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Inspector Lacoste had sent a photo and message to Chief Inspector Gamache and Inspector Beauvoir. Now she waited.
And waited.
Finally, a few long minutes later, her phone rang.
“Chief?”
“What’ve you got?” His voice was low, clearly trying to keep others from overhearing.
Armand had put on the text function since he still did not trust that the cicadas would not eat a few vital words.
“Looks like a body. I stopped digging as soon as I realized. I’ve sent for a forensics team to get up here as soon as possible, but it’ll take a while. Dr. LaPierre and I will stay by the body until they arrive.”
“What equipment do you have?”
“Gloves, evidence vials, and bags. But no testing kits. I didn’t think—”
“Of course you didn’t.” He thought for a moment, looking out the window at Marcus Lauzon. At the smug smile on that reviled face. Then he noticed Jean-Guy’s face opening up into astonishment as he too read Lacoste’s message and saw the photo.
Armand walked deeper into the bistro as Evelyn Tardiff returned her attention to her colleague, the head of homicide.
What the hell is he up to? What’s Lauzon doing here?
Something had happened. Marcus Lauzon had obviously been taken out of maximum security, supermax, and brought here for Sunday lunch. Along with her.
Why?
Alarms began to go off, and she wondered if Armand Gamache, that wily strategist, really was as feeble, as diminished, as he seemed. She glanced out the window and inadvertently caught Marcus Lauzon’s eye.
Both looked quickly away.
“Isabelle, you have to open that bag. We need to know who and what is in there.”
She knew what he was asking. That they run the risk of contaminating evidence. But the need to know now outweighed the risks.
“Agreed. Stay on the line, patron.”
Inspector Lacoste switched her phone to camera and turned the view around so Gamache could watch. Hitting record, she handed it to her companion.
“Vivienne, can you hold this? It’s recording.”
“Of course.” The biologist took the phone and pointed it at the partially exposed bag.
From the warmth and comfort of the bistro in Three Pines, Armand watched as Isabelle worked quickly and expertly, uncovering what was clearly now a corpse wrapped in layers of heavy plastic. Cutting the plastic open at the head, she was immediately repelled backward.
Even after years of doing this, she never got used to the sight, or smell, of a decomposing body.
Vivienne had dropped the phone. Armand could hear gagging.
“What is it?” he asked, his voice muffled, his face face down in the slush and muck. “Who is it?”
Isabelle picked up the phone, wiped the mud away on her jacket, and pointed. She heard the long sigh of someone who realized he’d been wrong. Very wrong.
Clara spotted Ruth coming down her path. “Quick, everyone, pretend you’re dead.”
“Everyone” was Myrna and Reine-Marie.
“Who is it?” asked Myrna.
