Still Life (Three Pines Mysteries) Read online

  ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘The last sovereignty referendum was perilously close, as you know. And the campaign was ugly at times. It’s not always comfortable being a minority in your own country,’ said Ben.

  ‘I appreciate that, but even if Quebec separates from Canada, surely you wouldn’t feel threatened? You know your rights would be protected.’

  ‘Do I? Do I have the right to put up a sign in my own language? Or work only in English? No. The language police would get me. The Office de la Langue Française. I’m discriminated against. Even the Supreme Court agrees. I want to speak English, Chief Inspector.’

  ‘You are speaking English. And so am I. And so are all my officers. Like it or not, Mr Hadley, the English are respected in Quebec.’

  ‘Not always, and not by everyone.’

  ‘True. Not everyone respects police officers either. That’s just life ’.

  ‘You’re not respected because of your actions, what Quebec police have done in the past. We’re not respected just by virtue of being English. It’s not the same thing. Do you have any idea how much our lives have changed in the last twenty years ? My mother barely spoke French, but I’m bilingual. We’re trying, Inspector, but still the English are the laughing stock. Blamed for everything. The tête carrée. No,’ Ben Hadley nodded toward the three sturdy pine trees swaying slightly in the wind. ‘I’ll put my faith in individuals, not the collective.’

  It was, reflected Gamache, one of the fundamental differences between anglophone and francophone Quebecers; the English believed in individual rights and the French felt they had to protect collective rights. Protect their language and culture.

  It was a familiar and sometimes bitter debate, but one that rarely infected personal relationships. Gamache remembered reading in the Montreal Gazette a few years ago an article by a columnist who observed that Quebec worked in reality, just not on paper.

  ‘Things change, you know, Monsieur Hadley,’ Gamache said gently, hoping to lift the tension that had settled on their little park bench. The French-English debate in Quebec was a polarising force. Best, in Gamache’s opinion, leave it to politicans and journalists, who had nothing better to do.

  ‘Do they, Chief Inspector? Are we really growing more civilised? More tolerant? Less violent? If things had changed, you wouldn’t be here.’

  ‘You’re referring to Miss Neal’s death. You believe it was murder?’ Gamache himself had been wondering just that.

  ‘No, I don’t. But I know whoever did that to her intended murder of some sort this morning. At the very least the murder of an innocent deer. That is not a civilised act. No, inspector, people don’t change.’ Ben dipped his head and fiddled with the leash in his hands. ‘I’m probably wrong.’ He looked at Gamache and smiled disarmingly.

  Gamache shared Ben’s feelings about hunting but couldn’t have disagreed more about people. Still, it had been a revealing exchange, and that was his job. To get people to reveal themselves.

  He’d been busy in the two hours since leaving Beauvoir. He’d walked with Peter Morrow and Ben Hadley to the church, where Peter had broken the news to his wife. Gamache had watched, standing back by the door, needing to see how she reacted, and not wanting to interfere. He’d left them then and he and Mr Hadley had continued down the road into the village.

  He’d left Ben Hadley at the entrance to the charming village and made straight for the Bistro. It was easy to spot with its blue and white awnings and round wooden tables and chairs on the sidewalk. A few people were sipping coffee, all eyes on him as he made his way along the Commons.

  Once his eyes adjusted to the inside of the Bistro he saw not the one largish room he’d expected but two rooms, each with its own open fireplace, now crackling with cheery fires. The chairs and tables were a comfortable mishmash of antiques. A few tables had armchairs in faded heirloom materials. Each piece looked as though it had been born there. He’d done enough antique hunting in his life to know good from bad, and that diamond point in the corner with the display of glass and tableware was a rare find. At the back of this room the cash register stood on a long wooden bar. Jars of licorice pipes and twists, cinnamon sticks and bright gummy bears shared the counter with small individual boxes of cereal.

  Beyond these two rooms French doors opened on to a dining room, no doubt, thought Gamache; the room Ben Hadley had recommended.

  ‘May I help you?’ a large young woman with a bad complexion was asking him in perfect French.

  ‘Yes. I’d like to speak with the owner please. Olivier Brulé, I believe.’

  ‘If you’d like a seat, I’ll get him. Coffee while you wait?’

  The woods had been chilly and the thought of a café au lait in front of this open fire was too good. And maybe a licorice pipe, or two. Waiting for Mr Brulé and the coffee, he tried to figure out what was unusual or unexpected about this lovely bistro. Some small thing was a little off.

  ‘I’m sorry to disturb you,’ came a throaty voice slightly above him. He looked up and saw an elderly woman with cropped white hair leaning on a gnarled cane. As he shot to his feet he noticed she was taller than he’d expected. Even leaning she was almost as tall as he, and he had the impression she was not as frail as she appeared.

  Armand Gamache gave a subtle bow and indicated the other chair at his small table. The woman hesitated, but finally the ramrod bent and sat down.

  ‘My name is Ruth Zardo,’ she spoke loudly and slowly, as though to a dull child. ‘Is it true? Is Jane dead?’

  ‘Yes, Madame Zardo. I’m very sorry.’

  A great bang, so sudden and violent it made even Gamache jump, filled the Bistro. None of the other patrons, he noticed, even flinched. It took him just an instant to realise that the noise came from Ruth Zardo whacking her cane against the floor, like a caveman might wield a club. He’d never seen anyone do that before. He’d seen people with canes lift them up and rap on the floor in an annoying bid for attention, which generally worked. But Ruth Zardo had picked up her cane in a swift and apparently practiced move, taken hold of the straight end, and swung the cane over her head until the curved handle whacked the floor.

  ‘What are you doing here while Jane is lying dead in the woods? What kind of police are you? Who killed Jane?’

  The Bistro grew momentarily silent, then slowly the murmur of conversation started up again. Armand Gamache held her imperious stare with his own thoughtful eyes and leaned slowly across the table until he was sure only she could hear. Ruth, believing he might be about to actually whisper the name of the person who had killed her friend, leaned in as well.

  ‘Ruth Zardo, my job is to find out who killed your friend. And I will do that. I will do it in the manner I see fit. I will not be bullied and I will not be treated with disrespect. This is my investigation. If you have anything you’d like to say, or to ask, please do. But never, ever, swing that cane in my company again. And never speak to me like that again.’

  ‘How dare I! This officer is obviously hard at work.’ Both Ruth and her voice rose. ‘Mustn’t disturb the best the Sûreté has to offer.’

  Gamache wondered whether Ruth Zardo really believed this sarcasm would be fruitful. He also wondered why she would take this attitude at all.

  ‘Mrs Zardo, what can I get you?’ the young waitress asked as though none of the dramatics had happened. Or perhaps it was simply intermission.

  ‘A Scotch, please, Marie,’ said Ruth, suddenly deflating and sinking back into the chair. ‘I’m sorry. Forgive me.’

  She sounded to Gamache like someone used to apologising.

  ‘I suppose I could blame Jane’s death for my poor behavior, but as you’ll discover, I’m just like this. I have no talent for choosing my battles. Life seems, strangely, like a battle to me. The whole thing.’

  ‘So I can expect more where that came from?’

  ‘Oh, I think so. But you’ll have plenty of company in your foxhole. And I promise not to whack my cane, at least around you.’
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br />   Armand Gamache leaned back in his chair, just as the Scotch and his café au lait and candy arrived. He took them and with all the dignity he could muster, turned to Ruth.

  ‘Pipe, Madame?’

  Ruth took the largest one and immediately bit the red candy end off.

  ‘How did it happen?’ Ruth asked.

  ‘It looks like a hunting accident. But can you think of anyone who would want to deliberately kill your friend?’

  Ruth told Gamache about the boys throwing manure. When she’d finished, Gamache asked, ‘Why do you think these boys might have killed her? I agree it was a reprehensible thing to do, but she’d already announced their names, so it’s not as though killing her would stop that. What’s gained?’

  ‘Revenge?’ suggested Ruth. ‘At that age, humiliation could be considered a capital offense. True, they were the ones who were trying to humiliate Olivier and Gabri, but the tables turned. And bullies don’t much like getting some of their own back.’

  Gamache nodded. It was possible. But surely, unless you’re psychotic, the revenge would take a different form, something short of cold-blooded murder.

  ‘How long did you know Mrs Neal?’

  ‘Miss. She never married,’ said Ruth. ‘Though she almost did, once. What was his name?’ She consulted the yellowing Rolodex in her head. ‘Andy. Andy Selchuk. No. Sel … Sel … Selinsky. Andreas Selinsky. That was years ago. Fifty or more. Doesn’t matter.’

  ‘Please, tell me,’ said Gamache.

  Ruth nodded and absently stirred her Scotch with the butt end of her licorice pipe.

  ‘Andy Selinsky was a logger. These hills were full of logging operations for a hundred years. Most of them are closed now. Andy worked on Mont Echo at the Thompson operation. The lumberjacks could be violent men. They’d work all week on the mountain, sleeping rough through storms and bear season, and the blackflies must have driven them crazy. They’d smear themselves with bear grease to keep away bugs. They were more afraid of blackflies than black bears. On weekends they’d come out of the woods, like living filth.’

  Gamache was listening closely, genuinely interested, though not sure whether it was all pertinent to the investigation.

  ‘Kaye Thompson’s operation was different, though. I don’t know how she did it, but somehow she kept those huge men in line. Nobody messed with Kaye,’ said Ruth, in admiration.

  ‘Andy Selinksy worked his way up to foreman. A natural leader. Jane fell in love with him, though I must admit most of us had a crush on him. Those huge arms and that rugged face …’ Gamache could feel himself receding as she spoke and drifted back in time. ‘He was immense but gentle. No, gentle isn’t right. Decent. He could be tough, even brutal. But not vicious. And he was clean. Smelled like Ivory soap. He’d come to town with the other lumberjacks from the Thompson mill and they’d stand out because they didn’t stink of rancid bear fat. Kaye must have scrubbed them with lye.’

  Gamache wondered how low the bar was set when all a man had to do to attract a woman was not smell of decomposing bears.

  ‘At the opening dance of the County Fair Andy chose Jane.’ Ruth fell quiet, remembering. ‘Still don’t understand it,’ said Ruth. ‘I mean, Jane was nice and all. We all liked her. But, frankly, she was ugly as sin. Looked like a goat.’

  Ruth laughed out loud at the image she’d conjured up. It was true. Young Jane’s face seemed to stretch out ahead of her, as though reaching for something, her nose elongating and her chin receding. She was also shortsighted, though her parents hated to admit they’d produced anything other than a perfect child, so they ignored her weak eyesight. This only accentuated the peering look, sticking her head out to the limits of her neck, trying to bring the world into focus. She always had a look on her face as though asking, ‘Is that edible?’ Young Jane was also chubby. She would remain chubby her whole life.

  ‘For some unfathomable reason, Andreas Selinsky chose her. They danced all night. It was quite a sight.’ Ruth’s voice had hardened.

  Gamache tried to imagine the young Jane, short, prim and plump, dancing with this huge muscled mountain man.

  ‘They fell in love but her parents found out and put a stop to it. Caused quite a little stir. Jane was the daughter of the chief accountant for Hadley’s Mills. It was inconceivable she’d marry a lumberjack.’

  ‘What happened?’ he couldn’t help but ask. She looked at him as though surprised he was still there.

  ‘Oh, Andy died.’

  Gamache raised an eyebrow.

  ‘No need to get excited, Inspector Clouseau,’ said Ruth.

  ‘An accident in the woods. A tree fell on him. Lots of witnesses. Happened all the time. Though there was some romantic notion at the time that he was so heartbroken he became deliberately careless. Bullshit. I knew him too. He liked her, perhaps even loved her, but he wasn’t nuts. We all get dumped at sometime or another and don’t kill ourselves. No, it was just an accident.’

  ‘What did Jane do?’

  ‘She went away to school. Came back a couple of years later with her teaching degree and took over at the school here. School House Number 6.’

  Gamache noticed a slight shadow at his arm and looked up. A man in his mid-thirties was standing there. Blond, trim, well-dressed in a casual way as though he’d walked out of a Lands End catalogue. He looked tired, but eager to help.

  ‘I’m sorry I was so long. I’m Olivier Brulé.’

  ‘Armand Gamache, I’m the Chief Inspector of Homicide with the Sûreté du Quebec.’

  Unseen by Gamache, Ruth’s eyebrows rose. She’d underestimated the man. He was the big boss. She’d called him Inspector Clouseau, and that was the only insult she could remember. After Gamache arranged for lunch, Olivier turned to Ruth, ‘How are you?’ he touched Ruth lightly on the shoulder. She winced as though burned.

  ‘Not bad. How’s Gabri?’

  ‘Not good. You know Gabri, he wears his heart on his sleeve.’ In fact, there were times Olivier wondered whether Gabri hadn’t been born inside out.

  Before Ruth left, Gamache got the bare outline of Jane’s life. He also got the name of her next of kin. A niece named Yolande Fontaine, a real estate agent working out of St Rémy. He looked at his watch: 12.30. St Rémy was about fifteen minutes away. He could probably make it. As he fished in his pocket for his wallet he saw Olivier just leaving and wondered if he couldn’t do two things at once.

  Grabbing his hat and coat from the rack he noticed a tiny white tag hanging from one of the hooks. It twigged. The thing that was out of place, unusual. He turned around, putting on his coat, and peered at the tables and chairs and mirrors and all the other antiques in the Bistro. Every one of them had a tag. This was a shop. Everything was for sale. You could eat your croissant and buy your plate. He felt a wave of pleasure at solving the little riddle. A few minutes later he was in Olivier’s car heading for St Rémy. It wasn’t hard to convince Olivier to give him a lift. Olivier was anxious to help.

  ‘Rain on the way,’ said Olivier, bumping along the gravel road.

  ‘And turning colder tomorrow,’ Gamache added. Both men nodded silently. After a couple of kilometers, Gamache spoke. ‘What was Miss Neal like?’

  ‘It’s just so unbelievable that anyone would kill her. She was a wonderful person. Kind and gentle.’

  Unconsciously, Olivier had equated the way people lived with the way they died. Gamache was always impressed with that. Almost invariably people expected that if you were a good person you shouldn’t meet a bad end, that only the deserving are killed. And certainly only the deserving are murdered. However well hidden and subtle, there was a sense that a murdered person had somehow asked for it. That’s why the shock when someone they knew to be kind and good was a victim. There was a feeling that surely there had been a mistake.

  ‘I’ve never met anyone uniformly kind and good. Didn’t she have any flaws? Anyone she rubbed the wrong way?’

  There was a long pause and Gamache wondered whether Olivier had fo
rgotten the question. But he waited. Armand Gamache was a patient man.

  ‘Gabri and I have only been here twelve years. I didn’t know her before that. But I have to say, honestly, I’ve never heard anything bad about Jane.’

  They arrived in St Rémy, a town Gamache knew slightly, having skied at the mountain that grew behind the village when his children were young.

  ‘Before you go in, do you want me to tell you about her niece Yolande?’

  Gamache noticed the eagerness in Olivier’s voice. Clearly there were things to tell. But that treat would have to wait.

  ‘Not now, but on the way back.’

  ‘Great.’ Olivier parked the car and pointed to the real estate office in the little mall. Where nearby Williamsburg was self-consciously quaint, St Rémy was just an old Townships town. Not really planned, not designed, it was working-class, and somehow more real than the far prettier Williamsburg, the main town in the area. They arranged to meet back at the car at 1.15. Gamache noticed that even though Olivier had a few things in the back seat he didn’t lock the car. Just strolled away.

  A blonde woman with a great big smile greeted Chief Inspector Gamache at the door.

  ‘M. Gamache, I’m Yolande Fontaine,’ her hand was out and pumping before he’d even slipped his into it. He felt a practiced eye sweep over him, assessing. He’d called to make sure she was in the office before leaving Three Pines and clearly he, or his Burberry, measured up.

  ‘Now, please have a seat. What kind of property are you interested in?’ She maneuvered him into an orange-upholstered cupped chair. Bringing out his warrant card he handed it across the desk and watched the smile fade.

  ‘What’s that goddamned kid done now? Tabernacle. Her impeccable French had disappeared as well, replaced by street French, twangy and harsh, the words covered in grit.

  ‘No, Madame. Is your aunt Jane Neal? Of Three Pines?’