“It might be nothing.”
“Yes,” said the Chief. And while he didn’t say the words she longed to hear, his very presence was reassuring. “You called her, of course.”
“I waited until about four yesterday afternoon, then called her home. She doesn’t have a cell phone. I just got the answering machine. I called”—Myrna paused—“a lot. Probably once an hour.”
“Until?”
Myrna looked at the clock. “The last time was eleven thirty this morning.”
“She lives alone?” Gamache asked. His voice had shifted, from serious conversation into inquiry. This was now work.
Myrna nodded.
“How old is she?”
“Seventy-seven.”
There was a longer pause as the Chief Inspector and Lacoste took that in. The implication was obvious.
“I called the hospitals, both French and English, last night,” said Myrna, rightly interpreting their train of thought. “And again this morning. Nothing.”
“She was driving out here?” Gamache confirmed. “Not taking the bus, and not being driven by someone else?”
Myrna nodded. “She has her own car.”
She was watching him closely now, trying to interpret the look in his deep brown eyes.
“She’d have been alone?”
She nodded again. “What’re you thinking?”
But he didn’t answer. Instead he reached in his breast pocket for a small notebook and pen. “What’s the make and model of your friend’s car?”
Lacoste also brought out a pad and pen.
“I don’t know. It’s a small car. Orangy color.” Seeing that neither wrote that down, Myrna asked, “Does that help?”
“I don’t suppose you know the license plate number?” asked Lacoste, without much hope. Still, it needed to be asked.
Myrna shook her head.
Lacoste brought out her cell phone.
“They don’t work here, you know,” said Myrna. “The mountains.”
Lacoste did know that, but had forgotten that there remained pockets of Québec where phones were still attached to the walls. She got up.
“May I use your phone?”
“Of course.” Myrna indicated the desk, and when Lacoste moved away, she looked at Gamache.
“Inspector Lacoste is calling our traffic patrol, to see if there were any accidents on the autoroute or the roads around here.”
“But I called the hospitals.”
When Gamache didn’t respond Myrna understood. Not every accident victim needed a hospital. They both watched Lacoste, who was listening on the phone, but not taking notes.
Gamache wondered if Myrna knew that was a good sign.
“We need more information, of course,” he said. “What’s your friend’s name?”
He picked up his pen and pulled his notebook closer. But when there was just silence he looked up.
Myrna was looking away from him, into the body of her bookstore. He wondered if she’d heard the question.
“Myrna?”
She returned her gaze to him, but her mouth remained shut. Tight.
“Her name?”
Myrna still hesitated and Gamache tilted his head slightly, surprised.
Isabelle Lacoste returned and, sitting down, she smiled at Myrna reassuringly. “No serious car accidents on the highway between here and Montréal yesterday.”
Myrna was relieved, but it was short-lived. She returned her attention to Chief Inspector Gamache, and his unanswered question.
“You’ll have to tell me,” he said, watching her with increased curiosity.
“I know.”
“I don’t understand, Myrna,” he said. “Why don’t you want to tell me?”
“She might still turn up, and I don’t want to cause her embarrassment.”
Gamache, who knew Myrna well, knew she wasn’t telling the truth. He stared at her for a moment, then decided to try another tack.
“Can you describe her for us?”
Myrna nodded. As she spoke Myrna saw Constance sitting exactly where Armand Gamache was now. Reading and occasionally lowering her book to gaze out the window. Talking to Myrna. Listening. Helping to make dinner upstairs, or sharing a Scotch with Ruth in front of the bistro fireplace.
She saw Constance getting into her car and waving. Then driving up the hill out of Three Pines.
And then she was gone.
Caucasian. Francophone. Approx. five foot four. Slightly overweight, white hair, blue eyes. 77 years of age.
That’s what Lacoste had written. That’s what Constance came down to.
“And her name?” Gamache asked. His voice, now, was firm. He held Myrna’s eyes and she held his.
“Constance Pineault,” she said at last.
“Merci,” said Gamache quietly.
“Is that her nom de naissance?” asked Lacoste.