Page 90

“And the older woman I was talking to about the rainbow drawings? Your wife? That would make the child your granddaughter.”

“Yes.”

“I see,” said Abigail, nodding. “I understand.”

“Understand?”

“Your objections to my findings.”

“Abby . . .” Colette warned.

But Gamache wouldn’t be drawn. If anything, he was curious. It crossed his mind that Abigail Robinson had instinctively, or perhaps intentionally, moved the conversation away from the murder of her friend and into a territory she understood. Had, in fact, mastered. The endless debate about her work.

Beside him, he could feel Jean-Guy stiffen.

Up until that moment Jean-Guy had managed to separate Abigail Robinson, the grieving friend of a murder victim, from Professor Robinson.

But now the two collided.

“Idola isn’t an objection,” Armand said before Jean-Guy could respond. His tone was calm, reasonable. Firm. “She’s my granddaughter and has no place in this conversation. Let’s move on.”

“Are you so sure?” asked Colette Roberge.

“What do you mean?” demanded Beauvoir. There was a warning there no one in that room could miss.

“Do you think the attack on Debbie was random?” the Chancellor asked Beauvoir.

“Of course it was,” Abigail interrupted. “What else could it be?”

She glared at Colette. Hating her in that instant for putting what they were all thinking, the unthinkable, into words.

“You know,” said Colette, quietly, then turned to Gamache. “So do you. Why would anyone kill Debbie? It makes no sense. But something else does.”

“No,” snapped Abigail. “It was a random attack, maybe even an accident. A drunk kid, fooling around. There were lots of them. And somehow Debbie got in the way. Or she slipped and fell. Or . . . or . . .”

“Or you were the intended victim,” said Beauvoir. Getting his swipe in. He was honest enough with himself to admit it felt good.

“No.” Abigail shook her head decisively. “Not possible.”

“Why not?” he asked, feeling his emotions, so well controlled up until Idola had been mentioned, spinning out of control.

“It was dark,” he continued. “She was in a big coat, with a hat. No one could tell.”

“No.” Abigail folded her arms, viselike, across her body.

“Yes,” snapped Beauvoir. “That should’ve been you out there.”

“Inspector!” Gamache’s voice acted as a slap, and Beauvoir’s cheeks reddened, but he continued to glare at her, before turning blazing eyes on Gamache.

He took a deep breath and managed, “Désolé.”

Gamache took over the questioning. Turning to Chancellor Roberge, he asked, “When did you last see Debbie Schneider?”

“As I said, we were outside waiting for Abby, but we could see through the window that she was deep in conversation, and we both knew that could take a while, so we decided to take a walk.”

“Where did you go?”

“Just around the house. We stopped at the bonfire, then looked at the stables. It was getting colder. I wanted to go back in, but Debbie said she’d wait for you.” She looked at Abigail. “She was sure you’d come outside and she didn’t want to miss you.”