Brutal Telling Page 7

  “I’m glad you approve,” said Gamache, bowing slightly before wandering off toward the fireplace. He picked up the poker, and examined it.

  “It’s a fireplace poker,” said Clara, appearing at his elbow. “You use it to poke the fire.”

  She was smiling and watching him. He realized he must have looked a little odd, holding the long piece of metal to his face as though he’d never seen one before. He put it down. No blood on it. He was relieved.

  “I hear your solo show is coming up in a few months.” He turned to her, smiling. “It must be thrilling.”

  “If putting a dentist’s drill up your nose is thrilling. Yes.”

  “That bad?”

  “Oh, well, you know. It’s only torture.”

  “Have you finished all the paintings?”

  “They’re all done, at least. They’re crap, of course, but at least they’re finished. Denis Fortin is coming down himself to discuss how they’ll be hung. I have a specific order in mind. And if he disagrees I have a plan. I’ll cry.”

  Gamache laughed. “That’s how I got to be Chief Inspector.”

  “I told you so,” Ruth hissed at Rosa.

  “Your art is brilliant, Clara. You know that,” said Gamache, leading her away from the crowd.

  “How’d you know? You’ve only seen one piece. Maybe the others suck. I wonder if I made a mistake going with the paint by numbers.”

  Gamache made a face.

  “Would you like to see them?” Clara asked.

  “Love to.”

  “Great. How about after dinner? That gives you about an hour to practice saying, ‘My God, Clara, they’re the best works of art ever produced by anyone, anywhere.’ ”

  “Sucking up?” smiled Gamache. “That’s how I made Inspector.”

  “You’re a Renaissance Man.”

  “I see you’re good at it too.”

  “Merci. Speaking of your job, do you have any idea who that dead man is?” She’d lowered her voice. “You told Ruth you didn’t, but is that true?”

  “You think I’d lie?” he asked. But why not, he thought. Everyone else does. “You mean, how close are we to solving the crime?”

  Clara nodded.

  “Hard to say. We have some leads, some ideas. It makes it harder to know why the man was killed not knowing who he was.”

  “Suppose you never find out?”

  Gamache looked down at Clara. Was there something in her voice? An imperfectly hidden desire that they never find out who the dead man was?

  “It makes our job harder,” he conceded, “but not impossible.”

  His voice, while relaxed, became momentarily stern. He wanted her to know they’d solve this case, one way or another. “Were you at the bistro last night?”

  “No. We’d gone to the fair with Myrna. Had a disgusting dinner of fries, burgers and cotton candy. Went on a few rides, watched the local talent show, then came back here. I think Myrna might’ve gone in, but we were tired.”

  “We know the dead man wasn’t a villager. He seems to have been a stranger. Have you seen any strangers around?”

  “People come through backpacking or bicycling,” said Clara, sipping her red wine and thinking. “But most of them are younger. I understand this was quite an old man.”

  Gamache didn’t tell her what the coroner had said that afternoon.

  “Roar Parra told Agent Lacoste he’d seen someone lurking in the woods this summer. Does that sound familiar?” He watched her closely.

  “Lurking? Isn’t that a bit melodramatic? No, I haven’t seen anyone and neither has Peter. He’d have told me. And we spend a lot of time outside in the garden. If there was someone there we’d have seen him.”

  She waved toward their backyard, in darkness now, but Gamache knew it was large and sloped gently toward the Rivière Bella Bella.

  “Mr. Parra didn’t see him there,” said Gamache. “He saw him there.”

  He pointed to the old Hadley house, on the hill above them. The two of them took their drinks and walked out the door to the front veranda. Gamache was wearing his gray flannels, shirt, tie and jacket. Clara had a sweater, and needed it. In early September the nights grew longer and cooler. All around the village lights shone in homes, and even in the house on the hill.

  The two looked at the house in silence for a few moments.

  “I hear it’s sold,” said Gamache, finally.

  Clara nodded. They could hear the murmur of conversation from the living room, and light spilled out so that Gamache could see Clara’s face in profile.

  “Few months ago,” she said. “What are we now? Labor Day? I’d say they bought it back in July and have been doing renovations ever since. Young couple. Or at least, my age, which seems young to me.”

  Clara laughed.

  It was hard for Gamache to see the old Hadley house as just another place in Three Pines. For one thing, it never seemed to belong to the village. It seemed the accusation, the voyeur on the hill, that looked down on them. Judged them. Preyed on them. And sometimes took one of the villagers, and killed them.

  Horrible things had happened in that place.

  Earlier in the year he and his wife Reine-Marie had come down and helped the villagers repaint and repair the place. In the belief that everything deserved a second chance. Even houses. And the hopes someone would buy it.

  And now someone had.

  “I know they hired Roar to work on the grounds,” said Clara. “Clean up the gardens. He’s even built a barn and started reopening the trails. There must have been fifty kilometers of bridle paths in those woods in Timmer Hadley’s time. Grown over, of course. Lots of work for Roar to do.”

  “He said he saw the stranger in the woods while he worked. Said he’d felt himself being watched for a while but only caught sight of someone once. He’d tried to run after him but the guy disappeared.”

  Gamache’s gaze shifted from the old Hadley house down to Three Pines. Kids were playing touch football on the village green, eking out every last moment of their summer vacation. Snippets of voices drifted to them from villagers sitting on other porches, enjoying the early evening. The main topic of conversation, though, wouldn’t be the ripening tomatoes, the cooler nights, or getting in the winter wood.

  Into the gentle village something rotten had crawled. Words like “murder,” “blood,” “body,” floated in the night air, as did something else. The soft scent of rosewater and sandalwood from the large, quiet man beside Clara.

  Back inside Isabelle Lacoste was pouring herself another watered-down Scotch from the drinks tray on the piano. She looked around the room. A bookcase covered an entire wall, crammed with books, broken only by a window and the door to the veranda through which she could see the Chief and Clara.

  Across the living room Myrna was chatting with Olivier and Gabri while Peter worked in the kitchen and Ruth drank in front of the fireplace. Lacoste had been in the Morrow home before, but only to conduct interviews. Never as a guest.

  It was as comfortable as she’d imagined. She saw herself going back to her husband in Montreal and convincing him they could sell their home, take the kids out of school, chuck their jobs and move here. Find a cottage just off the village green and get jobs at the bistro or Myrna’s bookshop.

  She subsided into an armchair and watched as Beauvoir came in from the kitchen, a pâté-smeared piece of bread in one hand and a beer in the other, and started toward the sofa. He halted suddenly, as though repelled, changed course, and went outside.

  Ruth rose and limped to the drinks tray, a malevolent sneer on her face. Scotch replenished she returned to the sofa, like a sea monster slipping beneath the surface once again, still waiting for a victim.

  “Any idea when we can reopen the bistro?” Gabri asked as he, Olivier and Myrna joined Agent Lacoste.

  “Gabri,” said Olivier, annoyed.

  “What? I’m just asking.”

  “We’ve done what we need to,” she told Olivier. “You can open up whenever you’d like.”

  “You can’t stay closed long, you know,” said Myrna. “We’d all starve to death.”

  Peter put his head in and announced, “Dinner!”

  “Though perhaps not immediately,” said Myrna, as they headed for the kitchen.

  Ruth hauled herself out of the sofa and went to the veranda door.

  “Are you deaf?” she shouted at Gamache, Beauvoir and Clara. “Dinner’s getting cold. Get inside.”

  Beauvoir felt his rectum spasm as he hurried past her. Clara followed Beauvoir to the dinner table, but Gamache lingered.

  It took him a moment to realize he wasn’t alone. Ruth was standing beside him, tall, rigid, leaning on her cane, her face all reflected light and deep crevices.

  “A strange thing to give to Olivier, wouldn’t you say?”

  The old voice, sharp and jagged, cut through the laughter from the village green.

  “I beg your pardon?” Gamache turned to her.

  “The dead man. Even you can’t be that dense. Someone did this to Olivier. The man’s greedy and shiftless and probably quite weak, but he didn’t kill anyone. So why would someone choose his bistro for murder?”

  Gamache raised his eyebrows. “You think someone chose the bistro on purpose?”

  “Well, it didn’t happen by accident. The murderer chose to kill at Olivier’s Bistro. He gave the body to Olivier.”

  “To kill both a man and a business?” asked Gamache. “Like giving white bread to a goldfish?”

  “Fuck you,” said Ruth.

  “Nothing I ever gave was good for you,” quoted Gamache. “It was like white bread to a goldfish.”

  Beside him Ruth Zardo stiffened, then in a low growl she finished her own poem.

  “They cram and cram, and it kills them,

  and they drift in the pool, belly up,

  making stunned faces

  and playing on our guilt

  as if their own toxic gluttony

  was not their fault.”

  Gamache listened to the poem, one of his favorites. He looked across at the bistro, dark and empty on a night when it should have been alive with villagers.

  Was Ruth right? Had someone chosen the bistro on purpose? But that meant Olivier was somehow implicated. Had he brought this on himself? Who in the village hated the tramp enough to kill him, and Olivier enough to do it there? Or was the tramp merely a convenient tool? A poor man in the wrong place? Used as a weapon against Olivier?

  “Who do you think would want to do this to Olivier?” he asked Ruth.

  She shrugged, then turned to leave. He watched her take her place among her friends, all of them moving in ways familiar to each other, and now to him.

  And to the killer?

  EIGHT

  The meal was winding down. They’d dined on corn on the cob and sweet butter, fresh vegetables from Peter and Clara’s garden and a whole salmon barbecued over charcoal. The guests chatted amicably as warm bread was passed and salad served.

  Myrna’s exuberant arrangement of hollyhock, sweet pea and phlox sat in the center, so that it felt as though they were eating in a garden. Gamache could hear Lacoste asking her dinner companions about the Parras, and then segueing into Old Mundin. The Chief Inspector wondered if they realized they were being interrogated.

  Beauvoir was chatting to his neighbors about the Brume County Fair, and visitors. Across the table from Beauvoir sat Ruth, glaring at him. Gamache wondered why, though with Ruth that was pretty much her only form of expression.

  Gamache turned to Peter, who was serving arugula, frizzy lettuce and fresh ripe tomatoes.

  “I hear the old Hadley house has been sold. Have you met the new owners?”

  Peter passed him the salad bowl of deep-burled wood.

  “We have. The Gilberts. Marc and Dominique. His mother lives with them too. Came from Quebec City. I think she was a nurse or something. Long retired. Dominique was in advertising in Montreal and Marc was an investment dealer. Made a fortune then retired early before the market went sour.”

  “Lucky man.”

  “Smart man,” said Peter.

  Gamache helped himself to the salad. He could smell the delicate dressing of garlic, olive oil and fresh tarragon. Peter poured them another glass of red wine and handed the bottle down the long table. Gamache watched to see if Peter’s comment held a sting, a subtext. By “smart” did Peter mean “shrewd,” “cunning,” “sly”? But no, Gamache felt Peter meant what he said. It was a compliment. While Peter Morrow rarely insulted anyone, he rarely complimented them either. But he seemed impressed by this Marc Gilbert.

  “Do you know them well?”

  “Had them around for dinner a few times. Nice couple.” For Peter that was an almost effusive comment.

  “Interesting that with all that money they’d buy the old Hadley house,” said Gamache. “It’s been abandoned for a year or more. Presumably they could’ve bought just about any place around here.”

  “We were a little surprised as well, but they said they wanted a clean canvas, some place they could make their own. Practically gutted the house, you know. It also has loads of land and Dominique wants horses.”

  “Roar Parra’s been clearing the trails, I hear.”

  “Slow job.”

  As he was talking Peter’s voice had dropped to a whisper, so that the two men were leaning toward each other like co-conspirators. Gamache wondered what they were conspiring about.

  “It’s a lot of house for three people. Do they have children?”

  “Well, no.”

  Peter’s eyes shifted down the table, then back to Gamache. Whom had he just looked at? Clara? Gabri? It was impossible to say.

  “Have they made friends in the community?” Gamache leaned back and spoke in a normal tone, taking a forkful of salad.

  Peter looked down the table again and lowered his voice even more. “Not exactly.”

  Before Gamache could pursue it Peter got up and began clearing the table. At the sink he looked back at his friends, chatting. They were close. So close they could reach out and touch each other, which they occasionally did.

  And Peter couldn’t. He stood apart, and watched. He missed Ben, who’d once lived in the old Hadley house. Peter had played there as a child. He knew its nooks and crannies. All the scary places where ghosts and spiders lived. But now someone else lived there and had turned it into something else.

  Thinking of the Gilberts, Peter could feel his own heart lift a little.

  “What’re you thinking about?”

  Peter started as he realized Armand Gamache was right beside him.

  “Nothing much.”

  Gamache took the mixer from Peter’s hand and poured whipping cream and a drop of vanilla into the chilled bowl. He turned it on and leaned toward Peter, his voice drowned out by the whirring machine, lost to all but his companion.

  “Tell me about the old Hadley house, and the people there.”

  Peter hesitated but knew Gamache wasn’t going to let it go. And this was as discreet as it was going to get. Peter talked, his words whipped and mixed and unintelligible to anyone more than six inches away.

  “Marc and Dominique plan to open a luxury inn and spa.”

  “At the old Hadley house?”

  Gamache’s astonishment was so complete it almost made Peter laugh. “It’s not the same place you remember. You should see it now. It’s fantastic.”

  The Chief Inspector wondered whether a coat of paint and new appliances could exorcise demons, and whether the Catholic Church knew about that.

  “But not everyone’s happy about it,” Peter continued. “They’ve interviewed a few of Olivier’s workers and offered them jobs at higher wages. Olivier’s managed to keep most of his staff, but he’s had to pay more. The two barely speak.”

  “Marc and Olivier?” Gamache asked.

  “Won’t be in the same room.”

  “That must be awkward, in a small village.”

  “Not really.”

  “Then why are we whispering?” Gamache shut the mixer off and spoke in a normal tone. Peter, flustered, looked over at the table again.

  “Look, I know Olivier’ll get over it, but for now it’s just easier not to bring it up.”

  Peter handed Gamache a shortcake, which he cut in half, and Peter piled sliced ripe strawberries in their own brilliant red juice on top of it.

  Gamache noticed Clara getting up and Myrna going with her. Olivier came over and put the coffee on to perk.

  “Can I help?” asked Gabri.

  “Here, put cream on. The cake, Gabri,” said Peter as Gabri approached Olivier with a spoonful of whipped cream. Soon a small conga line of men assembling strawberry shortcakes was formed. When they’d finished they turned around to take the desserts to the table but stopped dead.

  There, lit only by candles, was Clara’s art. Or at least three large canvases, propped on easels. Gamache felt suddenly light-headed, as though he’d traveled back to the time of Rembrandt, da Vinci, Titian. Where art was viewed either by daylight or candlelight. Was this how the Mona Lisa was first seen? The Sistine Chapel? By firelight? Like cave drawings.

  He wiped his hands on a dish towel and walked closer to the three easels. He noticed the other guests did the same thing, drawn to the paintings. Around them the candles flickered and threw more light than Gamache had expected, though it was possible Clara’s paintings produced their own light.

  “I have others, of course, but these’ll be the centerpieces of the exhibition at the Galerie Fortin.”

  But no one was really listening. Instead they were staring at the easels. Some at one, some at another. Gamache stood back for a moment, taking in the scene.

  Three portraits, three elderly women, stared back at him.

  One was clearly Ruth. The one that had first caught Denis Fortin’s eye. The one that had led him to his extraordinary offer of a solo show. The one that had the art world, from Montreal to Toronto, to New York and London, buzzing. About the new talent, the treasure, found buried in Quebec’s Eastern Townships.

  And there it was, in front of them.

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