Still Life

by Louise Penny

  ‘Very impressive, Chief Inspector. I have one of that series. Hope.’

  ‘Do you know Ben Hadley?’

  ‘Of Hadley Mills? Not really. We’ve been at a few functions together. Arts Williamsburg has an annual garden party, often on his mother’s property, and he’s always there. I guess it’s his property now.’

  ‘He never married?’

  ‘No. Late forties and still single. I wonder if he’ll marry now.’

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘It just seems often the case. No woman could come between mother and son, though I don’t think Ben Hadley had the hots for Mommy. Anytime he spoke of her it was of how she’d somehow put him down. Some of his stories were horrible, though he never seemed to notice. I always admired that.’

  ‘What does he do?’

  ‘Ben Hadley? I don’t know. I always had the impression he did nothing, sort of emasculated by Mom. Very sad.’

  ‘Tragic.’ Gamache was remembering the tall, ambling, likeable professor type, slightly befuddled all the time. Sharon Harris picked up the book he’d been reading and read the back cover.

  ‘Good idea.’ She placed it back on the table, impressed. Seems she’d been lecturing Gamache on things he already knew. It probably wasn’t the first time. After she left Gamache went back to his book, flipping to the dog-eared page and staring at the illustration. It was possible. Just possible. He paid for his drink, shrugged into his field coat and left the warmth of the room to head into the cold and damp and approaching dark.

  Clara stared at the box in front of her and willed it to speak. Something had told her to start work on a big wooden box. So she had. And now she sat in her studio and stared, trying to remember why building a big box had seemed such a good idea. More than that. Why had it seemed an artistic idea? In fact, what the hell was the idea anyway?

  She waited for the box to speak to her. To say something. Anything. Even nonsense. Though why Clara thought the box, should it choose to speak, would say anything other than nonsense was another mystery. Who listens to boxes anyway?

  Clara’s art was intuitive, which wasn’t to say it wasn’t skilled and trained. She’d been to the best art college in Canada, even taught there for a while, until its narrow definition of ‘art’ had driven her away. From downtown Toronto to downtown Three Pines. That had been decades ago and so far she’d failed to set the art world on fire. Though waiting for messages from boxes could be a reason. Clara cleared her mind and opened it to inspiration. A croissant floated through it, then her garden, which needed cutting down, then she had a tiny argument with Myrna about the prices Myrna would no doubt offer for some of Clara’s used books. The box, on the other hand, remained mute.

  The studio was growing cold and Clara wondered whether Peter, sitting across the hall in his own studio was also cold. He would almost certainly, she thought with a twang of envy, be working too hard to notice. He never seemed to suffer from the uncertainty that could freeze her, leave her stuck and frozen in place. He just kept putting one foot in front of the other, producing his excruciatingly detailed works that sold for thousands in Montreal. It took him months to do each piece, he was so painfully precise and methodical. She’d given him a roller for his birthday one year and told him to paint faster. He didn’t seem to appreciate the joke. Perhaps because it wasn’t entirely a joke. They were constantly broke. Even now, with the autumn chill seeping in through the cracks around the windows, Clara was loath to turn on the furnace. Instead she’d put on another sweater, and even that was probably worn and pilled. She longed for crisp new bed linens and one can in their kitchen with a name brand and enough firewood to see them through the winter without worry. Worry. It wears you down, she thought as she put on another sweater and sat down again in front of the big silent box.

  Again Clara cleared her mind, opened it wide. And lo and behold, an idea appeared. Fully formed. Whole and perfect and disturbing. Within moments she was out the front door and chugging up rue du Moulin. As she approached Timmer’s home she instinctively crossed to the other side and averted her eyes. Once beyond it she re-crossed the road and made her way past the old schoolhouse, still bedecked in yellow police tape. Then she plunged into the woods, wondering for a moment at the folly of her actions. It was getting on dusk. The time when death waits in the woods. Not in the form of a ghost, Clara hoped, but in an even more sinister guise. A man with a weapon designed to make ghosts. Hunters crept into the woods at dusk. One had killed Jane. Clara slowed down. This was perhaps not the brightest idea she’d had. Actually, it was the box’s idea, so she could blame it if she was killed. Clara heard a movement ahead. She froze.

  The woods were darker than Gamache had expected. He’d entered by a route he was unfamiliar with and spent a moment looking around, getting his bearings. He had his cell phone with him in case he got lost, but he knew the cellular grid was unreliable at best in the mountains. Still, it was some comfort. He turned full circle, slowly, and spotted a small flash of yellow. The police tape circling the spot where Jane had died. He made for it, the woods still soaked from the day’s downpour, and drenching his legs and feet as he went. Just outside the cordon he stopped again and listened. He knew it was the hunting hour, he’d just have to trust that it wasn’t his time. Trust, and be very, very careful. Gamache spent ten minutes searching before he found it. He smiled as he made his way to the tree. How often had his mother chastised him as a child for staring down at his feet, instead of looking up? Well, she’d been right again. When they’d first searched the site he’d been looking on the ground when what he wanted wasn’t down there. It was up in the trees.

  A box.

  Now Gamache stood at the foot of the tree contemplating the wooden structure twenty feet up. Nailed to the trunk was a series of wooden planks, rungs, their nails long since rusted and bleeding a deep orange into the wood. Gamache thought of his warm seat by the window in the Bistro. His amber Cinzano and pretzels. And the fireplace. And he started climbing. Hauling himself up one rung at a time he remembered something else, as one trembling hand reached up and strangled the next rung. He hated heights. How could he have forgotten? Or had he perhaps hoped this time would be different? As he clung to the slimy, creaky, narrow slats and looked up to the wooden platform a zillion feet above, he froze.

  Had the noise come from ahead or behind? Clara wondered. It was like sirens in the city, the noise seems omnipresent. And now she heard it again. She turned and looked behind her. Back there the trees were mostly pines and held their dark needles, making the woods prickly and black. Ahead, into the red sunset, the woods were more mixed, with maples and cherry. Clara made instinctively for the light, not sure whether she should make a lot of noise, like in the spring to warn the bears, or be as quiet as possible. She supposed it depended on what she thought was with her in the woods. A bear, a deer, a hunter, or a ghost. She wished she had a box to consult. Or Peter. Yes, Peter was almost always better than a box.

  Gamache willed his hands to move to the next rung. He remembered to breathe and even hummed a little song of his own devising. To ward away terror. He climbed toward the dark patch above him. Breathe, reach, step. Breathe, reach, step. Finally he made it and his head poked through the small square cut in the floor. It was as the book described. A blind. You’d have to be blind drunk to want to sit up there, thought Gamache. He hauled himself through the hole and to his feet, feeling a wave of relief, which was replaced a moment later by blinding terror. He dropped to his knees and scrambled to the tree trunk, hugging it to himself. The fragile box was perched twenty feet up the tree and hung out five feet into the air, hovering there with only a rickety old rail between Gamache and oblivion. Gamache dug his hands into the bark, feeling the wood pinch his palm, glad for the pain to concentrate on. His horrible fear, and the terrible betrayal, wasn’t that he’d trip and fall, or even that the wooden blind would tumble to the ground. It was that he’d throw himself over the edge. That was the horror of vertigo. He fel

t pulled to the edge and over as if an anchor was attached to his leg. Unaided, unthreatened, he would essentially kill himself. He could see it all happen and the horror of it took his breath away and for a moment he gripped the tree, closed his eyes, and fought to breathe deeply, regularly, from his solar plexus.

  It worked. Slowly the terror ebbed, the certainty of flinging himself to his own death diminished. He opened his eyes. And there he saw it. What he’d come for. What he’d read about in the Bistro from the book he’d bought second-hand from Myrna. The Boys’ Big Book of Hunting. He’d read about blinds, the structures hunters built so they could see the deer coming, and shoot them. But that wasn’t what had called Gamache from the safety and warmth of the village. He’d come looking for something else mentioned in the book. And from where he sat he could see it in the middle distance.

  But now he heard a sound. An almost certainly human sound. Dare he look down? Dare he let go of the trunk and crawl to the edge of the blind and look over? There it was again. A kind of hum. A familiar tune. What was it? Cautiously he released the tree and, sprawling on his stomach on the platform, he inched to the edge.

  He saw the top of a familiar head. Actually he saw a mushroom of hair.

  Clara had decided that she should go with the worst-case scenario, but then couldn’t decide which one was the worst. A bear, a hunter or a ghost? Thoughts of bear reminded her of Winnie the Pooh and the Heffalump. She started to hum. A tune Jane always hummed.

  ‘What do you do with a drunken sailor?’ Gamache called from above.

  Below, Clara froze. Was that God? But surely God would know exactly what to do with a drunken sailor? Besides, Clara couldn’t believe God’s first words to her would be any question other than, ‘What on earth were you thinking?’

  She looked up and saw a box. A talking box. Her knees went weak. So they did speak after all.

  ‘Clara? It’s Armand Gamache. I’m up in the blind.’ Even from this great height in the dusk he could see her confusion. Now he saw a huge smile on her face.

  ‘A blind? I’d forgotten that was there. May I come up?’ But she was already climbing the rungs like an immortal six-year-old. Gamache was both impressed and appalled. Another body, no matter how slim, could be just enough to bring down the entire structure.

  ‘Wow, this is fabulous!’ Clara hopped on to the platform. ‘What a view. Good thing the weather cleared. I hear tomorrow’s supposed to be sunny. Why’re you here?’

  ‘Why are you?’

  ‘I couldn’t concentrate on my work and I suddenly knew I had to come here. Well, not here but down there, to where Jane died. I feel I owe Jane.’

  ‘Hard to get on with life and not feel guilty.’

  ‘That must be it.’ She turned and looked at him, impressed. ‘So what brought you here?’

  ‘I came looking for that.’ He pointed over the side of the platform, trying to sound nonchalant. White lights were dancing in front of his eyes, a familiar prelude to vertigo. He forced himself to look over the edge. The sooner this was over the better.

  ‘What?’ Clara stared into the woods beyond where Jane had been killed. Gamache could feel himself getting annoyed. Surely she could see it. Was that a crack? The sun was casting long shadows and strange light, and some of it just caught at the edge of the forest, and then she saw it.

  ‘The opening through the woods, over there. Is that it?’

  ‘It’s a deer trail,’ said Gamache, inching back from the edge and reaching behind him for the tree trunk. ‘Made by deer year after year. They’re like the railways in Switzerland. Very predictable. They always use the same path, for generations. Which is why the blind was built here.’ He was almost forgetting to panic. ‘To watch the deer move along the trail, and shoot them. But the trail is almost invisible. We had trained investigators searching this whole area yesterday and none of them saw it. None realised there was a tiny path through the woods. I didn’t. You’d have to know it was there.’

  ‘I knew it was there but I’d completely forgotten,’ said Clara. ‘Peter brought me here a long time ago. Right up to this blind. But you’re right. Only locals would know that this is where to find deer. Did Jane’s killer shoot her from here?’

  ‘No, this hasn’t been used in years. I’ll get Beauvoir along, but I’m sure. The killer shot her from the woods. He was either there because he was waiting for deer -’

  ‘Or he was there waiting for Jane. Incredible view form up here.’ Clara turned her back on the deer trail and looked in the opposite direction. ‘You can see Timmer’s home from here.’

  Gamache, surprised by the change in topic, also turned, slowly, cautiously. Sure enough there were the slate roofs of the old Victorian home. Solid and beautiful in its own way with its red stone walls and huge windows.

  ‘Hideous.’ Clara shivered and made for the ladder. ‘Horrible place. And in case you’re wondering,’ she turned to climb down and looked at Gamache, her face in darkness now, ‘I understand what you were saying. Whoever killed Jane was local. But there’s more.’

  ‘“When thou hast done, thou hast not done, for I have more”,’ quoted Gamache. ‘John Donne,’, he explained, feeling a little giddy at the thought of finally escaping.

  Clara was halfway down the hole in the floor, ‘I remember, from school. Frankly, Ruth Zardo’s poetry comes more to mind:

  I’ll keep it all inside; festering, rotting; but I’m really a nice person, kind, loving.‘Get out of my way, you motherfucker.’ Oops, sorry . . .’

  ‘Ruth Zardo, did you say?’ said Gamache stunned. Clara had just quoted from one of his favorite poems. Now he knelt down and continued it:

  ‘ that just slipped out, escaped, I’ll try harder, just watch, I will. You can’t make me say anything. I’ll just go further away, where you will never find me, or hurt me, or make me speak.

  You mean Ruth Zardo wrote that? Wait a minute . . . ’

  He thought back to the notary’s office earlier in the day and his discomfort when he’d heard the names of Jane’s executors. Ruth Zardo nee Kemp. Ruth Zardo is the Governor-General award-winning poet Ruth Kemp? The gifted writer who defined the great Canadian ambivalence of kindness and rage? Who put voice to the unspeakable? Ruth Zardo. ‘Why does that particular Zardo poem remind you of what we’re seeing?’

  ‘Because as far as I know Three Pines is made up of good people. But that deer trail suggests one of us is festering. Whoever shot Jane knew they were aiming at a person and wanted it to look like a hunting accident, like someone was waiting for a deer to come down the trail and shot Jane by accident. But the problem is that with a bow and arrow you have to be too close. Close enough to see what you’re aiming at.’

  Gamache nodded. She had understood after all. Ironic, really, that from a blind they should suddenly see so clearly.

  Back in the Bistro, Gamache ordered a hot cider and went to wash up, pouring the warm water over his frozen hands and picking bits of bark from the scratches. He joined Clara in the armchairs by the fireplace. She was sipping her beer and flipping through The Boys’ Big Book of Hunting. She put the book back on the table and slid it towards him.

  ‘Very clever of you. I’d completely forgotten about blinds and trails and things like that.’

  Gamache cupped his hands around the mug holding his hot, fragrant cider and waited. He felt she needed to talk. After a comfortable minute of silence she nodded into the body of the Bistro. ‘Peter’s over there with Ben. I’m not sure he even knows I left.’

  Gamache looked over. Peter was talking to a waitress and Ben was looking over at them. But not at them. He was looking at Clara. When he caught Gamache’s eye he quickly looked away, back to Peter.

  ‘I need to tell you something,’ said Clara.

  ‘I hope it’s not a weather forecast.’ Gamache grinned. Clara looked confused. ‘Go on,’ he encouraged. ‘Something to do with the blind or the deer trail?’

  ‘No, I’ll have to think about that some more. That was pretty disturbing and I don’t even have vertigo.’ She smiled at him warmly and he hoped he wasn’t blushing. He’d really thought he’d gotten away with that one. Well, one less person who thought he was perfect. ‘What did you want to say?’

  ‘It’s about André Malenfant. You know, Yolande’s husband. At lunch I went up to speak with Yolande, and I heard him laugh at me. It was an unusual sound. Sort of hollow and penetrating. Rancid. Jane described a laugh like that from one of the boys who threw manure.’ Gamache absorbed this information, staring into the fire and sipping his cider, feeling the warm sweet liquid move through his chest and spread into his stomach.

  ‘You’re thinking his son Bernard was one of those boys.’

  ‘That’s it. One of those boys wasn’t there. But Bernard was.’

  ‘We interviewed Gus and Claude. Both deny being there at all, not surprisingly.’

  ‘Philippe apologised for throwing the manure, but that might not mean anything. Every kid’s afraid of Bernie. I think Philippe would have confessed to murder if it would save him a thrashing from that boy. He has them all terrified.’

  ‘Is it possible Philippe wasn’t even there?’

  ‘Possible, not probable. But I do know absolutely that Bernard Malenfant was throwing manure at Olivier and Gabri, and enjoying it.’

  ‘Bernard Malenfant was Jane Neal’s grand-nephew,’ said Gamache slowly, working through the connections.

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Clara, taking a handful of beer nuts. ‘But they weren’t close, as you know. Don’t know the last time she saw Yolande socially. There was a rift.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘I don’t know the specifics,’ said Clara, hesitantly. ‘I only know it had something to do with the house. Jane’s home. It’d belonged to her parents, and there was some sort of dispute. Jane said she and Yolande had been close once. Yolande used to visit her as a kid. They’d play rummy and cribbage. There was another game too with the Queen of Hearts. Every night she’d put the card on the kitchen table and tell Yolande to memorise it because in the morning it would have changed.’

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