Page 196 of Miss Wolcott’s Ghost

“A bit unusual,” said Ruth as her disembodied head appeared on the other side of the fence. “Most people have elves or fairy statues in their gardens. Or little jockeys—”

“Dear God,” whispered Myrna.

“Still, I like it,” said Ruth.

“You would,” said Gabri.

Armand glanced over his shoulder at them, then said something to Jean-Guy, who walked over.

“I don’t suppose you’d consider stepping away,” said Jean-Guy.

“Not a chance,” said Clara.

“We’re on private property,” said Ruth.

“Cookie?” Olivier offered him a ginger cookie. Though tempted, Jean-Guy managed to decline. But only just.

“What’s going on?” asked Myrna. “What’re you doing with that tombstone?”

Rather than answering, Jean-Guy said, “I can’t stop you from looking, but don’t record what you see, and for God’s sake, keep the duck out.”

“We promise,” said Clara.

As Jean-Guy walked away, he heard her say to Myrna, “Was that a D or an F?”

“Comes to the same thing.”

The forensics team was recording the proceedings, as was Isabelle Lacoste. Another officer was taking still photographs, while the head of the team knelt by the marker.

Chief Inspector Gamache was watching, his hands clasped behind his back.

“You’re right, patron. It’s concrete and there’re prints,” said the forensic officer. “It can’t have been completely cured when they placed it. Close, but just soft enough so that their hands left marks when they lifted it into place. Two separate pairs of hands. One larger than the other.”

“Can you lift any prints?” Gamache asked, bending over to see.

“Oui.” The forensics chief smiled up. “We can do better than that if you like. We can cut away the whole handprints.”

“Do it.”

And they did.

Their work on the tombstone took hours. So long that the Greek chorus at the fence left, Olivier and Gabri to prepare for the dinner crowd, the others to enjoy a beer or wine on the terrace of the bistro as the sun dropped into the forest.

Gabri carried a tray of lemonade and iced tea to the Gamaches’ home, leaving it with Reine-Marie, while Clara took over a platter of sandwiches.

And still, the Sûreté officers worked.

“What’s happening now?” Olivier asked.

“Don’t know,” said Gabri. “I heard tapping and chipping. I think they’re breaking up the tombstone.”

“I wonder why,” said Ruth.

It was the twenty-first of June. The summer solstice. The men and women in the garden in Three Pines stood around the stone, like druids around a prehistoric megalith. A minilith.

Hoping it would give up its secrets.

And at twenty past ten in the evening, by floodlights brought in after the sun had finally set, the stone did. There, encased in the concrete, was a canvas bag with a tag.