by Louise Penny
‘Book me in.’
‘Nichol?’ he called over his shoulder. ‘Want to stay too?’
Yvette Nichol felt she’d just won the lottery.
‘Great. I don’t have any clothes but that’s not a problem, I could borrow some and wash these in the tub tonight—’
Gamache held up his hand.
‘You weren’t listening. We’re going home tonight and starting here tomorrow.’
Damn. Every time she showed enthusiasm it kicked her in the ass. Would she never learn?
Carved pumpkins squatted on each step up to the sweeping veranda of the B. & B. Inside, worn oriental rugs and overstuffed chairs, lights with tassels and a collection of oil lamps gave Gamache the impression of walking into his grandparents’ home. To add to the impression, the place smelled of baking. Just then a large man in a frilly apron that said, ‘Never Trust a Skinny Cook’ made his entrance through a swinging door. Gamache was startled to see more than a passing resemblance to his grandmother.
Gabri sighed hugely and put a wan hand up to his forehead in a gesture not often seen this side of Gloria Swanson.
‘Muffins?’
The question was so unexpected even Gamache was thrown off guard.
‘Pardon, Monsieur?’
‘I have carrot, date, banana and a special tribute to Jane called “Charles de Mills”.’ And with that Gabri disappeared and reappeared a moment later with a platter holding rings of muffins marvelously decorated with fruit and roses.
‘They aren’t Charles de Mills roses, of course. They’re long dead,’ Gabri’s face dissolved into tears and the platter lurched perilously. Only Beauvoir’s quick action, fueled by desire, save the food. ‘Desolé. Excusez-moi. I’m just so sad’ Gabri collapsed on to one of the sofas, arms and legs flopping. Gamache had the feeling that for all the dramatics, the man was sincere. He gave Gabri a moment to compose himself, fully realising it was possible Gabri had never been composed. He then asked Gabri to spread the word about the public meeting the next day, and to open the church. He also booked rooms in the bed and breakfast.
‘Bed and brunch,’ Gabri corrected. ‘But you may have your brunch at breakfast, if you like, since you’re helping bring the brute to justice.’
‘Any idea who might have killed her?’
‘It was a hunter, wasn’t it?’
‘We don’t actually know. But if it wasn’t, who comes to mind?’
Gabri reached for a muffin. Beauvoir took that as permission to take one himself. They were still warm from the oven.
Gabri was silent for two muffins, then said softly, ‘I can’t think of anyone, but,’ he turned intense brown eyes on Gamache, ‘am I likely to? I mean, isn’t that what’s so horrible about murder? We don’t see it coming. I’m not saying this very well.’ He reached for another muffin and ate it, rose and all. ‘The people I’ve been angriest at probably never even realised. Does that make sense?’
He seemed to be pleading with Gamache to understand.
‘It does. It makes perfect sense,’ said Gamache, and he meant it. Few people understood so quickly that most premeditated murders were about rancid emotions, greed, jealousy, fear, all repressed. As Gabri said, people don’t see it coming, because the murderer is a master at image, at the false front, at presenting a reasonable, even placid exterior. But it masked a horror underneath. And that’s why the expression he saw most on the faces of victims wasn’t fear, wasn’t anger. It was surprise.
‘Who knows what evil lurks in the hearts of men?’ Gabri asked and Gamache wondered if he knew he was quoting an old radio drama. Then Gabri winked.
Gabri disappeared again, and returned, handing Gamache a small bag of muffins.
‘One more question,’ said Gamache at the door, the bag of muffins in one hand and the door handle in the other. ‘You mentioned the Charles de Mills rose.’
‘Jane’s favorite. He’s not just any rose, Chief Inspector.
He’s considered by rosarians to be one of the finest in the world. An old garden rose. Only blooms once a season but with a show that’s spectacular. And then it’s gone. That’s why I made the muffins from rose water, as a homage to Jane. Then I ate them, as you saw. I always eat my pain.’ Gabri smiled slightly. Looking at the size of the man, Gamache marveled at the amount of pain he must have. And fear perhaps. And anger? Who knows, indeed.
Ben Hadley was waiting for them outside the schoolhouse, as Beauvoir had requested in his call.
‘Is everything as it should be from the outside, Mr Hadley?’ Gamache asked.
Ben, a little surprised at the question, looked around. Gamache wondered whether Ben Hadley wasn’t a little surprised all the time.
‘Yes. Do you want to see inside?’ Ben reached for the knob, but Beauvoir quickly brought his own hand down on Ben’s arm and stopped him. Instead, Beauvoir pulled a roll of yellow police tape from his jacket and handed it to Nichol. While Nichol put the yellow ‘Do not cross, crime scene’ tape around the door and windows Beauvoir explained.
‘It looks as though Miss Neal was killed by an arrow. We need to go over your clubhouse carefully in case the weapon came from here.’
‘But that’s ridiculous.’
‘Why?’
Ben simply looked around as though the peaceful setting was reason enough. Into Beauvoir’s outstretched hand he deposited the keys.
As Agent Nichol maneuvered the car on to the Champlain Bridge and back into Montreal she looked past Chief Inspector Gamache, silent and thinking in the seat beside her, and toward the Montreal skyline, the huge cross just beginning to glow on the top of Mont Royal. Her family would have held back Thanksgiving dinner for her. They’d do anything for her, she knew, both comforted and bound by the certainty. And all she had to do was succeed.
Walking into his own home that evening Gamache smelt roasting partridge. It was one of Reine-Marie’s holiday specialties, the small game birds wrapped in bacon and slowly cooked in a sauce of mulled wine and juniper berries. Normally he’d have made the wild rice stuffing, but she’d probably have done that herself. They exchanged news while he stripped and took a shower. She told him about the baptism and the finger food afterward. She was almost certain she was at the right baptism, though she didn’t recognise all that many people. He told her about his day and the case. He told her everything. In this he was unusual, but he couldn’t quite see how he could have a deep partnership with Reine-Marie and keep this part of his life secret. So he told her everything, and she told him everything. So far, after thirty-five years, it seemed to be working.
Their friends came, and it was a comfortable, easy night. A couple of good bottles of wine, an outstanding Thanksgiving meal, and warm and thoughtful company. Gamache was reminded of the beginning of Virginia Woolf’s Orlando. Orlando, through the ages, wasn’t looking for wealth or fame, or honors. No, all Orlando wanted was company.
Clara rocked back and forth, back and forth, cradling her loss. Earlier in the day she’d felt someone had scooped her heart and her brain right out of her body. Now they were back, but they were broken. Her brain jumped madly about the place, but always back to that one scorched spot.
Peter crept to the bedroom door and looked in. God help him, part of him was jealous. Jealous of the hold Jane had over Clara. He wondered whether Clara would have been like this had he died. And he realised that, had he died in the woods, Clara would have had Jane to comfort her. And Jane would have known what to do. In that instant a door opened for Peter. For the first time in his life he asked what someone else would do. What would Jane do if she was here and he was dead? And he had his answer. Silently he lay down beside Clara and wrapped himself around her. And for the first time since getting the news, her heart and mind calmed. They settled, just for one blessed instant, on a place that held love, not loss.
FOUR
‘Toast?’ Peter ventured next morning to Clara’s blubbering back.
‘High doan whan doast,’ she sobbed and slobbered, a fine thread o
f spittle descending to the floor to pool, glistening, at her feet. They were standing barefoot in the kitchen where they’d begun to make breakfast. Normally they’d have already showered and if not dressed at least put on slippers and a dressing gown over their flannel pajamas. But this morning wasn’t normal. Peter simply hadn’t appreciated how far from normal it was until this moment.
Lying all night, holding Clara, he’d dared to hope that the worst was over. That maybe the grief, while still there, would today allow some of his wife to be present. But the woman he knew and loved had been swallowed up. Like Jonah. Her white whale of sorrow and loss in an ocean of body fluid.
‘Clara? We need to talk. Can we talk?’ Peter yearned to crawl back into their warm bed with a pot of coffee, some toast and jam, and the latest Lee Valley catalogue. Instead, he stood barefoot in the middle of their cold kitchen floor wielding a baguette like a wand at Clara’s back. He didn’t like the wand image. Maybe a sword. But was that appropriate? To wield a sword at your wife? He gave it a couple of swishes through the air and the crisp bread broke. Just as well, he thought. The imagery was getting too confusing.
‘We need to talk about Jane.’ He remembered where he really. was, placed the tragically broken sword on the counter and put his hand on her shoulder. He felt the soft flannel for an instant before her shoulder jerked away from his hand. ‘Remember when you and Jane would talk and I’d make some rude comment and leave?’ Clara stared ahead, snorting every now and then as a fresh drip left her nose. ‘I’d go into my studio to paint. But I left the door open. You didn’t know that, did you?’
For the first time in twenty-four hours he saw a flicker of interest. She turned to face him, wiping her nose with the back of her hand. Peter resisted the urge to get a Kleenex.
‘Every week while you and Jane talked I’d listen and paint. For years, and years. Did my best work in there, listening to you two. It was a little like when I was a kid lying in bed, listening to Mom and Dad downstairs, talking. It was comforting. But it was more than that. You and Jane talked about everything. Gardening, books, relationships, cooking. And you talked about your beliefs. Remember?’
Clara looked down at her hands.
‘You both believed in God. Clara, you have to figure out what you believe.’
‘What do you mean? I know what I believe.’
‘What? Tell me.’
‘Screw off. Leave me alone!’ Now she rounded on him. ‘Where’re your tears? Eh? You’re more dead than she is. You can’t even cry. And now what? You want me to stop? It hasn’t even been a day yet, and you’re what? Bored with it? Not the center of the universe anymore? You want everything to go back to the way it was, like that.’ Clara snapped her fingers in his face. ‘You disgust me.’
Peter leaned away from the assault, wounded, and wanting to say all the things he knew would hurt her the way she’d just hurt him.
‘Go away!’ she screamed through hiccups and gasps. And he wanted to. He’d wanted to go away since this time yesterday. But he’d stayed. And now, more than ever, he wanted to flee. Just for a little while. A walk around the Commons, a coffee with Ben. A shower. It sounded so reasonable, so justified. Instead, he leaned toward her again, and took her snot-smeared hands in his and kissed them. She tried to pull away, but he held on firmly.
‘Clara, I love you. And I know you. You have to figure out what you believe, what you really, truly believe. All these years you’ve talked about God. You’ve written about your faith. You’ve done dancing angels, and yearning goddesses. Is God here, now, Clara? Is he in this room?’
Peter’s kind voice calmed Clara. She began to listen.
‘Is he here?’ Peter slowly brought his forefinger to her chest, not quite touching. ‘Is Jane with him?’
Peter pressed on. He knew where he had to go. And this time it wasn’t somewhere else. ‘All those questions you and Jane debated and laughed about and argued over, she has the answer to. She’s met God.’
Clara’s mouth dropped open and she stared straight ahead. There. There it was. Her mainland. That’s where she could put her grief. Jane was dead. And she was now with God. Peter was right. She either believed in God, or she didn’t. Either was OK. But she could no longer say she believed in God and act otherwise. She did believe in God. And she believed that Jane was with him. And suddenly her pain and grief became human and natural. And survivable. She had a place to put it, a place where Jane was with God.
It was such a relief. She looked at Peter, his face bent to her. Dark rings under his eyes. His gray wavy hair sticking out. She felt in her hair and found a duck clip buried in the chaos of her head. Taking it out, and with it some of her own hair, she placed her hand on the back of Peter’s head. Silently she drew it toward her and with her other hand she smoothed a section of his unruly hair, and put her clip on it. And as she did so she whispered in his ear, ‘Thank you. I’m sorry.’
And Peter started to cry. To his horror he felt his eyes sting and well up and there was a burning in the back of his throat. He couldn’t control it any longer and it came bursting out. He cried like he’d cried as a child when, lying in bed listening to the comfort of his parents talking downstairs, he realised they were talking about divorce. He took Clara in his arms and held her to his chest and prayed he would never lose her.
The meeting at the Sûreté headquarters in Montreal didn’t last long. The coroner hoped to have a preliminary report that afternoon and would bring it by Three Pines on her way home. Jean Guy Beauvoir reported his conversation with Robert Lemieux, of the Cowansville Sûreté, still eager to help.
‘He says Yolande Fontaine herself is clean. Some vague suspicions of slippery practices as a real estate agent, but nothing against the law, yet. But her husband and son are quite popular with the police, both the local and the Sûreté. Her husband is André Malenfant, aged thirty-seven. Five counts of drunk and disorderly. Two of assault. Two of breaking and entering.’
‘Has he done any jail time?’ Gamache asked.
‘Couple of stretches at Bordeaux and lots of single nights in the local lock-up.’
‘And the son?’
‘Bernard Malenfant. Age fourteen. Seems to be apprenticing to his father. Out of control. Lots of complaints from the school. Lots of complaints from parents.’
‘Has the boy ever actually been charged with anything?’
‘No. Just a couple of stern talkings to.’ A few officers in the room snorted their cynicism. Gamache knew Jean Guy Beauvoir well enough to know he always kept the best for last. And his body language told Gamache there was more to come.
‘But,’ said Beauvoir, his eyes lit in triumph, ‘André Malenfant is a hunter. Now with his convictions he isn’t allowed a gun-hunting permit. But—’
Gamache enjoyed watching Beauvoir indulge his flamboyant side, and this was about as flamboyant as Beauvoir got. A dramatic pause.
‘—this year, for the first time, he applied for and got a bow-hunting permit.’
Ta da.
The meeting broke up. Beauvoir handed out the assignments and the teams went off. As the room cleared Nichol made to get up but Gamache stopped her. They were alone now and he wanted a quiet talk. He’d watched her during the meeting, again choosing a seat one removed from the next person, not grabbing a coffee and Danish with the others. In fact, not doing anything anyone else did. It was almost willful, this desire to separate herself from the team. The clothes she was wearing were plain, not the kind you might expect from a Montreal woman in her mid-twenties. There was none of the characteristic Quebecoise flamboyance. He realised he’d grown used to a certain individuality among his team members. But Nichol seemed to strive to be invisible. Her suit was dull blue and made of cheap material. The shoulders were slightly padded, the lumps of foam screamed bargain bin. Creeping out from her armpits was a thin white line where the tide of perspiration had reached the last time she’d worn this suit. And not cleaned it. He wondered if she made her own clothes. He wondered if she
still lived at home with her parents. He wondered how proud they must be of her, and how much pressure she felt to succeed. He wondered if all that explained the one thing that did distinguish her from everyone else. Her smugness.
‘You’re a trainee, here to learn,’ he said quietly, directly into the slightly pursed face. ‘Therefore a certain teaching is necessary. Do you enjoy learning?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And how do you learn?’
‘Sir?’
‘The question is clear. Think about it, please, and answer.’
His deep brown eyes, as always, were lively and warm. He spoke calmly, but firmly. Without hostility but with an expectation. His tone was clearly one of boss and trainee. She was taken aback. He had been so friendly yesterday, so courteous, she thought she could take advantage of that. Now she began to realise her mistake.
‘I learn by watching and listening, sir.’
‘And?’
And what? They sat there, Gamache looking as though he had all day, though she knew he had to conduct the public meeting in Three Pines in just two hours and they still had to drive there. Nichol’s mind froze. And … and …
‘Think about it. Tonight you can tell me what you’ve come up with. For now, though, let me tell you how I work. And what my expectations of you are.’
‘Yes sir.’
‘I watch. I’m very good at observing. Noticing things. And listening. Actively listening to what people are saying, their choice of words, their tone. What they aren’t saying. And this, Agent Nichol, is the key. It’s choice.’
‘Choice?’
‘We choose our thoughts. We choose our perceptions. We choose our attitudes. We may not think so. We may not believe it, but we do. I absolutely know we do. I’ve seen enough evidence, time after time, tragedy after tragedy. Triumph after triumph. It’s about choice.’
‘Like choice of schools? Or dinner?’
‘Clothes, hairstyle, friends. Yes. It starts there. Life is choice. All day, everyday. Who we talk to, where we sit, what we say, how we say it. And our lives become defined by our choices. It’s as simple and as complex as that. And as powerful. So when I’m observing, that’s what I’m watching for. The choices people make.’