by Louise Penny
Her dream. A horse of her own.
As a girl she’d ridden. With the wind in her hair and the leather reins light in her hands she’d felt free. And safe. The staggering worries of an earnest little girl forgotten.
Years later, when dissatisfaction had turned to despair, when her spirit had grown weary, when she could barely get out of bed in the morning, the dream had reappeared. Like the cavalry, like the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, riding to her rescue.
Horses would save her. Those magnificent creatures who so loved their riders they charged into battle with them, through explosions, through terror, through shrieking men and shrieking weapons. If their rider urged them forward, they went.
Who could not love that?
Dominique had awoken one morning knowing what had to be done. For their sanity. For their souls. They had to quit their jobs, buy a home in the country. And have horses.
As soon as they’d bought the old Hadley house and Roar was working on the barn Dominique had gone to find her horses. She’d spent months researching the perfect breed, the perfect temperaments. The height, weight, color even. Palomino, dapple? All the words from childhood came back. All the pictures torn from calendars and taped to her wall next to Keith Partridge. The black horse with the white socks, the mighty, rearing gray stallion, the Arabian, noble, dignified, strong.
Finally Dominique settled on four magnificent hunters. Tall, shining, two chestnut, a black and one that was all white.
“I hear a truck,” said Carole, taking her daughter-in-law’s hand and holding it lightly. Like reins.
A truck hove into view. Dominique waved. The truck slowed, then followed her directions into the yard and stopped next to the brand new barn.
Four horses were led from the van, their hooves clunking on the wooden ramp. When they were all standing in the yard the driver walked over to the women, tossing a cigarette onto the dirt and grinding it underfoot.
“You need to sign, madame.” He held the clipboard out between them. Dominique reached for it and barely taking her eyes off the horses she signed her name then gave the driver a tip.
He took it then looked from the two bewildered women to the horses.
“You sure you want to keep ’em?”
“I’m sure, thank you,” said Dominique with more confidence than she felt. Now that they were actually there, and the dream was a reality, she realized she had no real idea what to do with a horse. Never mind four of them. The driver seemed to sympathize.
“Want me to put them in their stalls?”
“No, that’s fine. We can do it. Merci.” She wanted him to leave, quickly. To not witness her uncertainty, her bumbling, her ineptness. Dominique Gilbert wasn’t used to blundering, but she suspected she was about to become very familiar with it.
The driver reversed the empty van and drove away. Carole turned to Dominique and said, “Well, ma belle, I suspect we can’t do any worse than their last owners.”
As the van headed back to Cowansville they caught a glimpse of the word stenciled on the back door. In bold, black letters, so there could be no doubt. Abattoir. Then the two women turned back to the four sorry animals in front of them. Matted, walleyed, swaybacked. Hooves overgrown and coats covered in mud and sores.
“’Twould ring the bells of Heaven,” whispered Carole.
Dominique didn’t know about the bells of Heaven, but her head was ringing. What had she done? She moved forward with a carrot and offered it to the first horse. A broken-down old mare named Buttercup. The horse hesitated, not used to kindness. Then she took a step toward Dominique and with large, eloquent lips she picked the sweet carrot from the hand.
Dominique had canceled her purchase of the magnificent hunters and had decided to buy horses destined for slaughter. If she was expecting them to save her, the very least she could do was save them first.
An hour and a half later Dominique, Carole and the four horses were still standing in front of the barn. But now they’d been joined by a vet.
“Once they’re bathed you’ll need to rub this into their sores.” He handed Dominique a bucket of ointment. “Twice a day, in the morning and at night.”
“Can they be ridden?” Carole asked, holding the halter of the largest horse. Privately she suspected it wasn’t a horse at all, but a moose. Its name was Macaroni.
“Mais, oui. I’d encourage it.” He was walking round them again, his large, sure hands going over the sorry beasts. “Pauvre cheval,” he whispered into the ear of the old mare, Buttercup, her mane almost all fallen out, her tail wispy and her coat bedraggled. “They need exercise, they need good food and water. But mostly they need attention.”
The vet was shaking his head as he finished his examinations.
“The good news is there’s nothing terminally wrong with them. Left to rot in muddy fields and bitter cold barns. Never groomed. Neglected. But this one.” He approached the tall, walleyed dark horse, who shied away. The vet waited and approached again quietly, making soothing sounds until the horse settled. “This one was abused. You can see it.” He pointed to the scars on the horse’s flanks. “He’s afraid. What’s his name?”
Dominique consulted the bill from the abattoir, then looked at Carole.
“What is it?” the older woman asked, walking over to read the bill as well. “Oh,” she said, then looked at the vet. “Can a horse’s name be changed?”
“Normally I’d say yes, but not this one. He needs some continuity. They get used to their names. Why?”
“His name’s Marc.”
“I’ve heard worse,” said the vet, packing up.
The two women exchanged glances. So far Marc, her husband, not the horse, had no idea Dominique had canceled the hunters in favor of these misfits. He almost certainly wouldn’t be happy. She’d been hoping he wouldn’t notice, and if she gave them mighty, masculine names like Thunder and Trooper he might not care. But he’d certainly notice a half-blind, scarred and scared old wreck named Marc.
“Ride them as soon as you can,” said the vet from his car. “Just walk at first until they get their strength back.” He gave the two women a warm smile. “You’ll be fine. Don’t worry. These are four lucky horses.”
And he drove off.
“Oui,” said Carole, “until we saddle the wrong end.”
“I think the saddle goes in the middle,” said Dominique.
“Merde,” said Carole.
The Sûreté was out for blood. If the victim hadn’t been murdered in the bistro he was killed somewhere else, and they needed to find the crime scene. Blood, and quite a bit of it, had been spilled. And while the murderer had had two days to clean up, blood stained. Blood stuck. It would be almost impossible to completely erase the evidence of this brutal murder. Every home, every business, every shed, every barn, garage, kennel in and around Three Pines was scoured. Jean Guy Beauvoir coordinated it, sending teams of Sûreté officers throughout the village and into the countryside. He stayed in the Incident Room and received their reports, guiding them, occasionally chastising them, his patience eroding as the negative reports flowed in.
Nothing.
No sign of a murder scene or a murder weapon. Not even at the old Hadley house, whose new floors proved bloodless. The lab tests had come back on Olivier’s pokers, confirming neither was the weapon. It was still out there, somewhere.
They did find Guylaine’s missing boots, and a root cellar under Monsieur Béliveau’s house, long overgrown and abandoned, but still housing pickled beets and cider. There was a squirrel’s nest in Ruth’s attic, not perhaps surprisingly, and suspicious seeds in Myrna’s mudroom that turned out to be hollyhock.
Nothing.
“I’ll widen the search area,” said Beauvoir to the Chief, over the phone.
“Probably a good idea.” But Gamache didn’t sound convinced.
Through the receiver Beauvoir could hear bells and music and laughter.
Armand Gamache was at the fair.
The Brume Co
unty Fair was more than a century old, bringing people in from all over the townships. Like most fairs it had started as a meeting place for farmers, to show their livestock, to sell their autumn produce, to make deals and see friends. There was judging in one barn and displays of handicraft in another. Baking was for sale in the long aisles of open sheds and children lined up for licorice and maple syrup candy, popcorn and freshly made doughnuts.
It was the last celebration of summer, the bridge into autumn.
Armand Gamache walked past the rides and hawkers, then consulted his watch. It was time. He made for a field to the side of the barns, where a crowd had gathered. For the Wellington Boot Toss.
Standing on the edge of the field he watched as kids and adults lined up. The young man in charge settled them down, gave them each an old rubber boot, and standing well back he raised his arm. And held it there.
The tension was almost unbearable.
Then like an ax he dropped it.
The line of people raised their arms in unison and shot them forward, and to whoops of encouragement from onlookers a storm of Wellington boots was released.
Gamache knew in that instant why he’d gotten such an unexpectedly good spot at the side of the field. At least three boots shot his way.
He turned and hunched his back, instinctively bringing his arm up to protect his head. With a series of thuds the boots landed around him, but not on him.
The young man in charge ran over.
“You okay?”
He had curly brown hair that shone auburn in the sun. His face was tanned and his eyes a deep blue. He was stunningly handsome, and pissed off.
“You shouldn’t be standing there. I thought for sure you’d move.”
Gamache was treated to the look of someone recognizing they were in the presence of immeasurable stupidity.
“C’était ma faute,” admitted Gamache. “Sorry. I’m looking for Old Mundin.”
“That’s me.”
Gamache stared at the flushed and handsome young man.
“And you’re Chief Inspector Gamache.” He stuck out his hand, large and calloused. “I’ve seen you around Three Pines. Didn’t your wife take part in the clog dancing on Canada Day?”
Gamache could barely look away from this young man, so full of vigor and light. He nodded.
“Thought so. I was one of the fiddlers. You’re looking for me?”
Behind Old Mundin more people were forming up and looking in his direction. He glanced at them, but seemed relaxed.
“I’d like to talk, when you have a moment.”
“Sure. We have a couple more heats, then I can leave. Want to try?”
He offered Gamache one of the boots that had almost brained him.
“What do I do?” asked Gamache as he took the boot and followed Mundin to the line.
“It’s a Wellington Boot Toss,” said Old Mundin, with a laugh. “I think you can figure it out.”
Gamache smiled. This perhaps wasn’t his brightest day. He took his place beside Clara and noticed Old Mundin jog down the line to a beautiful young woman and a child who’d be about six. He knelt down and handed the boy a small boot.
“Charles,” said Clara. “His son.”
Gamache looked again. Charles Mundin was also beautiful. He laughed and turned the wrong way, and with patience his parents got him sorted out. Old Mundin kissed his son and jogged back to the line.
Charles Mundin, Gamache saw, had Down’s syndrome.
“Ready?” called Mundin, raising his arm. “Set.”
Gamache gripped his boot and glanced down the line at Peter and Clara, staring intently ahead of them.
“Toss!”
Gamache swung up his arm and felt his boot whack his back. Then he sliced forward, losing his grip on the muddy boot. It headed sideways to land about two feet ahead of him and to the side.
Clara’s grip, while stronger, didn’t last much longer, and her boot went almost straight up into the air.
“Fore!” everyone yelled and as one they reeled back, straining to see as it plunged toward them out of the blinding sun.
It hit Peter. Fortunately it was a tiny, pink child’s boot and bounced off him without effect. Behind Gamache, Gabri and Myrna were taking bets how long it would take Clara to come up with an excuse and what it would be.
“Ten dollars on ‘The boot was wet,’ ” said Myrna.
“Nah, she used that last year. How about ‘Peter walked into it’?”
“You’re on.”
Clara and Peter joined them. “Can you believe they gave me a wet boot again?”
Gabri and Myrna hooted with laughter and Clara, smiling broadly, caught Gamache’s eye. Money changed hands. She leaned into Gamache and whispered, “Next year I’m saying Peter leaned into it. Put some money down.”
“Suppose you don’t hit him?”
“But I always do,” she said earnestly. “He leans into it, you know.”
“I had heard.”
Myrna waved across the field to Ruth, limping along with Rosa beside her. Ruth gave her the finger. Charles Mundin, seeing this, waved, giving everyone the finger.
“Ruth doesn’t do the Wellington Boot Toss?” asked Gamache.
“Too much like fun,” said Peter. “She came to find children’s clothing in the craft barn.”
“Why?”
“Who knows why Ruth does anything,” said Myrna. “Any headway with the investigation?”
“Well, there was one important finding,” said Gamache, and everyone crowded even closer around him. Even Ruth limped over. “The coroner says the dead man wasn’t killed in the bistro. He was killed somewhere else and taken there.”
He could hear the midway clearly now, and hawkers promising huge stuffed toys if you shot a tin duck. Bells jingled to call attention to games and the ring announcer warned people the horse show was about to start. But from his audience there was silence. Until finally Clara spoke.
“That’s great news for Olivier, isn’t it?”
“You mean it makes him less of a suspect?” said Gamache. “I suppose. But it raises a lot more questions.”
“Like how’d the body get into the bistro,” said Myrna.
“And where he was killed,” said Peter.
“We’re searching the village. House by house.”
“You’re what?” asked Peter. “Without our permission?”
“We have warrants,” said Gamache, surprised by Peter’s vehement reaction.
“It’s still a violation of our privacy. You knew we’d be back, you could’ve waited.”
“I could have, but chose not to. These weren’t social calls, and frankly your feelings are secondary.”
“Apparently our rights are too.”
“That’s not accurate.” The Chief Inspector spoke firmly. The more heated Peter became the calmer Gamache grew. “We have warrants. Your right to privacy I’m afraid ended when someone took a life in your village. We’re not the ones who’ve violated your rights, the murderer is. Don’t forget that. You need to help us, and that means stepping aside and letting us do our work.”
“Letting you search our homes,” said Peter. “How would you feel?”
“I wouldn’t feel good about it either,” admitted Gamache. “Who would? But I hope I’d understand. This has just begun, you know. It’s going to get worse. And before it’s over we’ll know where everything is hidden.”
He looked sternly at Peter.
Peter saw the closed door into his studio. He imagined Sûreté officers opening it. Flicking on the light switch. Going into his most private space. The place he kept his art. The place he kept his heart. His latest work was in there, under a sheet. Hiding. Away from critical eyes.
But now strangers would have opened that door, lifted that veil and seen it. What would they think?
“So far we haven’t found anything, except, I understand, Guylaine’s missing boots.”
“So you found them,” said Ruth. “The old bitch accused
me of stealing them.”
“They were found in the hedge between her place and yours,” said Gamache.
“Imagine that,” said Ruth.
Gamache noticed the Mundins standing on the edge of the field, waiting for him. “Excuse me.”
He walked briskly to the young couple and their son and joined them as they walked to the stall Old Mundin had set up. It was full of furniture, hand made. A person’s choices were always revealing, Gamache found. Mundin chose to make furniture, fine furniture. Gamache’s educated eye skimmed the tables, cabinets and chairs. This was painstaking, meticulous work. All the joints dovetailed together without nails; the details were beautifully inlaid, the finishes smooth. Faultless. Work like this took time and patience. And the young carpenter could never, ever be paid what these tables, chairs, dressers were worth.
And yet Old Mundin chose to do it anyway. Unusual for a young man these days.
“How can we help?” The Wife asked, smiling warmly. She had very dark hair, cut short to her head, and large, thoughtful, eyes. Her clothing was layered and looked both comfortable and bohemian. An earth mother, thought Gamache, married to a carpenter.
“I have a few questions, but tell me about your furniture. It’s beautiful.”
“Merci,” said Mundin. “I spend most of the year making pieces to sell at the fair.”
Gamache ran his large hand over the smooth surface of a chest of drawers. “Lovely polish. Paraffin?”
“Not unless we want them to burst into flames,” laughed Old. “Paraffin’s highly flammable.”
“Varathane?”
Old Mundin’s beautiful face crinkled in a smile. “You are perhaps mistaking us for Ikea. Easy to do,” he joked. “No, we use beeswax.”
We, thought Gamache. He’d watched this young couple for just a few minutes but it seemed clear they were a team.
“Do you sell much at the fair?” he asked.
“This’s all we have left,” The Wife said, indicating the few exquisite pieces around them.