Page 203

The cluster of mourners stood at the graveside as the compostable sack containing Janice Bouchard’s ashes was lowered into the shallow hole.

Imbedded in the sack was a small pine tree, its roots dug into the ashes. The hope being that the sapling would grow strong and live long. Beside her were Jeanette’s ashes and tree. It was understood that when the time came, Peduncle would be buried there too. Also with a pine tree.

“I understand you were with Madame Bouchard at the end,” Armand said to the nurse.

“I was. She was a nice woman. I liked her.”

“Please let me know if you need to be paid.”

She smiled up at him. “No need. Monsieur Comeau looked after it. He stayed with her too, right to the end. Helped me care for her. He held her hand when she died. In my experience, a lot of people say they will, even plan to, but not many can actually do it. Takes a special person.”

When the ceremony was over, Armand approached Comeau. “What will you do now?”

“I’m not sure. I’m thinking of writing a book. But people keep saying no one would be interested in a crime novel set in Canada.”

Armand smiled. “I’d read it.” He paused. “I heard what you did for Madame Bouchard. That was very brave.”

He put out his hand. And Gaston Comeau took it.

CHAPTER 68

A package arrived at Sûreté headquarters addressed to Chief Inspector Gamache.

He saw that it was from the British police and contained the belongings of Jeanette Bouchard.

Armand, as part of their case, had gone through the written inventory, but there was nothing of relevance. Certainly nothing that would help in their case against Aimée Lagacé, or imply a plan to kill Jeanette.

There was no indication Jeanette had been afraid for her life. It was one of a number of things the defense had used to knock down that case.

Armand set aside the package.

A few days later, the package was still on a shelf by his desk. Armand put down his coffee and reached for it.

He was a little afraid he’d find something he actually could have used as evidence. But there was nothing. Well, not nothing.

Something that had been described in the inventory as a book turned out to be an old hand-bound volume of watercolors and pastels.

There were pages and pages of flowers. Whole flowers, and then their parts. Beautifully, intricately, carefully drawn and described.

There must have been fifty of them. As the illustrations went on, the images grew a little less detailed. But the passion with which they were created was still there. The joy.

The very first one was a well-worn watercolor of a cheerful daisy, and below it, its component parts.

Stamen. Petals. Leaves that fed on sunlight.

And the peduncle, which held it all together.

That evening, the first frosty autumn night, he took it with him to the bistro. While all around him there floated the familiar hum of conversation and soft laughter, he sipped a scotch and gazed at the images.

Reine-Marie joined him in front of the log fire.

He reached for her hand. “Did Captain Péladeau take it back?”

“He did. I also gave him the old tape machine. In case…”

Armand nodded. Who knew if the former Sûreté officer would listen to the cassette. Armand was far from sure he would if …

He and Reine-Marie went silently through the old picture book, carefully turning the delicate pages. Occasionally one or the other would stare into the fire. Occasionally one or the other would gaze out the window and see buttery light spilling from homes around the village green.