Page 52 of Miss Wolcott’s Ghost

“I know that address,” said Jean-Guy, his eyes bright. “It’s the Réunion building.”

Gamache stared at him. “So, there is a connection. Somehow that company, maybe even that Brian Fillmore, is involved.” His brow furrowed. “But how?”

“We’re about to find out.” Jean-Guy started to turn the car in that direction, but Gamache stopped him.

“Non. First the gallery.”

“Why?”

“If Clara’s Brian and the mysterious founder are the same person, we need as much information on Fillmore and Réunion as we can get. I’m hoping the gallery owner can tell us more. And we need to hear what our forensic accountants have found out before we go there.”

“I haven’t heard back yet from Charles Fillmore,” said Jean-Guy. “I left a message for him, but he still hasn’t called back. Of course I didn’t tell him who I was.”

“Well, he’ll find out soon enough.”

While Jean-Guy drove to the art gallery, Armand called accounting.

“Eidinger? It’s Gamache. I need that information on Réunion.”

“We’re almost there, patron. It’s taking more time than I’d have thought, and I want to make sure what we send is accurate. There’s AI crap all over it. I hope to get it to you within the hour.”

While Gamache was on the phone with accounting and Beauvoir drove to the art gallery, Isabelle Lacoste arrived back in Three Pines.

It was a bright, sunny, late June morning. She parked her car outside the bistro and took a seat on the terrace, the better to see the road down into the village. While she’d given the technicians detailed instructions on how to find Three Pines, most people got lost on the first try. She put her phone on the round bistro table and kept checking for any messages saying they were lost.

As she sat there, she once again marveled at the peace of the place. At the sense of profound safety. This was a harbor. Though the protection it offered was not physical.

Where she sat at that moment, on the sunny terrace, was just feet from where she’d been gravely wounded. Shot. Lying on the wooden floor of the bistro, drifting in and out of consciousness, Isabelle knew she was dying. While gunshots exploded around her and her colleagues pursued the attackers. And the villagers hid. She would quietly die. Alone.

Her eyes glazed over. The bright colors faded.

Then someone took her hand and squeezed.

She could no longer see, but she could hear the tremulous old woman whispering into her ear, repeating over and over.

“You are loved. You are brave and kind. You are loved. You are loved. You are brave and kind. You have saved our lives. You are loved.”

Those were going to be, they both expected, the very last words she’d ever hear.

You are loved.

And now, as she looked across the village green, the dew glistening in the morning sunshine, she saw the old poet leave her home and make her way over to the bistro.

To her.

Across the green, another door opened, and Clara appeared.

Behind her, Isabelle heard a third door open and close. She smiled. No need to turn around to know who was about to appear.

In Three Pines, you were never alone unless you wanted to be. And at that moment, Isabelle had no need of solitude. Which was a good thing since Myrna, Clara, and Ruth were about to join her.

They reached her table at the same time Gabri showed up with bowls of café au lait and a plate of biscotti.

“Any progress?” Myrna asked. She reached for a biscotti and dipped it into her coffee.

“Some,” said Isabelle. “Have any of you heard about a murder in these parts?”

“You’re kidding, right?” said Ruth. “Have you not been paying attention?”