it thinking she was helping. Protecting me even.”
“If Madame Schneider misled you about the quote, are there other things she could have lied about?”
“Like what?”
“Well, like the meetings with the Premier. Like the income from sales of merchandise. It seems Madame Schneider was very involved in the day-to-day details of your campaign.”
“Not just the campaign. My life. Maybe, I guess. I’ll have to check.”
She looked around. For Debbie Schneider. To help her check on Debbie Schneider.
“I’d like access to all your papers,” said Gamache. “Documents, finances, everything. To see what she might have been up to.”
“Is that necessary?”
He looked at her with some sympathy now. “A murder investigation is, by nature, invasive, and I’m genuinely sorry about that. By the time this’s over we’ll know far more about you, about everyone involved, than we should. But I can promise you, if the information isn’t pertinent, it will be forgotten.”
“Really? You have that ability, Chief Inspector? To just forget? Lucky you.”
They held each other’s eyes. No one with gray in their hair got there without things they’d prefer to forget. But could not.
Armand finally broke the silence. “Madame Zardo asks that you stop using her poetry, and certainly stop selling the buttons.”
“Of course, I’ll get . . .” Abigail’s voice petered out. Get who? “I’ll make sure it’s done.”
“And she wants any proceeds already collected to go to LaPorte.”
“Where?”
He looked at the Chancellor, who had no reaction. Gamache chose to say nothing either, except “Perhaps the Chancellor here can help with that.” Then he turned back to Abigail. “Who’s Maria?”
“I’m sorry?”
“Debbie called you Abby Maria. But your middle name’s Elizabeth, not Maria. So where does that come from?”
“It’s a nickname. From childhood. My God, you’re never going to find out who did this to Debbie if these are the questions you’re asking.”
Her eyes shifted, quickly, briefly, to Colette. She must’ve given her some subtle signal because Abigail exhaled in an exasperated sigh.
“You’ll find out soon enough. I had a sister. Maria. Younger than me. She was born severely disabled. She died when she was nine.”
