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“Your investigative skills were never in question.”

That blow landed. Comeau inhaled sharply but continued on.

“It’s amazing what a cleaner can find out about a person. Their affairs. Their addictions. Their petty larcenies. Skimming off the top. Even some recreational blackmail when an investigator found out something unsavory about a client. When I started cleaning Jeanette’s office, I came across references to a James Clybourne. I realized that was the man whose photo the Fillmores use as the supposed founder of Réunion. Which was, you have to admit, an odd thing to do.”

Still no reaction from Gamache, so he continued.

“Then there were references in her notes about an Aldous Clybourne, and someone called a Receiver of Wrecks. And someone named Rosemary. And something about a place called Lost Nation. That was circled and underlined. And a cassette. It was all a bit of a jumble. Obviously her actual notes were on her laptop, which she always took with her. These were more doodles. But it became clear that she wasn’t on an assignment for Réunion. She was investigating Réunion. Or at least Brian and Charles Fillmore.”

“Both?”

The interruption startled Comeau into dropping his pretense. “I think so. Anyway, when she disappeared, my interest went from casual to more intense. Brian Fillmore had also disappeared by then. I thought maybe they were together, having an affair. I went looking. The place to start seemed to be Lost Nation. Took me a long time, going through historical records, but I finally found a reference to it in the Centennial project.” There was a pause. He seemed to have come to a sort of cliff. “I went looking and found it. And her body.” He took a breath. “I think she must have followed Brian Fillmore to that cemetery and he killed her. Jeanette. It’s her, isn’t it?”

Gamache brought up the sketch that Clara had done of her artist visitor.

“Is this Jeanette Bouchard?”

“Yes.”

“Well, she’s not the body you found. That’s Brian Fillmore.”

Comeau’s reaction wasn’t what Gamache expected. There was surprise, but more than that, there was relief. “Are you sure?” He sounded almost giddy.

“Why did you assume it was Jeanette Bouchard?”

“Because of what she, he, was wearing.”

“A suit? Did she often wear a man’s suit?”

“No, but on her agenda, I saw a note to pick up a tweed suit from a man named McDonald.”

“When was that?”

“Sometime in March.”

“How was it spelled?”

“Like the restaurant, I think.” His cheeks turned pink at the mention of a fast-food restaurant, but that was the only acknowledgment of what had happened.

It seemed Jeanette Bouchard hadn’t written that as a reminder for herself but was noting an appointment Brian Fillmore must have had.

Now, why would that be important enough for Jeanette to write down?

And now the repetition of that name? McDonald. Could it be a relative of the university professor who died on the Empress?

“Did this McDonald have a first name?”

“Not that I saw.”

Gamache was also trying to figure out how much of what he was being told was misdirection, lies, or the truth. It would be folly to assume it was all truth. Or all lies.

But at least Armand could feel his anger under control. Another part of his brain was at work now. The problem-solving. And while Gaston Comeau was certainly a problem, he was also a solution.

Comeau hadn’t been wrong when he’d said he was an exceptional investigator.

“What happened to her notes, her doodles? Her agenda?” Gamache asked. They hadn’t found any in their search of Jeanette’s office.

“I took them.”