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“Incredible,” said Aimée Lagacé. “Miss Wolcott’s papers here. I’d give my right arm to know if there really was anything valuable in her findings. Of course, even if there was back then, by now, most would be old news. Well researched and their secrets revealed. But still, it would be worth an article.”
“Publish or perish?” asked Lacoste.
Dr. Lagacé smiled. “Yes.”
On the drive back to Three Pines, Isabelle checked for any update from Gamache, but there was nothing.
“There’s no need to worry,” said Jean-Guy. “He’s probably eating fish and chips in some pub.”
“The Chief isn’t the one I’m worried about,” said Isabelle. “That Comeau can’t be trusted.”
“If only the Chief knew that.”
She gave one snort of laughter but noticed that Beauvoir’s hands were gripped tight around the steering wheel.
“Help me, patron.”
“Yes, help him, patron.”
“For God’s sake, Armand, don’t!” Beauvoir shouted as he held the gang leader tight. His arm around the man’s throat, a gun to his head.
He’d never used Chief Inspector Gamache’s first name at work, though everyone was aware of their relationship. But in his panic, it had come bursting out.
For God’s sake, Armand, don’t!
Inspector Beauvoir watched in disbelief as Chief Inspector Gamache appeared, arms out at his side in surrender. Firearm on the counter.
It all seemed to happen in slow motion.
When they pulled into Three Pines, Isabelle pointed to Ruth and Rosa making their way across the village green heading for Clara’s garden.
“Let’s join them. I could use a break.”
Jean-Guy was about to protest but realized he could too. He also knew she was doing it more for him than herself.
Papa! Help. Papa—
“Yes,” he said, abruptly. “Let’s.”
“I bet that professor wanted to take the credit,” said Ruth. “He probably invited Miss Wolcott to donate her papers to Macdonald so he could steal her discoveries for himself. The shit.”
“Biopiracy,” said Clara.
“Happens all the time in academe,” agreed Reine-Marie. “Such pressure to publish original work.”
They were enjoying a late-afternoon drink in Clara’s garden. She’d put out a tray of refreshments as well as a stack of pita breads and hummus and tzatziki dips.
Isabelle and Jean-Guy had joined them and, when asked, had walked them through what they’d discovered about Miss Wolcott and Macdonald College.
Isabelle took a long sip of beer from the bottle and dug into the tzatziki.
“You’re wrong about the professor,” she said to Ruth.
The others looked at her as though the young inspector had suddenly lost all good sense. Why, why tell Ruth she was wrong?
Even Rosa looked surprised.
“How so?” asked Ruth, her voice frigid.
