Still Life (14 page)

‘Thank you.’

‘I’m the official caterer for the disaster that’s about to happen. I can’t imagine why Clara is doing this, she knows what Yolande has been saying behind her back for years. Hideous woman.’

Gamache, Olivier and the server stared at the scene unfolding in the silent bistro.

‘My aunt and I were extremely close, as you know,’ Yolande said straight into Clara’s face, appearing to believe every word she said. ‘I know you won’t be upset if I mention that we all think you took her away from her real family. All the people I talk to agree with me. Still, you probably didn’t realise what you were doing.’ Yolande smiled indulgently.

‘Oh my God,’ Ruth whispered to Gabri, ‘here it comes.’

Peter was gripping the arms of his chair, wanting with all his being to leap up and scream at Yolande. But he knew
Clara had to do that herself, had to finally stand up for herself. He waited for Clara’s response. The whole room waited.

Clara took a deep breath and said nothing.

‘I’ll be organising my aunt’s funeral,’ Yolande plowed on. ‘Probably have it in the Catholic church in St Rimy. That’s Andre’s church.’ Yolande reached out a hand to take her husband’s, but both his hands were taken up clutching a huge sandwich, gushing mayo and meat. Her son Bernard yawned, revealing a mouth full of half-chewed sandwich and strings of mayo glopping down from the roof of his mouth.

‘I’ll probably put a notice in the paper which I’m sure you’ll see. But maybe you can think of something for her headstone. But nothing weird, my aunt wouldn’t have liked that. Anyway, think about it and let me know.’

‘Again, I’m so sorry about Jane.’

When she’d gone over to speak with Yolande, Clara had known this would happen. Known that Yolande, for some unfathomable reason, could always get to her. Could hurt her where most others couldn’t reach. It was one of life’s little mysteries that this woman she had absolutely no respect for, could lay her flat. She thought she’d been ready for it. She’d even dared to harbour a hope that maybe this time would be different. But of course it wasn’t.

For many years Clara would remember how it felt standing there. Feeling again like the ugly little girl in the schoolyard. The unloved and unlovable child. Flatfooted and maladroit, slow and mocked. The one who laughed in the wrong places and believed tall stories, and was desperate for someone, anyone, to like her. Stupid, stupid, stupid. The polite attention and the balled up fist under the school desk. She wanted to run to Jane, who’d make it better. Take her in those full, kindly arms and say the magic words, ‘There, there.’

Ruth Zardo would also remember this moment and turn it into poetry. It would be published in her next volume called, ‘I’m FINE’:

But more than anything, Clara would remember Andre’s toxic laugh ringing in her ears as she silently made her way back to her table, so far away. A laugh such as a maladjusted child might make on seeing a creature hurt and suffering. It was a familiar sound.

‘Who was on the phone?’ Beauvoir asked when Gamache slipped back into his seat. Beauvoir was unaware the boss had gone anywhere other than the washroom.

‘Dr Harris. I didn’t know she lives close to here, in a village called Cleghorn Halt. She said she’d bring her report by on her way home, at about five.’

‘I’ve assigned a team to set up the Incident Room and I’ve sent a team back to the woods to do another search. I figure the arrow is in one of three places, stuck into the ground in the woods, picked up by the killer and probably destroyed by now, or, with any luck, it’s among the arrows Lacoste found in the clubhouse.’

‘Agreed.’

Beauvoir handed out the assignments, and sent a couple of agents to interview Gus Hennessey and Claude LaPierre about the manure incident. He would interview Philippe Croft himself. Then he joined Gamache outside and the two
strolled around the village green, head to head under their umbrellas.

‘Miserable weather,’ said Beauvoir, lifting the collar of his jacket and shrugging his shoulders against the driving rain.

‘More rain on the way and turning colder,’ Gamache said automatically, and suddenly realised the villagers were getting into his head, or at least their incessant forecasts were.

‘What do you think of Agent Nichol, Jean Guy?’

‘I can’t figure out how she got into the Sûreté, with an attitude like that, not to mention recommended for a promotion to homicide. No skill as a team member, almost no people skills, no ability to listen. It’s amazing. I have to think it backs up what you’ve been saying for years, that the wrong people are promoted.’

‘Do you think she can learn? She’s young, right? About twenty-five?’

‘That’s not so young. Lacoste isn’t much older. I’m far from convinced it’s an issue of age and not personality. I think she’s going to be like this, and worse, at fifty if she isn’t careful. Can she learn? Undoubtedly. But the real question is can she unlearn? Can she get rid of her bad attitudes?’ He noticed the rain dripping from the chief inspector’s face. He wanted to wipe it away, but resisted the impulse.

Even as he spoke, Beauvoir knew he’d made a mistake. It was like honey to a bear. He could see the chief’s face change, from the somber problem-solving mode into mentor mode. He’d try to fix her. God, here it comes, thought Beauvoir. He respected Gamache more than any other human being, but saw his flaw, perhaps a fatal flaw, as a desire to help people, instead of just firing them. He was far too compassionate. A gift Beauvoir sometimes envied, but mostly watched with suspicion.

‘Well, maybe her need to be right will be tempered by her curiosity.’

And maybe the scorpion will lose its sting, thought Beauvoir.

‘Chief Inspector?’ The two men looked up and saw Clara Morrow running through the rain, her husband Peter fighting with their umbrella and struggling to keep up. ‘I’ve thought of something odd.’

‘Ahh, sustenance.’ Gamache smiled.

‘Well this is a pretty small nugget, but who knows. It just struck me as a strange coincidence and I thought you should know. It’s about Jane’s art.’

‘I don’t think it’s that big a deal,’ said Peter, soaked and sullen. Clara shot him a surprised look which wasn’t lost on Gamache.

‘It’s just that Jane painted all her life but never let anyone see her work.’

‘That’s not so strange, is it?’ said Beauvoir. ‘Lots of artists and writers keep their work secret. You read about it all the time. Then after their deaths their stuff is discovered and makes a fortune.’

‘True, but that’s not what happened. Last week Jane decided to show her work at Arts Williamsburg. She just decided Friday morning, and the judging was Friday afternoon. Her painting was accepted.’

‘Got accepted and got murdered,’ murmured Beauvoir. ‘That is odd.’

‘Speaking of odd,’ said Gamache, ‘is it true Miss Neal never invited anyone into her living room?’

‘It’s true,’ said Peter. ‘We’ve gotten so used to it it doesn’t seem strange. It’s like a limp or a chronic cough, I guess. A small abnormality that becomes normal.’

‘But why not?’

‘Don’t know,’ admitted Clara, herself baffled. ‘Like Peter said I’ve gotten so used to it it doesn’t seem strange.’

‘Didn’t you ever ask?’

‘Jane? I suppose we did, when we first arrived. Or maybe
we asked Timmer and Ruth, but I know for sure we never got an answer. No one seems to know. Gabri thinks she has orange shag carpet and pornography.’

Gamache laughed. ‘And what do you think?’

‘I just don’t know.’

Silence greeted this. Gamache wondered about this woman who had chosen to live with so many secrets for so long, then chosen to let them all out. And died because of it? That was the question.

Maître Norman Stickley stood at his desk and nodded his hello, then sat down without offering a seat to the three officers in front of him. Putting on large round glasses and looking down at his file he launched into speech.

‘This will was drawn up ten years ago and is very simple. After a few small bequests the bulk of her estate goes to her niece, Yolande Marie Fontaine, or her issue. That would be the home in Three Pines, all its contents, plus whatever monies are left after paying the bequests and burial fees and whatever bills the executors incur. Plus taxes, of course.’

‘Who are the executors of her estate?’ Gamache asked, taking the blow to their investigation in his stride, but inwardly cursing. Something wasn’t right, he felt. Maybe it’s just your pride, he thought. Too stubborn to admit you were wrong and this elderly woman quite understandably left her home to her only living relative.

‘Ruth Zardo, nee Kemp, and Constance Hadley, nee Post, known, I believe, as Timmer.’

The list of names troubled Gamache, though he couldn’t put his finger on it. Was it the people themselves? he wondered. The choice? What?

‘Had she made other wills with you?’ Beauvoir asked.

‘Yes. She’d made a will five years before this one.’

‘Do you still have a copy of it?’

‘No. Do you think I have space to keep old documents?’

‘Do you remember what was in it?’ Beauvoir asked, expecting to get another defensive, snippy, answer.

‘No. Do you—’ but Gamache headed him off.

‘If you can’t remember the exact terms of the first will can you perhaps remember, in broad strokes, her reasons for changing it five years later?’ Gamache asked in as reasonable and friendly a tone as possible.

‘It’s not unusual for people to make wills every few years,’ said Stickley, and Gamache was beginning to wonder if this slightly whiny tone was just his way of speaking. ‘Indeed, we recommend that clients do this every two to five years. Of course,’ said Stickley, as though answering an accusation, ‘it’s not for the notarial fee, but because situations tend to change every few years. Children are born, grandchildren come, spouses die, there’s divorce.’

‘The great parade of life.’ Gamache jumped in to stop the parade.

‘Exactly.’

‘And yet, Maître Stickley, her last will is ten years old. Why would that be? I think we can assume she made this one because the old one was no longer valid. But,’ Gamache leaned forward and tapped the long thin document in front of the notary, ‘this will is also out of date. Are you certain this is the most recent?’

‘Of course it is. People get busy and a will is often not a priority. It can be an unpleasant chore. There are any number of reasons people put them off.’

‘Could she have gone to another notary?’

‘Impossible. And I resent the implication.’

‘How do you know it’s impossible?’ Gamache persevered. ‘Would she necessarily tell you?’

‘I just know. This is a small town and I would have heard.’
Point finale.

As they were leaving, a copy of the will in hand, Gamache
turned to Nichol, ‘I’m still not convinced about this will. I want you to do something.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Nichol was suddenly alert.

‘Find out if this is the latest copy. Can you do that?’

”Absolument.’
Nichol practically levitated.

‘Hello,’ Gamache called, poking his head through the door of Arts Williamsburg. After they’d been to the notary they’d walked over to the gallery, a wonderfully preserved and restored former post office. Its huge windows let in what little light the sky offered and that gray light sat on the narrow and worn wood floors and rubbed against the pristine white walls of the small open room, giving it an almost ghostly glow.

‘Bonjour,’
he called again. He could see an old pot-bellied wood stove in the center of the room. It was beautiful. Simple, direct, nothing elegant about it, just a big, black stove that had kept the Canadian cold at bay for more than a hundred years. Nichol had found the light switches and turned them on. Huge canvases of abstract art lunged off the walls. It surprised Gamache. He’d been expecting pretty country watercolors, romantic and salable. Instead he was surrounded by brilliant stripes and spheres ten feet tall. It felt youthful and vibrant and strong.

‘Hello.’

Nichol started, but Gamache just turned around and saw Clara coming toward them, a duck barrette clinging to a few strands of hair, getting ready for the final flight.

‘We meet again,’ she said, smiling. ‘After all that talk about Jane’s art I wanted to come and see it again, and sit with it quietly. It’s a bit like sitting with her soul.’

Nichol rolled her eyes and groaned. Beauvoir noticed this with a start and wondered if he had been that obnoxious and closed-minded when the Chief talked about his feelings and intuition.

‘And the smell,’ Clara inhaled deeply and passionately, ignoring Nichol, ‘every artist responds to this smell. Gets the heart going. Like walking into Grandma’s and smelling fresh chocolate-chip cookies. For us it’s that combination of varnish, oils and fixative. Even acrylics have a scent, if you’ve got a good shnozz. You must have smells like that, that cops respond to.’

‘Well,’ Gamache said, laughing, and remembering yesterday morning, ‘when Agent Nichol here picked me up at my home, she brought along Tim Horton’s coffee. Double double. That gets my heart racing’ – here he brought his hand to his chest and held it there – ‘totally and exclusively associated with investigations. I can walk into a concert hall, but if I smell Tim Horton’s double double I’ll start looking at the floor for a body.’

Clara laughed. ‘If you like chalk outlines you’re going to love Jane’s work. I’m glad you’ve come to see it.’

‘Is this it?’ Gamache looked around the vibrant room.

‘Not even close. This is another artist. Their show is ending in a week, then we hang the members’ exhibition. That opens in about ten days. Not this Friday, but next.’

‘That’s the
vernissage?’

‘Exactly. Two weeks after the judging.’

‘May I see you for a moment?’ Beauvoir steered Gamache a few steps away.

‘I spoke with Lacoste. She just got off the phone with Timmer Hadley’s doctor. Her death was completely natural, as far as he’s concerned. Kidney cancer. It spread to the pancreas and liver and then it was just a matter of time. She actually survived longer than he expected.’