The Brutal Telling

by Louise Penny

  “Je vous en prie,” the receptionist smiled and indicated a now-opened door.

  “Merci.” Agent Lacoste walked into a quite grand office where a slender, athletic-looking middle-aged man was standing at his desk. He came round, extending his hand, and introduced himself as Yves Charpentier.

  “I have some of the information you asked for,” he said in cultured French. It delighted Lacoste when she could speak her own language to top executives. Her generation could. But she’d heard her parents and grandparents talk, and knew enough recent history to know had it been thirty years earlier she’d probably be speaking to a unilingual Englishman. Her English was perfect, but that wasn’t the point.

  She accepted the offer of coffee.

  “This is rather delicate,” said Monsieur Charpentier, when his secretary had left and the door was closed. “I don’t want you to think Olivier Brulé was a criminal, and there was never any question of laying charges.”

  “But?”

  “We were very happy with him for the first few years. I’m afraid we tend to be impressed by profit and he delivered on that. He moved up quickly. People liked him, especially his clients. A lot of people in this business can be glib, but Olivier was genuine. Quiet, respectful. It was a relief to deal with him.”

  “But?” Lacoste repeated, with a slight smile she hoped took the edge off her insistence. Monsieur Charpentier smiled back.

  “Some company money went missing. A couple of million.” He watched for her response but she simply listened. “A very discreet investigation was launched. In the meantime more money disappeared. Eventually we tracked it down to two people. One of them was Olivier. I didn’t believe it, but after a couple of interviews he admitted it.”

  “Could he have been covering for the other employee?”

  “Doubtful. Frankly, the other employee, while bright, wasn’t smart enough to do this.”

  “Surely it doesn’t take brains to embezzle. I’d have thought you’d have to be quite stupid.”

  Monsieur Charpentier laughed. “I agree, but I haven’t made myself clear. The money was gone from the company account, but not stolen. Olivier showed us what he’d done. The trail. Seems he’d been following some activity in Malaysia, saw what he thought were some fantastic investment opportunities and took them to his boss, who didn’t agree. So Olivier did it on his own, without authorization. It was all there. He’d documented it, intending to put it back, with the profits. And he’d been right. Those three million dollars turned into twenty.”

  Now Lacoste reacted, not verbally, but her expression made Charpentier nod.

  “Exactly. The kid had a nose for money. Where is he now?”

  “You fired him?” asked Lacoste, ignoring the question.

  “He quit. We were trying to decide what to do with him. The executives were torn. His boss was apoplectic and wanted him dangled from the top of the building. We explained we don’t do that. Anymore.”

  Lacoste laughed. “Some of you wanted to keep him on?”

  “He was just so good at what he did.”

  “Which was making money. Are you convinced he was going to give it back?”

  “Now, you’ve hit on the problem. Half of us believed him, half didn’t. Olivier finally resigned, realizing he’d lost our trust. When you lose that, well . . .”

  Well, thought Agent Lacoste. Well, well.

  And now Olivier was in Three Pines. But like everyone who moved, he took himself with him.

  Well, well.

  The three Sûreté officers gathered round the table in the Incident Room.

  “So where are we?” asked Beauvoir, standing once again by the sheets of paper tacked to the walls. Instead of answers to the questions he’d written there, two more had been added.

  WHERE WAS HE MURDERED?

  WHY WAS HE MOVED?

  He shook his head. They seemed to be moving in the wrong direction. Even the few things that seemed possible in this case, like the fire irons being the weapons, turned out to be nothing.

  They had nothing.

  “We actually know a great deal,” said Gamache. “We know the man wasn’t killed in the bistro.”

  “That leaves the rest of the world to eliminate,” said Beauvoir.

  “We know paraffin and Varathane are involved. And we know that somehow Olivier’s involved.”

  “But we don’t even know who the victim was.” Beauvoir underlined that question on his sheet in frustration. Gamache let that sit for a moment, then spoke.

  “No. But we will. We’ll know it all, eventually. It’s a puzzle, and eventually the whole picture will be clear. We just need to be patient. And persistent. We need more background information on other possible suspects. The Parras for instance.”

  “I have that information you asked for,” said Agent Morin, squaring his slight shoulders. “Hanna and Roar Parra came here in the mid-80s. Refugees. Applied for status and got it. They’re now Canadian citizens.”

  “All legal?” asked Beauvoir, with regret.

  “All legal. One child. Havoc. Twenty-one years old. The family’s very involved in the Czech community here. Sponsored a few people.”

  “Right, right,” waved Beauvoir. “Anything interesting?”

  Morin looked down at his copious notes. What would the Inspector consider interesting?

  “Did you find anything from before they came here?” asked Gamache.

  “No, sir. I have calls in to Prague but their record keeping from that time isn’t good.”

  “Okay.” Beauvoir snapped the top back on the Magic Marker. “Anything else?”

  Agent Morin placed a paper bag on the conference table.

  “I dropped by the general store this morning, and bought these.”

  Out of the bag he brought a brick of paraffin wax. “Monsieur Béliveau says everyone’s been buying paraffin, especially at this time of year.”

  “Not much help,” said Beauvoir, taking his seat again.

  “No, but this might be.” And from the bag he pulled a tin. On it was written Varathane. “He sold two tins like this to two different people in July. One to Gabri and the other to Marc Gilbert.”

  “Oh, really?” Beauvoir uncapped the marker.

  Agent Lacoste, like every Montrealer, knew about Habitat, the strange and exotic apartment building created for Expo 67, the great World’s Fair. The buildings had been considered avant garde then, and still were. They sat on Île des Soeurs, in the St. Lawrence River, a tribute to creativity and vision. Once seen Habitat was never forgotten. Instead of a square or rectangular building to house people the architect had made each room a separate block, an elongated cube. It looked like a jumble of children’s building blocks, piled on top of each other. One interconnected with another, some above, some below, some off to the side, so that daylight shone through the building and the rooms were all bathed in sun. And the views from each room were spectacular, either of the grand river or of the magnificent city.

  Lacoste had never been in a Habitat condo, but she was about to. Jacques Brulé, Olivier’s father, lived there.

  “Come in,” he said, unsmiling, as he opened the door. “You said this was about my son?”

  Monsieur Brulé was very unlike his son. He had a full head of dark hair and was robust. Behind him she could see the gleaming wood floors, the slate fireplace and the huge windows looking onto the river. The condo was tasteful and expensive.

  “I wonder if we could sit down?”

  “I wonder if you could come to the point?”

  He stood at the door, blocking her way. Not allowing her farther into his home.

  “As I mentioned on the phone, I’m with homicide. We’re investigating a murder in Three Pines.”

  The man looked blank.

  “Where your son lives.” He nodded, once. Lacoste continued. “A body was found in the bistro there.”

  She’d intentionally not identified the bistro. Olivier’s father waited, showing absolutely no recognition, no a
larm, no concern at all.

  “Olivier’s Bistro,” she finally said.

  “And what do you want from me?”

  It was far from unusual in a murder case to find fractured families, but she hadn’t expected to find one here.

  “I’d like to know about Olivier, his upbringing, his background, his interests.”

  “You’ve come to the wrong parent. You’d need to ask his mother.”

  “I’m sorry, but I thought she’d died.”

  “She has.”

  “You told me on the phone he went to Notre Dame de Sion. Quite a good school, I hear. But it only goes to grade six. How about after that?”

  “I think he went to Loyola. Or was it Brébeuf? I can’t remember.”

  “Pardon? Were you and his mother separated?”

  “No, I’d never divorce.” This was the most animated he’d been. Much more upset by the suggestion of divorce than death and certainly than murder. Lacoste waited. And waited. Eventually Jacques Brulé spoke.

  “I was away a lot, building a career.”

  But Agent Lacoste, who hunted killers and still knew what schools her children attended, knew that wasn’t much of an explanation, or excuse.

  “Was he ever in trouble? Did he get into fights? Any problems?”

  “With Olivier? None at all. He was a regular boy, mind you. He’d get into scrapes, but nothing serious.”

  It was like interviewing a marshmallow, or a salesman about a dining room set. Monsieur Brulé seemed on the verge of calling his son “it” throughout the conversation.

  “When was the last time you spoke to him?” She wasn’t sure that was exactly on topic, but she wanted to know.

  “I don’t know.”

  She should have guessed. As she left he called after her, “Tell him I said hello.”

  Lacoste stopped at the elevator, pressed the button, and looked back at the large man standing in the door frame, shutting out all the light that she knew was streaming into his apartment.

  “Maybe you can tell him yourself. Visit even. Have you met Gabri?”

  “Gabri?”

  “Gabriel. His partner.”

  “Gabrielle? He hasn’t told me about her.”

  The elevator came and she stepped in, wondering if Monsieur Brulé would ever find Three Pines. She also wondered about this man who kept so much hidden.

  But then, clearly, so did his son.

  It was late morning and Olivier was in his bistro, at the front door. Trying to decide if he should unlock it. Let people in. Maybe the crowd would drown out the voice in his head. The Hermit’s voice. And that terrible story that bound them together. Even unto death.

  The young man appeared at the base of the now barren mountain. Like everyone else in the region he’d heard the stories. Of bad children brought here as a sacrifice to the dreadful Mountain King.

  He looked for tiny bones on the dusty soil, but there was nothing. No life. Not even death.

  As he was about to leave he heard a small sigh. A breeze had blown up where nothing had stirred before. He felt it on the back of his neck, and he felt his skin grow cool and the hairs stand up. He looked down at the lush, green valley, the thick forests and the thatched roofs, and he wondered how he could have been so stupid as to have come up here. Alone.

  “Don’t,” he heard on the wind. “Don’t.”

  The young man turned round. “Go,” he heard.

  “Don’t go,” said the sigh.

  FIFTEEN

  The three investigators left the Incident Room together, but parted ways at the village green. Beauvoir left the Chief and Agent Morin to interview Olivier and Gabri once again, while he headed to the old Hadley house.

  The Inspector was feeling pretty cocky. They’d caught the Gilberts in a lie. Dominique had told him yesterday they never used Varathane. Was quite pleased to tell him how “green” they were. But now there was proof they’d at least bought a demi-liter of the stuff.

  But the extra spring in his step was because he was curious, anxious even, to see what the Gilberts had done to the old Hadley house.

  Gamache tried the door to the bistro and was surprised to find it open. Earlier that morning, over breakfast of pain doré, sliced strawberries and bananas, maple syrup and back bacon, Gabri had admitted he didn’t know when Olivier might reopen the bistro.

  “Maybe never,” he said, “then where would we be? I’d have to start taking in paying guests.”

  “Good thing then that you’re a B and B,” said Gamache.

  “You’d think that would be an advantage, wouldn’t you? But I’m handicapped by extreme laziness.”

  And yet, when Gamache and Agent Morin walked into the bistro there was Gabri behind the bar, polishing it. And from the kitchen came the aroma of fine cooking.

  “Olivier,” Gabri called, coming around from behind the bar. “Our first customers since the murder are here,” he sang out.

  “Oh, for God’s sake, Gabri,” they heard from the kitchen and a pot clanked down. A moment later Olivier punched through the swinging door. “Oh, it’s you.”

  “Just us, I’m afraid. We have a few questions. Do you have a moment?”

  Olivier looked as though he was about to say no, but changed his mind and indicated a seat by the hearth. Once again a fire was burning there. And the pokers had been returned.

  Gamache looked at Agent Morin. Morin’s eyes widened. Surely the Chief Inspector wasn’t expecting him to conduct the interview? But the moments dragged by and no one else said anything. Morin searched his mind. Don’t be too forceful, though he didn’t think that would be a problem. Get the suspect to drop his guard. Gabri was smiling at him, wiping his hands on an apron and waiting. So far so good, thought Morin. Seems the idiot agent act is working. Now if only it wasn’t an act.

  He smiled back at the two men and racked his brain. Up until now the only questioning he’d done was of speeders along Autoroute 10. It didn’t seem necessary to ask Gabri whether he had a driver’s license.

  “Is it about the murder?” asked Gabri, trying to be helpful.

  “Yes, it is,” said Morin, finding his voice. “Not really so much about the murder as a small issue that’s come up.”

  “Please,” said Olivier, indicating a chair, “have a seat.”

  “This is really nothing,” said Morin, sitting along with everyone else. “Just a loose end. We were wondering why you bought Varathane from Monsieur Béliveau in July.”

  “Did we?” Olivier looked over at Gabri.

  “Well, I did. We needed to redo the bar, remember?”

  “Will you stop with that? I like the bar the way it is,” said Olivier. “Distressed.”

  “I’m distressed, it’s a disgrace. Remember when we bought it? It was all gleaming?”

  They looked over at the long wooden bar with the till and jars of allsorts, jelly beans and licorice pipes. Behind were liquor bottles on shelves.

  “It’s about atmosphere,” said Olivier. “Everything in here should either be old or look old. Don’t say it.” He held up his hand to ward off Gabri’s response to that, then turned to the officers. “We always disagree about this. When we moved here this place was a hardware store. All the original features had been ripped out or covered over.”

  “The beams were hidden under that sound insulation stuff for ceilings,” said Gabri. “Even the fireplaces were ripped out and turned into storage. We had to find a stone mason to rebuild them.”

  “Really?” said Gamache, impressed. The fireplace looked original. “But what about the Varathane?”

  “Yes, Gabri. What about the Varathane?” Olivier demanded.

  “Well, I was going to strip the bar and resand and coat it, but . . .”

  “But?”

  “I was hoping maybe Old Mundin could do it instead. He knows how. He’d love to do it.”

  “Forget it. No one’s going to touch that bar.”

  “Where’s the tin you bought from Monsieur Béliveau?” Agent Mo
rin asked.

  “It’s in our basement at home.”

  “Can I see it?”

  “If you’d like.” Gabri looked at Morin as though he was mad.

  Jean Guy Beauvoir couldn’t quite believe his eyes. But more than that he couldn’t believe something less tangible. He was enjoying this tour of the old Hadley house. So far Marc and Dominique Gilbert had shown him all the magnificent bedrooms, with fireplaces and flat-screen TVs, with spa baths and steam showers. The gleaming mosaic-glass tiles. The espresso maker in each room.

  Waiting for the first guests.

  And now they were in the spa area, the lower floor, with its muted lighting and soothing colors and calming aromas, even now. Products were being unpacked and waiting to be displayed on shelves not yet built. This area, while clearly as spectacular as the rest of the place, was less finished.

  “A month more, we figure,” Marc was saying. “We’re hoping to have our first guests on the Thanksgiving long weekend. We’re just discussing putting an ad in the papers.”

  “I think it’s too soon, but Marc thinks we can get it done. We’ve hired most of the staff. Four massage therapists, a yoga instructor, a personal trainer and a receptionist. And that’s just for the spa.”

  The two prattled on excitedly. Enid would love it here, Beauvoir thought.

  “How much would you charge for a couple?”

  “A night at the inn and one healing spa treatment each would start at three hundred and twenty-five dollars,” said Marc. “That’s for a standard room midweek, but includes breakfast and dinner.”

  None of the rooms seemed standard to Beauvoir. But neither did the price. How much could creams really cost? Still, for their anniversary, maybe. Olivier and Gabri would kill him, but maybe they didn’t need to know. He and Enid could just stay here. At the inn. Not go into Three Pines. Who’d really want to leave?