Still Life (33 page)

‘Why did you take them?’ Beauvoir repeated, walking toward the door.

‘OK, OK. I thought maybe they’d be worth something.’

‘I thought you hated your aunt’s work.’

‘Not as art, you great shit,’ said Andre. ‘I thought I could sell them to her friends, maybe Ben Hadley.’

‘Why would he buy them?’

‘Well, he has lots of money and maybe if I threatened to burn them he’d want to save them.’

‘But why take them out of the house? Why not keep the sketches there?’

‘Because they disgust me,’ Yolande was transformed. All the make-up in the world, and she was pretty close to wearing it all, couldn’t hide the hideous person underneath. In an instant she became a bitter middle-aged woman,
twisted and made grotesque like a metalwork sculpture. All rust and sharp edges. Even Bernard edged away from her. ‘I needed them where I knew no one else would see them.’

On a slip of paper Beauvoir wrote a receipt for the folder and gave it to Yolande who took it in her manicured hand as though he’d passed her a sheet of toilet paper.

Clara had given up waiting for her tree house to speak and had gone to Jane’s to do more work. She’d begun to see Jane’s work as a masterpiece. One giant mural, like the Sistine Chapel or Da Vinci’s
Last Supper.
She didn’t hesitate to make the comparisons. Jane had captured the same elements as those master works. Awe. Creation. Wonderment. Longing. Even logging, in Jane’s case.

Ben couldn’t be moving more slowly if he tried. Still, Clara had to remind herself that it didn’t really matter. It would all be revealed, eventually.

‘Oh, my God, it’s a disaster,’ Ruth’s voice rang loud and clear. Clara came up from the basement with her bucket. Ruth and Gamache were standing in the center of the living room and Clara was a little disheartened to see Ben also there, lounging by the desk.

‘Did you do this?’ Ruth wanted to know.

‘I helped uncover it. Jane did the drawings.’

‘I never thought I’d say it, but I’m on Yolande’s side. Cover them up.’

‘I want to show you something.’ Clara took Ruth’s elbow and guided her to the far wall. ‘Look at that.’ Unmistakable, there was a picture of Ruth as a child, holding her mother’s hand in the schoolhouse. Little Ruth, tall and gawky, school books for feet. Encyclopedia feet. Piglets dancing in her hair. Which could mean one of two things.

‘I had pigtails as a child,’ said Ruth, apparently reading her thoughts. But Clara thought Jane’s message was that even then Ruth was pig-headed. The other children were
laughing but one child was coming over to hug her. Ruth stood, transfixed, in front of Jane’s wall:

Ruth recited the poem in a whisper, and the still room heard. ‘Leigh Hunt. “Rondeau”. That’s the only poem I wish I’d written. I didn’t think Jane remembered, I didn’t think it’d meant anything to her. This is my first day here, when my father came to work in the mill. I was eight years old, the new kid, tall and ugly, as you can see, and not very nice even then. But when I walked into that schoolhouse, terrified, Jane walked all the way down the aisle and she kissed me. She didn’t even know me but it didn’t matter to her. Jane kissed me when we met.’

Ruth, her brittle-blue eyes glistening, took a breath and then took a long look around the room. Then slowly shook her head and whispered, ‘It’s extraordinary. Oh, Jane, I’m so sorry.’

‘Sorry for what?’ Gamache asked.

‘Sorry she didn’t know we loved her enough to be trusted with this. Sorry she felt she had to hide it from us.’ Ruth gave a hurrumph of unamused laughter. ‘I thought I was the only one with a wound. What a fool.’

‘I think the key to Jane’s murder is here,’ said Gamache, watching the elderly woman limp around the room. ‘I think she was killed because she was about to let everyone see it. I don’t know why but there you have it. You knew her all
her life, I want you to tell me what you see here. What strikes you, what patterns you see, what you don’t see –’

‘Most of the upstairs, for starters,’ said Clara, and watched Ben flinch.

‘Well, spend as much time as you can here.’

‘I don’t know,’ said Ruth. ‘I’m supposed to address the United Nations and Clara, aren’t you accepting the Nobel prize?’

‘That’s right, for art.’

‘I canceled both engagements,’ said Gamache, thinking little Ruthie Zardo was a bad influence on Clara. They smiled and nodded. Ben and Clara went back upstairs while Ruth inched along the walls, examining the images, occasionally hooting when one struck her as particularly apt. Gamache sat in the big leather chair by the fire and let the room come to him.

Suzanne picked Matthew up late in the day at his sister’s in Cowansville where he’d stayed until the Provincial Guardians Office had finished its investigation. Even though Philippe had recanted his accusation of abuse, the Office was obligated to investigate. It found nothing. In his heart Matthew was disappointed. Not, of course, at being exonerated. But so much damage had been done he wished they’d made a public statement that he was, in reality, a wonderful father. A kind, compassionate, firm parent. A loving father.

He’d long since forgiven Philippe, he didn’t even need to know why Philippe had done it. But standing now in the kitchen that had held so many birthday parties, and excited Christmas mornings, and had been the scene of so many batches of ‘s’mores’ and ‘yes yes’ cookies, standing here, he knew life would never be the same. Too much had been said and done. He also knew, with work, it could actually be better. The question was, was Philippe willing to put the
work in? A week and a half ago, in anger, he’d waited for his son to come to him. That had been a mistake. Now he was going to his son.

‘Yeah?’ came the sullen answer to his tentative knock.

‘May I come in? I’d like to talk with you. No yelling. Just clear the air, OK?’

‘Whatever.’

‘Philippe,’ Matthew sat on the chair by the desk and turned to face the boy, who was lying on his crumpled bed. ‘I’ve done something that’s hurt you. My problem is I don’t know what it is. I’ve racked my brains. Is it the basement? Are you angry about having to clean up the basement?’

‘No.’

‘Did I yell at you, or say something to hurt your feelings? If I did please tell me. I won’t be angry. I just need to know and then we can talk about it.’

‘No.’

‘Philippe, I’m not angry about what you did. I never have been. I was hurt and confused. But not angry at you. I love you. Can you talk to me? Whatever it is, you can tell me.’

Matthew looked at his son and for the first time in almost a year he saw his sensitive, thoughtful, kind boy. Philippe looked at his father and longed to tell him. And he almost did. Almost. He stood at the cliff, his toes over the edge, and he looked into oblivion. His father was inviting him to step over and trust that it would be all right. He would catch him, wouldn’t let him fall. And to give Philippe credit, he considered it. Philippe yearned to close his eyes, take that step and fall into his father’s arms.

But in the end he couldn’t. Instead he turned his face to the wall, put his headphones back on, and retreated.

Matthew dropped his head and looked down at his dirty old work boots and saw in excruciating detail the mud and bits of leaves stuck there.

*    *    *

Gamache was sitting in Olivier’s Bistro, by the fireplace, waiting to be served. He’d just arrived, and the people who’d been in the choice location had just left, their tip still on the table. Gamache had the momentary desire to pocket the money himself. Another bit of weirdness from the long house.

‘Hi, may I join you?’

Gamache rose and bowed slightly to Myrna, then indicated the sofa facing the fireplace. ‘Please.’

‘Quite a lot of excitement,’ said Myrna. ‘I hear Jane’s home is wonderful.’

‘You haven’t seen it?’

‘No. I wanted to wait until Thursday.’

‘Thursday? What’s happening Thursday?’

‘Clara hasn’t asked you?’

‘Are my feelings going to be hurt? Sûreté homicide officers are notoriously sensitive. What’s happening on Thursday?’

‘Thursday? Are you going too?’ Gabri asked, standing over them wearing a little apron and channeling Julia Child. ‘Not yet.’

‘Oh well, never mind. I hear Hurricane Kyla’s hit land in Florida. Saw it on Méteo Media.’

‘I saw that, too,’ said Myrna. ‘When’s it supposed to get here?’

‘Oh, a few days. ‘Course it’ll be a tropical storm by then, or whatever they call it by the time it hits Quebec. Should be quite a storm.’ He looked out the window as though he expected to see it looming over the nearby mountain. He looked worried. Storms were never good.

Gamache toyed with the price tag dangling from the coffee table.

‘Olivier’s put price tags everywhere,’ confided Gabri, ‘including our private toilet, thank you very much. Fortunately I have enough elegance and good taste to overcome this one
flaw of Olivier’s. Greed, I think it’s called. Now, can I interest you in a glass of wine, or perhaps a chandelier?’

Myrna ordered a red wine while Gamache took a Scotch.

‘Clara’s organising Jane’s party for Thursday, just the way Jane had planned,’ said Myrna, once the drinks had arrived. A couple of licorice pipes also appeared. ‘After the
vernissage
at Arts Williamsburg. Now, if Clara asks, you have to say you tortured me.’

‘Trying to get me suspended again? The Sûreté torturing a black woman?’

‘Don’t they promote you for that?’

Gamache caught and held Myrna’s eye. Neither smiled. They both knew the truth in that. He wondered whether Myrna knew his particular role in the Arnot case, and the price he’d paid. He thought not. The Sûreté was good at finding other people’s secrets, and keeping its own.

‘Wow,’ said Clara, taking the big chair on the other side of the fireplace. ‘This feels good. Nice to be out of the stink of the mineral spirits. I’m on my way home to make supper.’

‘Isn’t this a little out of your way?’ asked Myrna.

‘We artistic types never take a straight line, unless you’re Peter. He starts at A and paints and paints and ends up at B. Without even a hesitation. Enough to drive you to drink.’ She flagged down Gabri and ordered a beer and some nuts.

‘How’s the restoration?’ asked Gamache.

‘Fine, I think. I left Ben and Ruth there. Ruth has found Jane’s liquor cabinet and is writing verse while staring at the walls. God knows what Ben’s doing. Probably applying paint. I swear to God he seems to be going backwards. Still, it’s great to have him there and actually the work he does do is fantastic, brilliant.’

‘Peter isn’t helping anymore?’ asked Myrna.

‘Oh yes, but we’re taking turns now. Well, mostly he’s taking turns. I spend most of the day there. It’s kind of
addictive. Peter loves the work, don’t get me wrong, but he needs to do his own work.’

Gabri appeared with her beer. ‘That’ll be a hundred thousand dollars.’

‘Well, you can kiss your tip goodbye.’

‘If I could kiss my tip I wouldn’t need Olivier.’

‘We were talking about Thursday,’ said Gamache. ‘I hear there’s a party.’

‘Do you mind? I’d like to hold it just as Jane had planned.’

‘Hope the Hurricane doesn’t ruin it,’ said Gabri, pleased to find melodrama.

Gamache wished he’d thought of it. Clara was doing it as a tribute to her friend, he knew, but it could have another very practical purpose. It could rattle the murderer.

‘As long as I’m invited.’

Isabelle Lacoste looked up from her computer where she’d been writing her reports on the Fontaine/Malenfant search and her visit to Timmer’s doctor. He’d brought up Timmer’s file on his computer and finally, with extreme caution, admitted it was a remote possibility someone had helped her into the next life.

‘With morphine; that would be the only way. Wouldn’t really take much at that stage, she was already on it, just a little more could have put her over the top.’

‘You didn’t check?’

‘Saw no need.’ Then he’d hesitated again. Lacoste was a good enough investigator to wait. And wait. Eventually he spoke again. ‘It happens a lot in cases like this. A friend, or more often a family member, gives the person a fatal dose. Mercy. Happens more often than we know or want to know. There’s a kind of unwritten agreement that in terminal cases, at the end of life, we don’t look too closely.’

Lacoste could certainly sympathise and privately thought
this was probably a good thing, but this was business, and in this case they weren’t talking about mercy. ‘Is there any way to check now?’

‘She was cremated. Her own wishes.’ He closed his computer.

And now, two hours later, she was closing hers. It was 6.30 and pitch black outside. She needed to speak with Gamache about what she’d found in Bernard’s room before heading home. It was a cold night and Lacoste buttoned her field coat before setting out across the bridge that spanned the Rivière Bella Bella and headed into the heart of Three Pines.

‘Give it to me.’

‘Bonjour,
Bernard.’ She’d recognised the surly voice even before she saw him.

‘Gimme.’ Bernard Malenfant was leaning against her.

‘Do you want to tell me about it?’

‘Fuck off. Give it here.’ He brought his fist to her face, but didn’t strike.

Isabelle Lacoste had faced down serial killers, snipers, and abusive, drunken husbands, and she was under no illusion. A furious, out-of-control 14-year-old was as dangerous as any of them.

‘Drop that fist. I’m not going to give it to you, so it’s no use threatening.’

Bernard grabbed her satchel, trying to yank it away but she’d expected this. She’d found that most boys, and even some not very bright men, underestimated women. She was strong and determined and smart. She kept her cool and twisted the satchel out of his grip.

‘Bitch. It’s not even mine. Do you really think I’d have shit like that?’ The last word was screamed into her face so she could feel his spittle on her chin and the stench of his warm breath.