Still Life

by Louise Penny

  Table of Contents

  Epigraph

  Praise

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  Teaser chapter

  “It’s hard to decide what provides the most pleasure in this enjoyable book: Gamache, a shrewd and kindly man constantly surprised by homicide; the village, which sounds at first like an ideal place to escape from civilization; or the clever and carefully constructed plot.”

  —Chicago Tribune

  “Cerebral, wise and compassionate, Gamache is destined for stardom. Don’t miss this stellar debut.”

  —Kirkus Reviews (starred review)

  “Terrific. Like a virtuoso, Penny plays a complex variation on the theme of the clue hidden in plain sight.”

  —Publishers Weekly (starred review)

  “A gem of a book.”

  —Booklist (starred review)

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  Extraordinary Praise for STILL LIFE

  “A stellar debut novel. The setting is entrancing... Well done!”

  —Deadly Pleasures

  “A gem of a debut novel—clever, charming, with perceptively realized characters ... and the enormously appealing Chief Inspector Armand Gamache. I can’t wait for the next installment.”

  —Deborah Crombie, author of Water Like a Stone

  “An excellent, subtle plot full of understanding of the deeper places in human nature, and many wise observations that will enrich the reader long after the pages are closed.”

  —Anne Perry, author of Long Spoon Lane

  “Georges Simenon kept Maigret going for over a hundred books. It will be a delight for all of us who love detective fiction if Louise Penny can stay around long enough to do the same for Gamache.”

  —Reginald Hill, author of The Stranger House

  “Still Life is a masterpiece of a traditional drawing room mystery, repainted in the autumnal colors of the Canadian countryside. Louise Penny is a storytelling artist.”

  —Julia Spencer-Fleming, author of To Darkness and to Death

  “What a joy it is to discover a detective like Armand Gamache, strong, calm and charismatic, and at work on a good mystery in a believable setting.”

  —Peter Lovesey, author of The Circle

  “What a joy to read a crime novel written with such skill and integrity, strong on character and atmosphere ... I couldn’t put it down.”

  —Margaret Yorke, author of False Pretences

  “Still Life is a lovely, clever book and I hope I shall be reading a lot more by Louise Penny!”

  —Ann Granger, author of That Way Murder Lies

  NOTE: If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  STILL LIFE

  Copyright © 2005 by Louise Penny.

  Excerpt from A Fatal Grace copyright © 2007 by Louise Penny.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.

  “Herman Melville,” copyright 1940 and renewed 1968 by W.H. Auden. “For the Time Being,” copyright 1944 and renewed 1972 by W.H. Auden, from Collected Poems by W.H. Auden. Used by permission of Random House, Inc. “I Need to Say,” copyright 1995 by Liz Davidson, from In the Cave of My Heart I Found... by Liz Davidson. Used by permission of Liz Davidson. “Lady Mink,” “Apology,” copyright 2000 by Marylyn Plessner from Vapour Trails by Marylyn Plessner. Used by permission of Stephen Jarislowsky.

  Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 2006041992

  ISBN: 0-312-94855-7

  EAN: 9780312-94855-9

  Printed in the United States of America

  First published in Great Britain by Headline Book Publishing

  St. Martin’s Press hardcover edition / July 2006

  St. Martin’s Paperbacks edition / May 2007

  St. Martin’s Paperbacks are published by St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  This book is given, along with all my heart, to Michael

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  This is for my husband Michael, who has created a life for us full of love and kindness. He allowed me to quit my job, pretend to write, then gave me unstinting praise even when what I produced was drivel. I’ve realised that anyone can be a critic but it takes a remarkable person to offer praise. Michael is that person. As is Liz Davidson, my wonderful friend and inspiration. She allowed me to steal her life, her time, her poetry and her brilliant art. And in return she got to hear about every burp from my book-baby. What luck. I’m grateful to her husband, John Ballantyne, who also allowed me to steal his life; Margaret Ballantyne-Power—more a sister than a friend - for her encouragement spanning years; and Sharon and Jim, who never failed to celebrate. Thank you to the lively and caffeinated members of Les Girls: Liz, France, Michele, Johanne, Christina, Daphne, Brigitte, and a special thank you to Cheryl for her love and her prayer stick ritual for Still Life. Thank you to the No Rules Book Club, to Christina Davidson Richards, Kirk Lawrence, Sheila Fischman, Neil McKenty, Cotton Aimers and Sue and Mike Riddell. Thank you to Chris Roy for giving me archery lessons and not mocking, I think.

  My brothers, Rob and Doug, and their families have offered love and support without qualification.

  Still Life would never have been noticed beyond the other wonderful unpublished novels out there had it not been for the generosity of the Crime Writers’ Association in Great Britain. The CWA has created the Debut Dagger award for an unpublished first novel. I’m almost certain mine would never have been noticed had Still Life not been short-listed and then ‘Very Highly Commended’, coming in second for the CWA Debut Dagger in 2004. It was one of the most remarkable things to have happened to me. Here is a group of successful authors who take time to read, support and encourage new crime writers. They gave me an opportunity most of them never had, and I’ll be forever grateful. I also know it’s a gift designed to be given away.

  Kay Mitchell of the CWA has been wonderful and her own novels have given me such pleasure. Thank you as well to Sarah Turner, a heroine in our household, and to Maxim Jakubowski.

  My editor at Hodder Headline is Sherise Hobbs and at St Martin’s Minotaur it is Ben Sevier. They have made Still Life so much better through their critiques, firm suggestions and enthusiasm. It’s both an education and a pleasure to work with them.

  Thank you to Kim McArthur, for taking me under her literary wing.

  And, finally, my agent is Teresa Chris. It is solely because of her that Still Life is in you
r hands now. She is brilliant and fun, a great editor, pithy in the extreme and a superb agent. I am particularly fortunate to be working with her, considering I almost ran her over the first time we met—not a strategy I would recommend to new writers, but it seemed to work.

  Thank you, Teresa.

  I went through a period in my life when I had no friends, when the phone never rang, when I thought I would die from loneliness. I know that the real blessing here isn’t that I have a book published, but that I have so many people to thank.

  ONE

  Miss Jane Neal met her maker in the early morning mist of Thanksgiving Sunday. It was pretty much a surprise all round. Miss Neal’s was not a natural death, unless you’re of the belief everything happens as it’s supposed to. If so, for her seventy-six years Jane Neal had been walking toward this final moment when death met her in the brilliant maple woods on the verge of the village of Three Pines. She’d fallen spread-eagled, as though making angels in the bright and brittle leaves.

  Chief Inspector Armand Gamache of the Sûreté du Quebec knelt down; his knees cracking like the report of a hunter’s rifle, his large, expressive hands hovering over the tiny circle of blood marring her fluffy cardigan, as though like a magician he could remove the wound and restore the woman. But he could not. That wasn’t his gift. Fortunately for Gamache he had others. The scent of mothballs, his grandmother’s perfume, met him halfway. Jane’s gentle and kindly eyes stared as though surprised to see him.

  He was surprised to see her. That was his little secret. Not that he’d ever seen her before. No. His little secret was that in his mid-fifties, at the height of a long and now apparently stalled career, violent death still surprised him. Which was odd, for the head of homicide, and perhaps one of the reasons he hadn’t progressed further in the cynical world of the Sûreté. Gamache always hoped maybe someone had gotten it wrong, and there was no dead body. But there was no mistaking the increasingly rigid Miss Neal. Straightening up with the help of Inspector Beauvoir, he buttoned his lined Burberry against the October chill and wondered.

  Jane Neal had also been late, but in a whole other sense, a few days earlier. She’d arranged to meet her dear friend and next-door neighbor Clara Morrow for coffee in the village bistro. Clara sat at the table by the window and waited. Patience was not her long suit. The mixture of café au lait and impatience was producing an exquisite vibration. Throbbing slightly, Clara stared out the mullioned window at the village green and the old homes and maple trees that circled the Commons. The trees, turning breathtaking shades of red and amber, were just about the only things that did change in this venerable village.

  Framed by the mullions, she saw a pick-up truck drift down rue du Moulin into the village, a beautiful dappled doe draped languidly over its hood. Slowly the truck circled the Commons, halting villagers in mid-step. This was hunting season and hunting territory. But hunters like these were mostly from Montreal or other cities. They’d rent pickups and stalk the dirt roads at dawn and dusk like behemoths at feeding time, looking for deer. And when they spotted one they’d slither to a stop, step out of the truck - and fire. Not all hunters were like that, Clara knew, but enough of them were. Those same hunters would strap the deer on to the hood of their truck and drive around the countryside believing the dead animal on the vehicle somehow announced that great men had done this.

  Every year the hunters shot cows and horses and family pets and each other. And, unbelievably, they sometimes shot themselves, perhaps in a psychotic episode where they mistook themselves for dinner. It was a wise person who knew that some hunters—not all, but some—found it challenging to distinguish a pine from a partridge from a person.

  Clara wondered what had become of Jane. She was rarely late, so she could easily be forgiven. Clara found it easy to forgive most things in most people. Too easy, her husband Peter often warned. But Clara had her own little secret. She didn’t really let go of everything. Most things, yes. But some she secretly held and hugged and would visit in moments when she needed to be comforted by the unkindness of others.

  Croissant crumbs had tumbled on top of the Montreal Gazette left at her table. Between flakes Clara scanned the headlines: ‘Parti Quebecois Vows to Hold Sovereignty Referendum’, ‘Drug Bust in Townships’, ‘Hikers Lost in Tremblant Park’.

  Clara lifted her eyes from the morose headlines. She and Peter had long since stopped subscribing to the Montreal papers. Ignorance really was bliss. They preferred the local Williamsburg County News where they could read about Wayne’s cow, or Guylaine’s visiting grandchildren, or a quilt being auctioned for the seniors’ home. Every now and then Clara wondered if they were copping out, running away from reality and responsibility. Then she realised she didn’t care. Besides, she learned everything she really needed to survive right here at Olivier’s Bistro, in the heart of Three Pines.

  ‘You’re a million miles away,’ came the familiar and well-loved voice. There was Jane, out of breath and smiling, her laugh-lined face pink from the autumn chill and the brisk trot from her cottage across the village green.

  ‘Sorry I’m late,’ she whispered into Clara’s ear as the two hugged, one tiny, plump and breathless, the other thirty years younger, slim, and still vibrating from the caffeine high. ‘You’re trembling,’ said Jane, sitting down and ordering her own café au lait. ‘I didn’t know you cared so much.’

  ‘Filthy old hag,’ laughed Clara.

  ‘I was this morning, that’s for sure. Did you hear what happened?’

  ‘No, what happened?’ Clara leaned forward eager for the news. She and Peter had been in Montreal buying canvases and acrylics for their work. Both were artists. Peter, a success. Clara as yet was undiscovered and, most of her friends secretly felt, was likely to remain that way if she persisted in her unfathomable works. Clara had to admit her series of warrior uteruses were mostly lost on the buying public, though her household items with bouffant hair and huge feet had enjoyed a certain success. She’d sold one. The rest, roughly fifty of them, were in their basement, which looked a lot like Walt Disney’s workshop.

  ‘No,’ whispered Clara a few minutes later, genuinely shocked. In the twenty-five years she’d lived in Three Pines she’d never, ever heard of a crime. The only reason doors were locked was to prevent neighbors from dropping off baskets of zucchini at harvest time. True, as the Gazette headline made clear, there was another crop that equaled zucchini in scope: marijuana. But those not involved tried to turn a blind eye.

  Beyond that, there was no crime. No break-ins, no vandalism, no assaults. There weren’t even any police in Three Pines. Every now and then Robert Lemieux with the local Sûreté would drive around the Commons, just to show the colors, but there was no need.

  Until that morning.

  ‘Could it have been a joke?’ Clara struggled with the ugly image Jane had painted.

  ‘No. It was no joke,’ said Jane, remembering. ‘One of the boys laughed. It was kind of familiar, now that I think of it. Not a funny laugh.’ Jane turned her clear blue eyes on Clara. Eyes full of wonderment. ‘It was a sound I’d heard as a teacher. Not often, thank God. It’s the sound boys make when they’re hurting something and enjoying it.’ Jane shivered at the recollection, and pulled her cardigan around her. ‘An ugly sound. I’m glad you weren’t there.’

  She said this just as Clara reached across the round dark wood table and held Jane’s cold, tiny hand and wished with all her heart she had been there instead of Jane.

  ‘They were just kids, you say?’

  ‘They wore ski masks, so it was hard to tell, but I think I recognised them.’

  ‘Who were they?’

  ‘Philippe Croft, Gus Hennessey and Claude LaPierre,’ Jane whispered the names, looking around to make sure no one could overhear.

  ‘Are you sure?’ Clara knew all three boys. They weren’t exactly the Boy Scout types, but neither were they the sort to do this.

  ‘No,’ admitted Jane.

  ‘Better not tel
l anyone else.’

  ‘Too late.’

  ‘What do you mean, “too late”?’

  ‘I said their names this morning, while it was happening.’

  ‘Said their names in a whisper?’ Clara could feel the blood tumbling from her fingers and toes, rushing to her core, to her heart. Please, please, please, she silently begged.

  ‘I yelled.’

  Seeing Clara’s expression, Jane hurried to justify herself. ‘I wanted to stop them. It worked. They stopped.’

  Jane could still see the boys running away, tripping up du Moulin, out of the village. The one in the brilliant-green mask had turned to look back at her. His hands were still dripping duck manure. The manure put there as autumn mulch for the flower beds on the village green, and not yet spread. She wished she could have seen the boy’s expression. Was he angry? Scared? Amused?

  ‘So you were right. About their names, I mean.’

  ‘Probably. I never thought I’d live to see the day this would happen here.’