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The three now sat on the sofa and comfortable armchairs, warming themselves by the hearth. The bistro was never more inviting than on a cold night as winter approached. The open fires on both ends of the intimate room were lit, sending the subtle scent of maple woodsmoke to join the aroma of rich coffee and coq au vin and boeuf bourguignon and fresh baguette.
Into that pleasant atmosphere Isabelle told her colleagues about breaking the news of Frederick’s murder to his parents. One of the worst parts was that she could not leave them to their grief. She needed information.
“He texted a number of weeks ago to say he was going away for a while. When the news broke about Marcus Lauzon, they understood why, but didn’t understand why he hadn’t been in touch since.”
“So his message to them was before Lauzon was arrested?” Beauvoir asked.
Putting his Coke down, he spread a thick smear of pâté on a slice of baguette and popped the entire thing in his mouth.
“He sent it the night it all came to a head at the church,” she said, and glanced out the window toward St. Thomas’s. “And the water-treatment plant.”
“When he drove Jeanne Caron from here into Montréal and left her there,” said Beauvoir, after managing to swallow. “His family hasn’t heard from him since?”
“No.”
“You’re sure?”
“Well, that’s what they told me, and I don’t think they’re lying.”
“Do we know when he was killed?” asked Gamache.
“Dr. Harris hasn’t reported yet. I called again and left a message, stressing that we need to know not just when but also where. It seems obvious it must be where he was buried, but we need it confirmed.”
“His killers couldn’t have snuck up on him,” said Beauvoir. “You can only get to that lake by float plane. He’d have heard and seen them arrive. I think they must’ve flown up together.”
“That’s what I think,” said Isabelle. “It’s possible he was kidnapped and taken up there, but if the purpose was to kill him, why not just do it in the Montréal landfill, like they normally do? No, I think he knew and trusted his killers. And if they were mob, he must’ve also been working with Moretti.”
“Do you have that last message he sent his family?” Gamache asked.
After those tense hours with Lauzon, he was finally able to relax. He’d been watching Jean-Guy demolish the cheese and pâté. It was oddly compelling, almost rhythmic. A famished metronome.
Now Armand took a sip of his scotch and, replacing it on the table in front of the fire, he was momentarily mesmerized by the warm amber hue and the dancing light through the cut crystal.
“The text to his…,” he said, then paused. “His what?”
“Mother. They were in almost daily contact, before—”
Before. There would now, for the Castonguays, always be a “before” and “after.”
“I have it here.” Isabelle turned her phone around for them to see.
“Who’s Lapin?” asked Armand. “He says to give her his love and to tell her not to mess with the stuff he left in the closet.”
“His youngest sister. She’s twelve. Rabbit is her nickname. She moved into his old bedroom when he left for Ottawa.”
“So they’re sure it’s from him?” Beauvoir asked. Lacoste nodded. “Why didn’t they report him missing?”
“They didn’t want to get him into trouble. If they hadn’t heard by end of this week, they were going to go to the Ottawa police.”
“Did they approach Jeanne Caron?” asked Beauvoir. “She was his boss after all.”
“I asked. They said they didn’t. I asked why not. They didn’t say it in so many words, but I got the impression they don’t like or trust her. His mother went to his apartment in Ottawa two weeks ago but found nothing.”
“She wouldn’t necessarily know what to look for,” said Jean-Guy, reaching for another slice of baguette. By now Lacoste was also staring.
“True,” she said, watching him put a slab of Brie on the bread, then a delicate dab of red pepper jelly. “I have the address and keys and permission from the Castonguays and local cops to search. I’ve sent a team.”
“Bon,” said Gamache.
