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“Not thinking, exactly,” said Beauvoir. “More like feeling.”

He leaned forward. Isabelle assumed it was to take one of the still-warm brownies, but instead he picked up the picture she’d brought, and stared at it. Then at her.

“What do you think?” he asked.

“Honestly? I think it’s taking us off base and away from the crime right in front of us. The murder of Debbie Schneider.”

“You don’t think the two are connected?” Beauvoir asked.

“I don’t see how. They’re decades apart. We don’t even know for sure that Maria was murdered. There’s one word in an autopsy report done by a coroner who’s now dead.”

Gamache was nodding, his lower lip thrust out in thought. “Fair enough. And you’re probably right. But I think it’s worth a few minutes of our time to try to work out how this child died. Don’t you?”

He looked at her. The reproach mild, but clear.

“Oui,” she said. Chastened, but unconvinced.

“If not the father, then my money’s on Abigail,” said Beauvoir. “Especially given that she’s traveling the country arguing that anyone with severe disabilities is an unnecessary burden. She’s trying to justify what she did. Making it legal, even moral, in retrospect.”

“What’re you thinking, patron?” asked Lacoste.

He was looking at the photograph. His eyes narrow in concentration.

“How did that picture get into Debbie’s possession?”

“Maybe Paul Robinson made copies, so each of them could have one,” said Isabelle.

“Maybe,” said Gamache. “Then why hide it away? I’m not so sure it was Abigail who killed Maria. You can see the affection she has for her sister. In fact, this looks like three members of a close-knit family”—he hovered his finger over Abigail, Maria, and their father—“and one outlier. Someone who didn’t quite belong.”

His finger stopped, pointing directly at Debbie Schneider.

“What’re you saying?” asked Isabelle. “That Debbie did it?”

“Why would she?” asked Jean-Guy.

“Jealousy maybe. Look at her hands. She’s not just holding Abigail’s arm, she’s gripping it. As though trying to drag her away. Everyone else is looking at Maria, but Debbie is focused on Abigail.”

“And then there are the birthday cards, also locked in the desk,” said Jean-Guy. “That’s pretty strange. Remember they said they’d drifted apart at one stage? Maybe it was more than a drift. Maybe Abigail also suspected and broke off the friendship. And it was during that time that Debbie wrote the cards, but didn’t send them.”

“But if Abigail did suspect that her friend killed her sister, would she ever reconcile?” asked Isabelle. “And why would Paul Robinson tell the coroner that he’d given Maria the peanut butter sandwich when it wasn’t true? He sure wouldn’t cover up for Debbie.”

“No,” agreed Gamache. “But he might for someone else.”

Isabelle stopped. “Abigail? He thought Abigail had done it? So he took the blame.”

Gamache inhaled deeply, then exhaled. “It’s possible he came home, found Maria dead, and realized one of the two girls must have done it. Maybe he even suspected Debbie, but he couldn’t take the chance.”

“But the coroner must’ve known, or suspected. The police must’ve been called,” said Isabelle.

“And found what?” said Gamache. “A severely disabled child who’d died and a distraught father explaining about a sandwich.”

“But wouldn’t they ask questions?” Beauvoir asked.

“Have you ever heard of the Shipman murders in England?” Gamache asked.

They shook their heads.

“Look it up. I was at a reunion in Cambridge when the arrest was finally made. He was a doctor convicted of killing fifteen of his patients.”