Brutal Telling Page 14

  Ruth’s clapboard home was a couple of houses away and faced the green. It was tiny, with a porch in front and two gables on the second floor. Gamache had been in it before, but always with his notebook out, asking questions. Never as a guest. As he entered all eyes turned and as one they made for him, Myrna reaching him first.

  “For pity’s sake, did you bring your gun?”

  “I don’t have one.”

  “What d’you mean, you don’t have one?”

  “They’re dangerous. Why do you want it?”

  “So you can shoot her. She’s trying to kill us.” Myrna grabbed Gamache’s sleeve and pointed to Ruth who was circulating among her guests wearing a frilly apron and carrying a bright orange plastic tray.

  “Actually,” said Gabri, “she’s trying to kidnap us and take us back to 1950.”

  “Probably the last time she entertained,” said Myrna.

  “Hors d’oeuvre, old fruit?” Ruth spotted her new guest and bore down upon him.

  Gabri and Olivier turned to each other. “She means you.”

  Incredibly, she actually meant Gamache.

  “Lord love a duck,” said Ruth, in a very bad British accent. Behind Ruth waddled Rosa.

  “She started speaking like that as soon as we arrived,” said Myrna, backing away from the tray and knocking over a stack of Times Literary Supplements. Gamache could see saltine crackers sliding around on the orange tray, smeared with brown stuff he hoped was peanut butter. “I remember reading something about this,” Myrna continued. “People speaking in accents after a brain injury.”

  “Is being possessed by the devil considered a brain injury?” asked Gabri. “She’s speaking in tongues.”

  “Cor blimey,” said Ruth.

  But the most striking feature of the room wasn’t the hoop lamps, the teak furniture, genteel British Ruth with her dubious offering, nor was it the sofas covered in books and newspapers and magazines, as was the green shag carpet. It was the duck.

  Rosa was wearing a dress.

  “Duck and cover,” said Gabri. “Literally.”

  “Our Rosa.” Ruth had put down the peanut-buttered crackers and was now offering celery sticks stuffed with Velveeta.

  Gamache watched and wondered if he’d have to make a couple of calls. One to the Humane Society, the other to the psych ward. But neither Rosa nor Ruth seemed upset. Unlike their guests.

  “Would you like one?” Clara offered him a ball covered with what looked like seeds.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  “We think it’s suet, for the birds,” said Peter.

  “And you’re offering it to me?” Gamache asked.

  “Well, someone should eat it so it doesn’t hurt her feelings.” Clara nodded to Ruth, just disappearing into the kitchen. “And we’re too afraid.”

  “Non, merci,” he smiled and went in search of Olivier. As he passed the kitchen he looked in and saw Ruth opening a can. Rosa was standing on the table watching her.

  “Now, we’ll just open this,” she mumbled. “Maybe we should smell it? What do you think?”

  The duck didn’t seem to be thinking anything. Ruth smelled the open can anyway. “Good enough.”

  The old poet wiped her hands on a towel then reached out and lifted the edge of Rosa’s dress to replace a ruffled feather, smoothing it down.

  “May I help?” Gamache asked from the door.

  “Well, aren’t you a love.”

  Gamache winced, expecting her to throw a cleaver after that. But she just smiled and handed him a plate of olives, each stuffed with a section of canned mandarin orange. He took it and returned to the party. Not surprisingly he was greeted as though he’d joined the dark side. He was very grateful Beauvoir wasn’t there to see Ruth, nuttier and more Anglo than usual, Rosa wearing a dress and himself offering food that would almost certainly kill or cripple anyone foolish enough to eat it.

  “Olive?” he asked Olivier.

  The two men looked down at the plate.

  “Does that make me the mandarin?” asked Gabri.

  “You need to get your head out of your own asshole,” said Olivier.

  Gabri opened his mouth, but the warning looks on everyone’s faces made him shut it again.

  Peter, standing a little way off from the conversation and nursing the glass of water Ruth had offered him, smiled. It was much the same thing Clara had said when he’d told her he’d felt violated by the police search.

  “Why?” she’d asked.

  “Didn’t you? I mean, all those strangers looking at your art.”

  “Isn’t that what we call a show? There were more people looking this afternoon than I’ve had most of my career. Bring on more cops. Hope they brought their checkbooks.” She laughed, and clearly didn’t care. But she could see he did. “What’s the matter?”

  “The picture isn’t ready to be seen.”

  “Look, Peter, you make it sound as though this is something to do with your art.”

  “Well, it is.”

  “They’re trying to find a murderer, not an artist.”

  And there it had sat, like most uncomfortable truths. Between them.

  Gamache and Olivier had wandered away from the group, into a quiet corner.

  “I understand you bought your building a few years ago.”

  Olivier colored slightly, surprised by the question. He instinctively and furtively scanned the room, making sure they weren’t overheard.

  “I thought it was a good investment. I’d saved some money from my job, and business here was good.”

  “Must have been. You paid almost three-quarters of a million dollars.”

  “I bet it’s worth a million today.”

  “Could be. But you paid cash. Was business all that good?”

  Olivier shot a look around but no one could hear them. Still he lowered his voice.

  “The bistro and B and B are doing very well, for now anyway, but it’s the antiques end that’s been the surprise.”

  “How so?”

  “Lots of interest in Quebec pine, and lots of great finds.”

  Gamache nodded. “We spoke to the Poiriers this afternoon.”

  Olivier’s face hardened. “Look, what they say just isn’t true. I didn’t screw their mother. She wanted to sell. Was desperate to sell.”

  “I know. We spoke to her too. And the Mundins. The furniture must have been in very bad shape.”

  Olivier relaxed a little.

  “It was. Years sitting in damp, freezing barns and the attic. Had to chase the mice out. Some were warped almost beyond repair. Enough to make you weep.”

  “Madame Poirier says you came by her home later with a new bed. That was kind.”

  Olivier dropped his eyes. “Yeah, well, I wanted to thank her.”

  Conscience, thought Gamache. This man had a huge and terrible conscience riding herd on a huge and terrible greed.

  “You said the bistro and B and B were doing well, for now. What did you mean?”

  Olivier looked out the window for a moment, then back at Gamache.

  “Hi ho, dinner everyone,” sang Ruth.

  “What should we do?” Clara whispered to Myrna. “Can we run for it?”

  “Too late. Either Ruth or the duck would get us for sure. The only thing to do is hunker down and pray for daylight. If the worst happens, play dead.”

  Gamache and Olivier rose, the last in for dinner.

  “I suppose you know what they’re doing up at the old Hadley house?” When Gamache didn’t answer Olivier continued. “They’ve almost completely gutted the place and are turning it into an inn and spa. Ten massage rooms, meditation and yoga classes. They’ll do a day spa and corporate retreats. People’ll be crawling all over the place, and us. It’ll ruin Three Pines.”

  “Three Pines?”

  “All right,” snapped Olivier. “The bistro and the B and B.”

  They joined the others in the kitchen and sat at Ruth’s white plastic garden table.

  “Incoming,” warned Gabri as Ruth put a bowl in front of each of them.

  Gamache looked at the contents of his bowl. He could make out canned peaches, bacon, cheese and Gummi Bears.

  “They’re all the things I love,” said Ruth, smiling. Rosa was sitting next to her on a nest of towels, her beak thrust under the sleeve of her dress.

  “Scotch?” Ruth asked.

  “Please.” Six glasses were thrust forward and Ruth poured each a Scotch, into their dinners.

  About three centuries and many lifetimes later they left, staggering into the quiet, cool night.

  “Toodle-oo,” waved Ruth. But Gamache was heartened to hear, just as the door closed: “Fuckers.”

  FOURTEEN

  They arrived back at the B and B to find Beauvoir waiting up for them. Sort of. He was fast asleep in his chair. Beside him was a plate with crumbs and a glass of chocolate milk. The fireplace glowed with dying embers.

  “Should we wake him?” asked Olivier. “He looks so peaceful.”

  Beauvoir’s face was turned to the side and there was a slight glisten of drool. His breathing was heavy and regular. On his chest lay the small stuffed lion Gabri had won for Olivier at the fair, his hand resting on it.

  “Like a little baby cop,” said Gabri.

  “That reminds me. Ruth asked me to give him this.” Olivier handed Gamache a slip of paper. The Chief took it and when he declined their offer of help watched as the two men trudged wearily up the stairs. It was nine o’clock.

  “Jean Guy,” Gamache whispered. “Wake up.”

  He knelt and touched the younger man’s shoulder. Beauvoir started awake with a snort, the lion slipping off his chest onto the floor.

  “What is it?”

  “Time for bed.”

  He watched Beauvoir sit up. “How was it?”

  “No one died.”

  “That’s a bit of an achievement in Three Pines.”

  “Olivier said Ruth wanted you to have this.” Gamache handed him the slip of paper. Beauvoir rubbed his eyes, unfolded the paper and read it. Then, shaking his head, he handed it to the Chief.

  Maybe there’s something in all of this

  I missed.

  “What does it mean? Is it a threat?”

  Gamache frowned. “Haven’t a clue. Why would she be writing to you?”

  “Jealous? Maybe she’s just nuts.” But they both knew the “maybe” was being generous. “Speaking of nut, your daughter called.”

  “Annie?” Gamache was suddenly worried, instinctively reaching for his cell phone, which he knew didn’t work in the village in the valley.

  “Everything’s fine. She wanted to talk to you about some upset at work. Nothing major. She just wanted to quit.”

  “Damn, that was probably what she wanted to talk about yesterday when we got called down here.”

  “Well don’t worry about it. I handled it.”

  “I don’t think telling her to fuck off can be considered ‘handling it.’ ”

  Beauvoir laughed and bending down he picked up the stuffed lion. “There’s certainly good reason she’s known as ‘the lion’ in your family. Vicious.”

  “She’s known as the lion because she’s loving and passionate.”

  “And a man-eater?”

  “All the qualities you hate in her you admire in men,” said Gamache. “She’s smart, she stands up for what she believes in. She speaks her mind and won’t back down to bullies. Why do you goad her? Every time you come for a meal and she’s there it ends in an argument. I for one am growing tired of it.”

  “All right, I’ll try harder. But she’s very annoying.”

  “So are you. You have a lot in common. What was the problem at work?” Gamache took the seat next to Jean Guy.

  “Oh, a case she’d wanted was assigned to another lawyer, someone more junior. I talked to her for a while. I’m almost certain she won’t kill everyone at work after all.”

  “That’s my girl.”

  “And she’s decided not to quit. I told her she’d regret any hasty decision.”

  “Oh, you did, did you?” asked Gamache with a smile. This from the king of impulse.

  “Well, someone had to give her good advice,” laughed Beauvoir. “Her parents are quite mad, you know.”

  “I’d heard. Thank you.”

  It was good advice. And he could tell Beauvoir knew it. He seemed pleased. Gamache looked at his watch. Nine thirty. He reached for Gabri’s phone.

  As Gamache spoke to his daughter Beauvoir absently stroked the lion in his hand.

  Maybe there’s something in all of this

  I missed.

  That was the fear in a murder investigation. Missing something. Chief Inspector Gamache had assembled a brilliant department. Almost two hundred of them in all, hand picked, investigating crime all over the province.

  But this team, Beauvoir knew, was the best.

  He was the bloodhound. The one way out in front, leading.

  Agent Lacoste was the hunter. Determined, methodical.

  And the Chief Inspector? Armand Gamache was their explorer. The one who went where others refused to go, or couldn’t go. Or were too afraid to go. Into the wilderness. Gamache found the chasms, the caves, and the beasts that hid in them.

  Beauvoir had long thought Gamache did it because he was afraid of nothing. But he’d come to realize the Chief Inspector had many fears. That was his strength. He recognized it in others. Fear more than anything was the thrust behind the knife, the fist. The blow to the head.

  And young Agent Morin? What did he bring to the team? Beauvoir had to admit he’d quite warmed to the young man. But that hadn’t blinded him to his inexperience. So far Beauvoir the bloodhound could smell fear quite clearly in this case.

  But it came from Morin.

  Beauvoir left the Chief in the living room speaking to his daughter and walked upstairs. As he climbed he hummed an old Weavers tune and hoped Gamache didn’t notice the stuffed animal clutched in his hand.

  When Monsieur Béliveau arrived to open his general store the next morning he had a customer already waiting. Agent Paul Morin stood up from the bench on the veranda and introduced himself to the elderly grocer.

  “How can I help you?” Monsieur Béliveau asked as he unlocked the door. It wasn’t often people in Three Pines were so pressed for his produce they were actually waiting for him. But then, this young man wasn’t a villager.

  “Do you have any paraffin?”

  Monsieur Béliveau’s stern face broke into a smile. “I have everything.”

  Paul Morin had never been in the store before and now he looked around. The dark wooden shelves were neatly stacked with tins. Sacks of dog food and birdseed leaned against the counter. Above the shelves were old boxes with backgammon games. Checkers, Snakes and Ladders, Monopoly. Paint by numbers and jigsaw puzzles were stacked in neat, orderly rows. Dried goods were displayed along one wall, paint, boots, birdfeeders were down another.

  “Over there, by the Mason jars. Are you planning on doing some pickling?” he chuckled.

  “Do you sell much?” Morin asked.

  “At this time of year? It’s all I can do to keep it in stock.”

  “And how about this?” He held up a tin. “Sell many of these?”

  “A few. But most people go into the Canadian Tire in Cowansville for that sort of thing, or the building supply shops. I just keep some around in case.”

  “When was the last time you sold some?” the young agent asked as he paid for his goods. He didn’t expect an answer really, but he felt he had to ask.

  “July.”

  “Really?” Morin suspected he’d have to work on his “interrogation” face. “How’d you remember that?”

  “It’s what I do. You get to know the habits of people. And when they buy something unusual, like this,” he held up the tin just before placing it in the paper bag, “I notice. Actually, two people bought some. Regular run on the market.”

  Agent Paul Morin left Monsieur Béliveau’s shop with his goods, and a whole lot of unexpected information.

  Agent Isabelle Lacoste started her day with the more straightforward of the interviews. She pressed the button and the elevator swished shut and took her to the top of the Banque Laurentienne tower in Montreal. As she waited she looked out at the harbor in one direction and Mont Royal with its huge cross in the other. Splendid glass buildings clustered all around downtown, reflecting the sun, reflecting the aspirations and achievements of this remarkable French city.

  Isabelle Lacoste was always surprised by the amount of pride she felt when looking at downtown Montreal. The architects had managed to make it both impressive and charming. Montrealers never turned their back on the past. The Québécois were like that, for better or worse.

  “Je vous en prie,” the receptionist smiled and indicated a now-opened door.

  “Merci.” Agent Lacoste walked into a quite grand office where a slender, athletic-looking middle-aged man was standing at his desk. He came round, extending his hand, and introduced himself as Yves Charpentier.

  “I have some of the information you asked for,” he said in cultured French. It delighted Lacoste when she could speak her own language to top executives. Her generation could. But she’d heard her parents and grandparents talk, and knew enough recent history to know had it been thirty years earlier she’d probably be speaking to a unilingual Englishman. Her English was perfect, but that wasn’t the point.

  She accepted the offer of coffee.

  “This is rather delicate,” said Monsieur Charpentier, when his secretary had left and the door was closed. “I don’t want you to think Olivier Brulé was a criminal, and there was never any question of laying charges.”

  “But?”

  “We were very happy with him for the first few years. I’m afraid we tend to be impressed by profit and he delivered on that. He moved up quickly. People liked him, especially his clients. A lot of people in this business can be glib, but Olivier was genuine. Quiet, respectful. It was a relief to deal with him.”

  “But?” Lacoste repeated, with a slight smile she hoped took the edge off her insistence. Monsieur Charpentier smiled back.

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