Page 179

Armand took a deep breath. Could that be true? Had he been duped, manipulated? Again.

But … he knew something his colleagues did not.

There’s a body in Lost Nation.

Granted, he’d been jolted awake from a deep sleep, but there was no mistaking the tone. The panic.

Yes, he knew that voice and that terror. He’d heard it before. It was real.

Comeau might as well have said, “Help me, patron.”

The fact was, they were “pretty sure” they knew who’d killed Brian Fillmore. But they had little to no actual evidence. Some of what was just tossed around was true, some speculation. Some wild guesses. And some way off.

Though they had to look at any and all possibilities, only one scenario fit.

Jean-Guy looked at his watch. “I think it’s time we got Comeau and went into Réunion. See if we can fix the cassette.”

Armand walked them to the car. As they passed the group still clustered around Miss Wolcott’s Ghost, Armand heard Gabri say, “She’s sagging a little.”

“That’s what happens after a vat of scotch,” said Myrna.

“Shit head.”

“She should be staked up,” said Clara.

“Is that legal?” asked Gabri, and even Ruth smiled.

Reine-Marie got a long stick and plunged it into the earth beside Miss Wolcott’s Ghost. Then she tried again. “It won’t go in.”

“Careful, you must be hitting the roots,” said Myrna. “Here, let me do it.”

She took the stick from Reine-Marie, who was happy to yield it to more experienced hands.

“Someone to blame if it all goes horribly wrong?” whispered Gabri.

“Always.”

Clara was saying something about rain the next day, and Ruth and Rosa were heading into the house, no doubt to see what they could find to eat.

Armand’s attention had shifted from watching the car drive away, to Myrna, who was also struggling to get the stake into the ground.

“See,” said Reine-Marie. “Not so easy, is it.”

His eyes widened. “My God,” he whispered. Then he called out. “Stop!”

CHAPTER 60

The next morning, Gamache was standing under an umbrella, looking up rue du Moulin, anxiously awaiting Dr. Lagacé, when he saw her vehicle crest the hill.

It was just after eight on a cool, damp morning. A thick mist hung low over the surrounding hills, and rain was tapping on his umbrella.

“Thank you for coming so quickly.”

“You said there was something wrong with Miss Wolcott’s Ghost. What is it?” asked the botanist as she got out of the car.

“I’m not sure what’s happened.”

He took her into the garden. Jean-Guy was there, as was Isabelle, standing next to the now clearly struggling plant.