Chapter 28

C HAPTER 28

Reine-Marie was sitting in the bistro when Armand walked in.

"So much for ‘I'll be right back.'"

"Sorry. But I did send your two children over to relieve you. Forgiven?"

She looked at him and saw the gleam in his eyes. "Something's happened. Something good."

He nodded but could not yet tell her that the Abbot had not been in Rome, but in France. At the monastery of Grande Chartreuse. Where the liqueur was distilled. Where the bottle was from.

Why choose to meet at that particular monastery? It was Carthusian, not Dominican. But that meant anyone searching for the monks would not think to look in the remote French monastery, hidden in the mountains.

But the real question now was whether Sébastien and the American monk were still there.

Did Dom Philippe want him to go to Grande Chartreuse? It seemed so. But time was too short, and there was too much to do here, and it was too far to go. And he might be wrong. And even if he was right, he might've been too slow off the mark, and Sébastien and the American might have already left Grande Chartreuse.

But he had no choice. He had to try.

Once back in Three Pines, the bottles beside him on the passenger's seat, he'd sent a message to Isabelle Lacoste telling her if neither monk was in the Curia, she needed to get to Grande Chartreuse.

Gamache then pondered his next move. The problem was, Lacoste did not have authority in France. If the monks were there and refused to cooperate, he'd need someone who did.

He looked at his watch, then placed a call. "Claude? Did I wake you?"

"Not quite. Is everything all right?"

Claude Dussault was the former head of the Paris police. He'd retired as Prefect and was now living with his wife in a village in the south of France.

"Do you know the monastery of Grande Chartreuse?"

"Now, of all the things I thought you might call about in the middle of the night, that was not one. Yes, I know it. Well, I know of it. Never been."

"Would you like to go?"

"Not really. I'm afraid to ask, but would you like me to go?"

"Maybe. I need to find two monks who might be hiding there."

"There are probably quite a few monks hiding there. I can't say I blame them. And who are they hiding from? You?"

"I can't tell you more except to say, as far as I know, neither has done anything wrong. I need to interview them. One's a Gilbertine."

Armand could see Reine-Marie in the bistro chatting with Clara and Myrna. Gabri had joined them.

"A Gilbertine? Is there such a thing? And you do know that the monastery is Carthusian."

"Yes. The other's"—Armand grimaced, anticipating Claude's reaction—"a Dominican."

"Jesus, Armand. Are there any actual Carthusians in Grande Chartreuse? I'll go if you want, but there's no way they'll let me in. I doubt they even let those two in. Ces religieux there aren't just cloistered, they're hermetic. Only Carthusians are allowed through the gates, and for good reason. The order has been persecuted and expelled over and over in their thousand years, including as recently as 1903."

"Still, I'm sending one of my most senior investigators there. If she—"

"She?" There was a laugh. "God, Armand, you really do live in a fantasy world. If they won't let a ‘he' in, there's no way a ‘she' will get through that gate."

"We'll see. Inspector Lacoste is quite resourceful."

"Can she drive a bulldozer? That might work."

Armand laughed. "I wouldn't put it past her. If she can't get in, we'll need a warrant. That's where you come in."

"Tell me you're not actually going to serve a warrant on Grande Chartreuse."

"Not me. You."

"I have no more authority than you do. I'm retired. Remember?"

"But you know people who can get one."

There was a heaved sigh. "I do. This must be important."

"Beyond that, mon ami ."

" Bon. Give me the names of the monks you need to find." Armand could hear Claude making notes as he told him. "So we have Frère Sébastien, a Gilbertine. Who's the other? The Dominican."

"I don't know."

"You really don't make this easy, do you."

"I'm hoping Inspector Lacoste will find out who this mystery monk is, and with luck find him still in Rome. I'll connect you two. Claude, I think they stumbled onto something terrible. I need to find them before someone else does."

"I'll do what I can. Though I'll probably be excommunicated."

"Tell them to do it to me instead."

"I don't think it works that way."

"Honestly, I don't think it works at all."

"That's the spirit. One thing to keep in mind, Grande Chartreuse is a five-hour drive for me, so I'll need warning."

"I'll let Isabelle Lacoste know. Merci , Claude."

After hanging up, Armand shot off another message to Isabelle. She'd arrived in Rome and had checked into her hotel close to the Vatican. He updated her on Claude Dussault and sent his contact information. Then he sat in his car and took out the two pieces of paper.

Dom Philippe had left one part for him, along with the bottle, to make sure he knew about the Grande Chartreuse connection. That now seemed obvious.

But still obscure and troubling was how Jeanne Caron got her portion. And why she put it in the coat she'd had stolen from his home.

Before going into the bistro, Armand made reservations on a flight the next day to Blanc-Sablon, where he hoped to find the Abbot and some answers.

Ever the optimist, he reserved two seats for the trip back.

"So the Abbot left the bottle because he wanted you to know that he'd been to Grande Chartreuse," said Reine-Marie as they walked arm in arm around the village green.

"Not just know, but to go there."

"Will you?"

"No. I'm sending Isabelle. It's possible the other two monks are still there."

The late afternoon was cooling off, but they had each other's body heat to keep them comfortable.

"What about Dom Philippe? Where's he?"

"I think he might've gone home."

"To Saint-Gilbert-Entre-les-Loups? But you were just there."

" Non. To Blanc-Sablon. I'm flying there tomorrow. Father David, his friend, said that when clerics retire, they often go home. Dom Philippe isn't retired, but I think he might've gone there for help. We all have a homing instinct."

Armand glanced over to their rambling white clapboard house, with its wide veranda, and double porch swing, and buttery lights in the windows. Daniel and Annie would be making dinner. The youngsters—he included Ruth in that category—would be tired out by now and sprawled in the living room, with the dogs, and duck, and Gracie, and fallen marshmallows all around them.

Home.

"Armand…" Reine-Marie hesitated before asking, "The drinking water? Have you told the mayors?"

When he shook his head, she stopped to look directly at him. "You have to tell someone. You have to warn people. Suppose it's tonight? Tomorrow morning? It could happen any time."

"You're right. But I can't say anything yet."

"Why not? What're you waiting for? I don't understand. You're gambling with thousands of lives. The lives of our friends. Your colleagues."

He was gambling with more than that. Like General Whitehead, Armand knew that if the terrorists were even partially successful, it would have terrifying and lasting consequences. Ones he'd be, by that time, powerless to stop.

"We don't know who's behind this," he said. "The terrorists have to have people on the inside. If I warn the mayors and those in charge of public works, there's a good chance they'll move up their attack."

"Or call it off," she said.

"Which would be as bad. They'd go to ground and wait. Or move it to another city and we'd lose track of them. I wish I could tell the Premier, the mayors, the head of the S?reté. Then it would be their problem. I could come back here and have dinner with the family and go to bed. Sleep. But I can't. Not yet."

She picked up his hand and kneaded it. "I'm sorry."

"Honestly, I don't know if I'm making the right decision. I think I am, but…"

Reine-Marie unwrapped the handkerchief around his finger. "You've been dumpster diving again, haven't you."

"It's where the best clues, and birthday gifts, are found."

"Let's go inside. It's dinnertime. We can put antiseptic on that almost invisible nick."

"Nick? It's a slash, a terrible, terrible wound." He looked at his finger.

"Wrong one, Inspector," she said, with a laugh.

Home. That was home.

As they walked along the veranda, they could smell pasta and garlic bread through the screen door.

"If you received a message with every B underlined, what would you think?"

It had become the question du jour. A kind of party riddle without the punchline.

"The letter B ?"

"Yes, the letter B ."

She stopped to think. In the silence they heard a tiny, reedy voice. "Letter B , letter B , letter B , oh, letter B ."

Armand and Reine-Marie looked around, then walked to the edge of the porch and leaned over the railing. There was Honoré sitting in the flower bed, hugging Henri. And singing.

"What're you doing there, little man?" Reine-Marie asked.

"Hiding."

"From?"

"Mom. It's dinnertime and there're brussels sprouts. She puts them under the spaghetti."

"You were also singing." Armand looked at their grandson's upturned filthy face. "Can you do it again?"

Sensing a deal to be made, Honoré said, "If I do, will you eat my brussels sprouts?"

"Don't you normally give them to Henri?" asked his grandfather. At the sound of his name, the shepherd's prodigious ears swung toward Armand.

"You know about that?" said Honoré. "No, I don't."

"Someone's going to have to teach that child how to lie properly," muttered Reine-Marie.

"I will eat your brussels sprouts," said Armand. "If you sing for me."

Honoré, whose voice was thin but true, sang, "Letter B , letter B …"

"Shouldn't that be ‘Let It Be'?" asked Reine-Marie.

"Letter B , ohhhh, letter B …"

"The Beatles?" It was the same tune Honoré's father had hummed earlier in the day when discussing the strange code.

" Sesame Street ." The boy couldn't believe everyone in the world, his world, didn't know that. "Letter B . Don't you know the alphabet?"

Armand brought his hand to his mouth and stared, while Honoré sang. Hoping to teach his poor grandfather something. And he had.

"I am on the plane, patron . Heading back to Montréal. They're about to close the doors."

"Get off. I need you to do something."

Beauvoir stood up, grabbed his carry-on, and, after showing his not-exactly-valid-in-the-States S?reté ID, he left the plane moments before the door closed.

"I'm off. What is it?"

"First I need you to ask Sister Joan about either ‘Let It Be' or ‘Letter B.'"

"You mean the Beatles or Sesame Street ?" He'd heard that song often enough. It was a favorite of both Honoré and Idola, who loved anything her brother liked. "I don't understand."

"In the first message, the one to Sébastien from the Dominican in Rome, the letter B was underlined."

"Yes, I know. It's how Sébastien knew who it was from. His friend whose name starts with B ."

"That's what we thought, but suppose we're wrong? It did tell Sébastien who the message was from, but it might not be a name. It might be the Sesame Street song about the alphabet. Honoré sang it for me."

Armand, in his baritone, sang the first few notes.

"But why would monks be referencing a Sesame Street song?"

"Why do college students watch The Flintstones ? It's something we all do when under more pressure than usual."

"You watch The Flintstones ?"

" Non. Pay attention, Barney. We find something that reminds us of a time without stress. When we were young and someone else was in charge. We reread favorite books, we listen to music we fell in love to. Neil Young. Beau Dommage. In your case, Celine. We watch shows that bring comfort. Allow us to revert to a younger, happier, simpler time. The Flintstones . La Petite Vie —"

"Oh, I love that."

"I bet you still watch it."

Armand was right. When he or Annie was particularly stressed, they'd watch an episode of La Petite Vie together before bed. Sometimes two. Three. And howl with laughter, even though they knew each episode by heart.

Then they'd sleep, with lighter heads and hearts.

"I think those young men in the seminary, new teachers with all that pressure, took to watching Sesame Street ," said Armand. "It is as much a show for adults as kids."

That was true, thought Jean-Guy. No kid would get the "Let It Be" reference, which was what made the song so funny.

"Okay, suppose you're right, what good is it to us?"

Beauvoir was being shooed off the gangway so airport personnel could move it back from the plane.

"Sister Joan talked about a passion Sébastien and his friends shared."

"Right."

"One he was now putting to good use, but that back then had gotten him fired."

Beauvoir, strolling through the airport, stopped so suddenly people behind him had to twist to avoid colliding with him. At least one man gave him the finger, but Jean-Guy was uncharacteristically oblivious to the insult.

"Singing. You think that was the passion."

"I think the song ‘Letter B' was a running joke among the three of them. ‘Let It Be' is essentially a hymn, so monks might find the Sesame Street version especially funny. Underlining the B in the message told Sébastien who it was from. One of his two friends who shared the joke. And the fallout."

"I'll call Sister Joan."

"I have an update on the driver of the SUV," said the senior agent at headquarters. "The one who was found dead in the landfill. I was just about to send it to you."

"Yes?" Gamache sat forward and grabbed a pen on his study desk.

"His name was Paolo Parisi."

"Spell it please." He jotted the name down. "How do we know that? There wasn't any ID on the body, and his DNA and fingerprints aren't on file."

"Interpol. I sent the information and they ID'd him."

"What's he wanted for?"

"Nothing."

Gamache leaned back slightly, surprised by that answer. "So?"

"He's the youngest child of a prominent Sicilian family."

"Wait. That Parisi? The olive oil?"

The Gamaches had a can of it in their kitchen. They'd probably used it for the salad dressing that night for dinner. Very fine olive oil.

" Oui. He entered the US as a tourist at JFK two months ago."

"When did he come to Canada?"

"Well, that we don't know. There's no record of him at Canada Customs. Looks like he snuck across the border."

They had the longest undefended border in the world. The only surprising thing was that so many used the actual checkpoints.

"Why enter the US legally and Canada illegally? He could have come across as a tourist, non ?"

"Absolutely. Nothing to stop him. Except maybe his plan to kill someone without being detected. Just a guess."

"That could be it," said Gamache, with some amusement. "Does his family have connections to organized crime?"

"Well, that's where it gets particularly interesting, patron . They have very strong connections, but not what you'd think. His mother is one of the main mafia prosecutors and Signor Parisi has organized businesses to resist the payment of protection money."

"Huh."

The inspector was secretly pleased. She'd worked under the Chief for more than a decade and could count on one hand the number of times she'd actually stunned him.

"The son rebelling against the parents?" said Gamache, essentially asking himself. "Or maybe the anti-mob stance of the family is a front." Or maybe, he thought to himself, he was wrong, and there was no connection in this case to the Montréal mafia. Why would the mob want to murder an environmental activist? Maybe this Parisi was freelance and had been hired by someone else.

"Has the Parisi family been told?"

"Not yet."

"Okay. Contact the authorities in Palermo, find out what you can about the family. Quietly. Make sure that when they're told, a senior official who knows them is there. I want to know their reaction. We need to know anything the family can tell us about Paolo. His job, his friends, his movements. Anyone they might know in New York and Montréal. Did they even know he was in North America?"

"Got it."

"And contact the head of Italy's Anti-Mafia task force. Ask them about the Parisis. If there's something going on, they'd know."

"I'll forward what Interpol sent. I'm still looking for the woman at Open Da Night who signaled him and might've killed him."

"Probably did. Bon. Merci. "

Gamache sat in his study and went over the autopsy report on Paolo Parisi. Twenty-four. Healthy. No reason he shouldn't live to a ripe old age. But there he lay, eyes wide open.

Armand saw the young man staring at him through the windshield of the SUV. The moment was frozen, suspended, as they caught eyes and Gamache saw a single-minded intensity. Before Parisi looked away, to his target. To Charles Langlois.

Was the murder of Langlois a mafia hit? Was the hit man then hit? The landfill was run by the mob. It was one of many legitimate businesses. Canada was famously opaque, at least among criminals and lawmakers, when it came to providing detailed information on who owned what. It was a sort of bureaucratic cataract.

The regulations had, intentionally or not, created a haven for illegal activities and led to the remarkable rise of organized crime in Québec. This brought to mind the agreements Langlois had found to sell controlling interests of primary industries to Americans. Could this be where Langlois and the mafia intersected?

But as far as Gamache knew, while much of garbage collection, the trucking industry, construction, and, and… were controlled by the mafia, they were not into mining and forestry and huge billowing smelters.

Very few Italians in Montréal were connected to the mafia. It was a constant slur on the community. But those who were were powerful and remorseless.

Gamache tapped his pen on his notebook and stared at his laptop. He considered sending the information on Paolo Parisi to Chief Inspector Tardiff, who ran the S?reté's Organized Crime division.

Just then, Honoré and Florence burst into the study. Their grandfather quickly closed the computer and looked into their eyes, to make sure they hadn't seen the autopsy photo. But the children were too intent on hiding from Zora, who found them easily a moment later.

"Too obvious," said Zora. "They always come to you. Can we play cribbage?"

"One game, then bed." Armand took them out of his study, then cheated his way to victory, to the screams of mock protest from the kids, who'd come to expect it.

But his mind was only partly on the game. The rest was on the report. The one he hadn't sent to Tardiff.

While the children were bathed and put to bed, Armand was on the phone with Jean-Guy.

"Sister Joan admits that the issue was singing. But she still refuses to tell me the names of the other two monks."

"But how could singing get them into trouble?"

"Clearly they weren't singing in the seminary glee club. So it must've been some songs that the seminary would consider inappropriate, especially for teachers."

"The Beatles? ‘Let It Be'? How could that be offensive enough to get one of them fired?" He thought for a moment. "If it wasn't what they were singing, maybe it was where."

"Bars? Strip joints?"

"Maybe, but I doubt they'd be that foolish."

"Karaoke bars. In civilian clothing."

" Non. In their robes. That would definitely cross a line."

"I'm on it."

Armand hung up and looked at Daniel, standing in the doorway.

It was time.