by Louise Penny
‘What’s this?’ .
‘Where?’
‘Here, in the middle of the arrangement.’
‘A kielbassa.’
‘A sausage?’
‘Hummuh, and look in there,’ Myrna pointed into the tangle.
‘The Collected Works of W. H. Auden,’ Clara read. ‘You’re kidding.’
‘It’s for the boys.’
‘What else is in there?’ Clara scanned the immense arrangement.
‘Denzel Washington. But don’t tell Gabri.’
In the living room, Jane continued the story: ‘… then Gabri said to me, “I have your mulch. This is just the way Vita Sackville West always wore it.”’
Olivier whispered in Gabri’s ear, ‘You are queer.’
‘Aren’t you glad one of us is?’ a well-worn and comfortable jest.
‘How are you?’ Myrna came in from the kitchen, followed by Clara, and hugged Gabri and Olivier while Peter poured her Scotch.
‘I think we’re all right,’ Olivier kissed Myrna on both cheeks. ‘It’s probably surprising this didn’t happen sooner. We’ve been here for what? Twelve years?’ Gabri nodded, his mouth full of Camembert. ‘And this is the first time we’ve been bashed. I was gay bashed in Montreal when I was a kid, by a group of grown men. That was terrifying.’ They’d grown silent, and there was just the crackling and muttering of the fire in the background as Olivier spoke.
‘They hit me with sticks. It’s funny, but when I think back that’s the most painful part. Not the scrapes and bruises, but before they hit me they kind of poked, you know?’ He jabbed with one arm to mimic their movements. ‘It was as though I wasn’t human.’
‘That’s the necessary first step,’ said Myrna. ‘They dehumanise their victim. You’ve put it well.’
She spoke from experience. Before coming to Three Pines she’d been a psychologist in Montreal. And, being black, she knew that singular expression when people saw her as furniture.
Ruth turned to Olivier, changing the subject. ‘I was in the basement and came across a few things I thought you could sell for me.’ Ruth’s basement was her bank.
‘Great. What?’
‘There’s some cranberry glass—’
‘Oh, wonderful.’ Olivier adored colored glass. ‘Hand blown?’
‘Do you take me for an idiot? Of course they’re hand blown.’
‘Are you sure you don’t want them?’ he always asked this of his friends.
‘Stop asking me that. Do you think I’d mention them if there was a doubt?’
‘Bitch.’
‘Slut.’
‘OK, tell me more,’ said Olivier. The stuff Ruth hauled up from her basement was incredible. It was as though she had a porthole to the past. Some of it was junk, like the old broken-down coffee makers and burned-out toasters. But most made him tremble with pleasure. The greedy antique dealer in him, which composed a larger part of his make-up than he’d ever admit, was thrilled to have exclusive access to Ruth’s treasures. He’d sometimes daydream about that basement.
If he was excited by Ruth’s possessions, he was positively beside himself with lust after Jane’s home. He’d kill to see beyond her kitchen door. Her kitchen alone was worth tens of thousands of dollars in antiques. When he’d first come to Three Pines, at the Drama Queen’s insistence, he was reduced almost to incoherence when he saw the linoleum on Jane’s mudroom floor. If the mudroom was a museum and the kitchen a shrine, what in the world lay beyond? Olivier shook off the thought, knowing he would probably be disappointed. IKEA. And shag carpet. He’d long since stopped thinking it strange that Jane had never invited anyone through the swinging door into her living room and beyond.
‘About the mulch, Jane,’ Gabri was saying, his bulk bending over one of Peter’s jigsaw puzzles, ‘I can get it to you tomorrow. Do you need help cutting back your garden?’
‘No, almost done. But this might be the last year. It’s getting beyond me.’ Gabri was relieved he didn’t have to help. Doing his own garden was work enough.
‘I have a whole lot of hollyhock babies,’ said Jane, fitting in a piece of the sky. ‘How did those single yellows do for you? I didn’t notice them.’
‘I put them in last fall, but they never called me mother. Can I have some more? I’ll trade you for some monarda.’
‘God, don’t do that.’ Monarda was the zucchini of the flower world. It, too, figured prominently in the harvest market and, subsequently, the Thanksgiving bonfire, which would give off a hint of sweet bergamot so that it smelled as though every cottage in Three Pines was brewing Earl Grey tea.
‘Did we tell you what happened this afternoon after you’d all left?’ Gabri said in his stage voice, so that the words fell neatly into every ear in the room. ‘We were just getting the peas ready for tonight’ - Clara rolled her eyes and mumbled to Jane, ‘Probably lost the can opener.’ - ‘when the doorbell rang and there were Matthew Croft and Philippe.’
‘No! What happened?’
‘Philippe mumbled, “I’m sorry about this morning.”’
‘What did you say?’ Myrna asked.
‘Prove it,’ said Olivier.
‘You didn’t,’ hooted Clara, amused and impressed.
‘I most certainly did. There was a lack of sincerity about the apology. He was sorry he got caught and sorry there were consequences. But I didn’t believe he was sorry about what he did.’
‘Conscience and cowardice,’ said Clara.
‘What do you mean?’ asked Ben.
‘Oscar Wilde said that conscience and cowardice are the same thing. What stops us from doing horrible things isn’t our conscience but the fear of getting caught.’
‘I wonder if that’s true,’ said Jane.
‘Would you?’ Myrna asked Clara.
‘Do terrible things if I could get away with it?’
‘Cheat on Peter,’ suggested Olivier. ‘Steal from the bank. Or better still, steal another artist’s work?’
‘Ah, kids stuff,’ snapped Ruth. ‘Now, take murder, for instance. Would you mow someone down with your car? Or poison them, maybe, or throw them into the Bella Bella during spring run off? Or,’ she looked around, warm firelight reflecting off slightly concerned faces, ‘or we could set a fire and then not save them.’
‘What do you mean, “we”, white woman?’ said Myrna. Myrna brought the conversation back from the edge.
‘The truth? Sure. But not murder.’ Clara looked over at Ruth who simply gave her a conspiratorial wink.
‘Imagine a world where you could do anything. Anything. And get away with it,’ said Myrna, warming to the topic again. ‘What power. Who here wouldn’t be corrupted?’
‘Jane wouldn’t,’ said Ruth with certainty. ‘But the rest of you?’ she shrugged.
‘And you?’ Olivier asked Ruth, more than a little annoyed to be lumped in where he secretly knew he belonged.
‘Me? But you know me well enough by now, Olivier. I’d be the worst. I’d cheat, and steal, and make all your lives hell.’
‘Worse than now?’ asked Olivier, still peeved.
‘Now you’re on the list,’ said Ruth. And Olivier remembered that the closest thing they had to a police force was the volunteer fire brigade, of which he was a member but of which Ruth was the chief. When Ruth Zardo ordered you into a conflagration, you went. She was scarier than a burning building.
‘Gabri, what about you?’ Clara asked.
‘There’ve been times I’ve been mad enough to kill, and may have, had I known I would get away with it.’
‘What made you that angry?’ Clara was astonished.
‘Betrayal, always and only betrayal.’
‘What did you do about it?’ asked Myrna.
‘Therapy. That was where I met this guy.’ Gabri reached out and patted Olivier’s hand. ‘I think we both went to that therapist for about a year longer than we had to just to see each other in the waiting room.’
‘Is that sick?’ said Olivier, smoothing a
lock of his immaculate, thinning blond hair off his face. It was like silk, and kept falling into his eyes, no matter what products he used.
‘Mock me if you will, but everything happens for a reason,’ Gabri said. ‘No betrayal, no rage. No rage, no therapy. No therapy, no Olivier. No Olivier no—’
‘Enough.’ Olivier held up his hands in surrender.
‘I’ve always liked Matthew Croft,’ said Jane.
‘Did you teach him?’ asked Clara.
‘Long time ago. He was in the second to last class at the old schoolhouse here, before it closed.’
‘I still think that was a shame they closed it,’ said Ben.
‘For God’s sake, Ben, the school closed twenty years ago. Move on.’ Only Ruth would say this.
When she first came to Three Pines, Myrna had wondered whether Ruth had had a stroke. Sometimes, Myrna knew from her practice, stroke victims had very little impulse control. When she asked about it, Clara said if Ruth had had a stroke it was in the womb. As far as she knew, Ruth had always been like this.
‘Then why does everyone like her?’ Myrna had asked.
Clara had laughed and shrugged, ‘You know there are days I ask myself the same thing. What a piece of work that woman can be. But she’s worth the effort, I think.’
‘Anyway,’ Gabri huffed now, having temporarily lost the spotlight. ‘Philippe agreed to work for fifteen hours, volunteer, around the Bistro.’
‘Bet he wasn’t happy about that,’ said Peter, getting to his feet.
‘You got that right,’ said Olivier with a grin.
‘I want to propose a toast,’ said Gabri. ‘To our friends, who stood by us today. To our friends who spent all morning cleaning the Bistro.’ It was a phenomenon Myrna had noticed before, some people’s ability to turn a terrible event into a triumph. She’d thought about it that morning, manure under her fingernails, pausing for a moment to look at the people, young and old, pitching in. And she was one of them. And she blessed, again, the day she’d decided to quit the city and come here and sell books to these people. She was finally home. Then another image came back to her, one that had gotten lost in the activity of the morning. Of Ruth leaning on her cane, turning away from the others, so that only Myrna could see the wince of pain as the elderly woman lowered herself to her knees, and silently scrubbed. All morning.
‘Dinner’s ready,’ Peter called.
‘Formidable. Just like dear Mama. Le Sieur?’ Jane asked a few minutes later, bringing a forkful of mushy peas and gravy to her mouth.
‘Bien sûr. From Monsieur Beliveau.’ Olivier nodded.
‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ Clara called down the groaning pine table. ‘They’re canned peas! From the general store. You call yourself a chef!’
‘Le Sieur is the gold standard for canned peas. Keep this up, missy, and you’ll get the no-name brand next year. No gratitude,’ Olivier stage-whispered to Jane, ‘and on Thanksgiving, too. Shameful.’
They ate by candlelight, the candles of all shapes and sizes flickering around the kitchen. Their plates were piled high with turkey and chestnut stuffing, candied yams and potatoes, peas and gravy. They’d all brought something to eat, except Ben, who didn’t cook. But he’d brought bottles of wine, which was even better. It was a regular get-together, and pot-luck was the only way Peter and Clara could afford to hold a dinner party.
Olivier leaned over to Myrna, ‘Another great flower arrangement.’
‘Thank you. Actually, there’s something hidden in there for you two.’
‘Really!’ Gabri was on his feet in an instant. His long legs propelled his bulk across the kitchen to the arrangement. Unlike Olivier, who was self-contained and even fastidious, like a cat, Gabri was more like a St Bernard, though mostly without the slobber. He carefully examined the complex forest and then shrieked. ‘Just what I’ve always wanted.’ He pulled out the kielbassa.
‘Not that. That’s for Clara.’ Everyone looked at Clara with alarm, especially Peter. Olivier looked relieved. Gabri reached in again and gingerly extracted the thick book.
‘The Collected Works of W. H. Auden.’ Gabri tried to keep the disappointment out of his voice. But not too hard. ‘I don’t know him.’
‘Oh, Gabri, you’re in for a treat,’ said Jane.
‘All right, I can’t stand it any more,’ Ruth said suddenly, leaning across the table to Jane. ‘Did Arts Williamsburg accept your work?’
‘Yes.’
It was as though the word triggered springs in their chairs. Everyone was catapulted to their feet, shooting toward Jane who stood and accepted their hugs with enthusiasm. She seemed to glow brighter than any of the candles in the room. Standing back for an instant and watching the scene, Clara felt her heart contract and her spirit lighten and felt fortunate indeed to be part of this moment.
‘Great artists put a lot of themselves into their work,’ said Clara when the chairs had been regained.
‘What’s Fair Day’s special meaning?’ Ben asked.
‘Now, that would be cheating. You have to figure it out.
It’s there.’ Jane turned to Ben, smiling. ‘You’ll figure it out, I’m sure.’
‘Why’s it called Fair Day?’ he asked.
‘It was painted at the county fair, the closing parade.’ Jane gave Ben a meaningful look. His mother, her friend, Timmer, had died that afternoon. Was it only a month ago? The whole village had been at the parade, except Timmer, dying of cancer alone in bed, while her son Ben was away in Ottawa at an antiques auction. Clara and Peter had been the ones to break the news to him. Clara would never forget the look on his face when Peter told him his mother was dead. Not sadness, not even pain, yet. But utter disbelief. He wasn’t the only one.
‘Evil is unspectacular and always human, and shares our bed and eats at our own table,’ Jane said almost under her breath. ‘Auden,’ she explained, nodding to the book in Gabri’s hand and flashing a smile that broke the unexpected, and unexplained, tension.
‘I might just sneak down and take a look at Fair Day before the show,’ said Ben.
Jane took a deep breath. ‘I’d like to invite you all over for drinks after the opening of the exhibition. In the living room.’ Had she said ‘In the nude’ they wouldn’t have been more amazed. ‘I have a bit of a surprise for you.’
‘No kidding,’ said Ruth.
Stomachs full of turkey and pumpkin pie, port and espresso, the tired guests walked home, their flashlights bobbing like huge fireflies. Jane kissed Peter and Clara good-night. It had been a comfortable, unremarkable early Thanksgiving with friends. Clara watched Jane make her way along the winding path through the woods that joined their two homes. Long after Jane had disappeared from view her flashlight could be seen, a bright white light, like Diogenes. Only when Clara heard the eager barking of Jane’s dog Lucy did she gently close her door. Jane was home. Safe.
TWO
Armand Gamache got the call Thanksgiving Sunday just as he was leaving his Montreal apartment. His wife Reine-Marie was already in the car and the only reason he wasn’t on the way to his grand-niece’s christening was because he suddenly needed to use the facilities.
‘Oui, allô?’
‘Monsieur l’Inspedeur?’ said the polite young voice at the other end. ‘This is Agent Nichol. The Superintendent asked me to call. There’s been a murder.’
After decades with the Sûreté du Quebec, most of them in homicide, those words still sent a frisson through him. ‘Where?’ he was already reaching for the pad and pen, which stood next to every phone in their flat.
‘A village in the Eastern Townships. Three Pines. I can be by to pick you up within a quarter hour.’
‘Did you murder this person?’ Reine-Marie asked her husband when Armand told her he wouldn’t be at the two-hour service on hard benches in a strange church.
‘If I did, I’ll find out. Want to come?’
‘What would you do if I ever said yes?’
‘I’d be delighted,’ he said trut
hfully. After thirty-two years of marriage he still couldn’t get enough of Reine-Marie. He knew if she ever accompanied him on a murder investigation she would do the appropriate thing. She always seemed to know the right thing to do. Never any drama, never confusion. He trusted her.
And once again she did the right thing, by declining his invitation.
‘I’ll just tell them you’re drunk, again,’ she said when he asked whether her family would be disappointed he wasn’t there.
‘Didn’t you tell them I was in a treatment center last time I missed a family gathering?’
‘Well, I guess it didn’t work.’
‘Very sad for you.’
‘I’m a martyr to my husband,’ said Reine-Marie, getting into the driver’s seat. ‘Be safe, dear heart,’ she said.
‘I will, mon coeur.’ He went back to his study in their second-floor flat and consulted the huge map of Quebec he had tacked to one wall. His finger moved south from Montreal to the Eastern Townships and hovered around the border with the United States.
‘Three Pines … Three Pines,’ he repeated, as he tried to find it. ‘Could it be called something else?’ he asked himself, unable for the first time with this detailed map to find a village. ‘Trois Pins, perhaps?’ No, there was nothing. He wasn’t worried since it was Nichol’s job to find the place. He walked through the large apartment they’d bought in the Outremont quartier of Montreal when the children had been born and even though they’d long since moved out and were having children of their own now, the place never felt empty. It was enough to share it with Reine-Marie. Photos sat on the piano and shelves bulged with books, testament to a life well lived. Reine-Marie had wanted to put up his commendations, but he’d gently refused. Each time he came across the framed commendations in his study closet he remembered not the formal Sûreté ceremony, but the faces of the dead and the living they left behind. No. They had no place on the walls of his home. And now the commendations had stopped completely, since the Arnot case. Still, his family was commendation enough.
Agent Yvette Nichol raced around her home, looking for her wallet.