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Now, when I die, bury me in my straight-leg britches, Put on a box-back coat and a Stetson hat, They sang the old blues song slowly, their robes swaying, their eyes closed as though in a sort of ecstasy. An’ give me six crap-shooting pall bearers, Let a chorus girl sing me a song. Put a red hot jazz band at the top of my head So we can raise Hallelujah as we go along. It was beautiful, soulful, but not wise. “I’m thinking their robes and that article in the local paper might not have been the only problems,” said Gamache, handing the phone back. “It looks like Robert is the leader of the group.” “Oui. So I wonder why Sébastien was the one made to leave.” “So do I.” “Want me to come with you, patron?” “To Blanc-Sablon? Non, merci. I want you to coordinate the investigation into Paolo Parisi. I’ll send you what the head of the Anti-Mafia task force in Italy passes along, as soon as I get it.” Though Gamache was beginning to wonder if the fellow would actually send anything. It had been a couple of hours since their conversation. “And see what you can find out about the woman who signaled Parisi at Open Da Night.” “And probably killed him. I’m on it.” They were almost at Gamache’s gate. “Parisi must’ve had help getting across the border. Either a fake ID or…” “The frontier is a federal responsibility,” said Beauvoir. “Caron?” “Maybe. I want to know his movements once he got here.” “I’ll go to The Mission.” They could hear the final boarding call for Gamache’s flight and picked up their pace. “Why?” “He had to stay somewhere. So far the hotels are a bust, so where better than a place where you don’t need to register or pay, and they ask no questions. If he was working for Caron, she’d have told him to go there.” “And where her showing up
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