Still Life (36 page)

‘I do. I just don’t know why.’

‘You said, “she”,’ said Beauvoir to Clara. ‘Why?’

‘I guess because the new face is female. I assumed the person who did this would paint the easiest thing and that’s what we see in the mirror every day.’

‘You think this is the murderer’s face?’ Beauvoir asked.

‘No, that wouldn’t be very smart. I think it’s the murderer’s gender, that’s all. Under pressure a white man is most likely to paint a white man, not a black man, not a white woman – but the thing he’s most familiar with. The same here.’

It’s a good point, thought Gamache. But he also thought that if a man was painting to deceive he might very well paint a woman.

‘Would it take skill to do this?’ he asked.

‘Remove one face and replace it with another? Yes, quite a lot. Not necessarily to take the first face off, but then again most people wouldn’t know how. Would you?’ she asked Beauvoir.

‘No, not a clue. You mentioned mineral spirits and a rag, but the first time I ever heard of mineral spirits was a few days ago when you needed them for your work here.’

‘Exactly. Artists know these things, but most people don’t. Once the face is off she’d have to paint on another, using Jane’s style. That takes skill. Whoever did this is an artist, and I’d say a good one. It took us quite a while to find the mistake. We probably never would have if your Agent Nichol hadn’t been so obnoxious. She said this was Yolande. I was so pissed off I went in search of Jane’s Yolande to see if it was true. And it wasn’t. But it forced me to look more closely at the face to see who it might be. That’s when I noticed the differences. So you can tell Nichol she helped solve the case.’

‘Anything else you’d like us to tell her?’ Beauvoir smiled at Clara.

Gamache knew he wouldn’t lead Nichol to believe her rudeness had paid off, and yet he knew if he’d sent her away earlier they’d never be this far now. In a sense Clara was right but she’d failed to give herself enough credit. Her own need to prove Nichol wrong had played quite a role as well.

‘You thought
Fair Day
was good enough for the exhibition when you judged it on the Friday before Thanksgiving?’ he asked Peter.

‘I thought it was brilliant.’

‘It had changed by Thanksgiving Monday,’ said Clara, turning to Gamache and Beauvoir. ‘Remember when you two came in and I showed you
Fair Day?
The magic was gone then.’

‘Saturday and Sunday,’ said Beauvoir. ‘Two days. Somewhere in there the murderer changed this painting. Jane Neal was killed Sunday morning.’

They all stared at it, willing it to tell them who did this. Gamache knew that
Fair Day
was screaming at them. The reason for Jane Neal’s murder was in that picture. Clara could hear a tap tap tapping on the living-room window and went over to see who was out there. Staring into the darkness a branch suddenly appeared and hit the glass. Hurricane Kyla had arrived, and wanted in.

The party broke up quickly after that, everyone racing for their homes or cars before the worst of the storm hit.

‘Don’t let a house fall on you,’ Gabri shouted after Ruth, who may or may not have given him the finger as she disappeared into the dark.
Fair Day
was taken to the B. & B. where a group now sat in the large living room sipping liqueurs and espresso. A fire had been laid and lit and outside Kyla moaned and called the leaves from the trees. Rain now whipped against the windows causing them to tremble. Inside the group instinctively huddled closer, warmed by the fire, the drinks and the company.

‘Who knew about
Fair Day
before Miss Neal was killed?’ Gamache asked. Peter and Clara were there, as were Ben, Olivier, Gabri and Myrna.

‘The jury,’ said Peter.

‘Didn’t you talk about it at your Thanksgiving dinner that Friday night?’

‘We talked about it a lot. Jane even described it,’ confirmed Clara.

‘It’s not the same thing,’ said Gamache. ‘Who saw
Fair Day
before tonight?’

They looked at each other, shaking their heads.

‘Who was on the jury again?’ Beauvoir asked.

‘Henri Lariviere, Irenée Calfat, Elise Jacob, Clara and me,’ said Peter.

‘And who else might have seen it?’ Gamache asked again. It was a crucial question. The murderer killed Jane because of
Fair Day.
He or she had to have seen it and seen the threat, enough to alter the picture, enough to murder.

‘Isaac Coy,’ said Clara. ‘He’s the caretaker. And I guess it’s possible anyone who came in to see the other exhibition, the abstract art, could have wandered into the storeroom and seen it.’

‘But not likely,’ said Gamache.

‘Not by mistake,’ Clara agreed. She got up. ‘I’m sorry, but I think I’ve left my purse at Jane’s. I’m just going to nip over and get it.’

‘In the storm?’ Myrna asked, incredulous.

‘I’m going home as well,’ said Ben. ‘Unless there’s something else I can do?’

Gamache shook his head and the gathering broke up. One by one they made their way into the black night; arms instinctively up to protect their faces. The night air was filled with driving rain and dead leaves and running people.

Clara needed to think, and for that she needed her safe place, which happened to be Jane’s kitchen. She turned on all the lights and sank into one of the big old chairs beside the wood stove.

Was it possible? Surely she’d gotten something wrong. Forgotten something, or read too much into something. It’d struck her first staring at
Fair Day
during the cocktail, though the beginnings of the idea had started at Arts Williamsburg earlier in the evening. But she’d rejected the thought. Too painful. Too close. Much too close.

But the damning idea had come back with force in the
B. & B. just now. As they’d stared at
Fair Day
all the pieces had come together. All the clues, all the hints. Everything made sense. She couldn’t go home. Not now. She was afraid to go home.

‘What do you think?’ Beauvoir asked, sitting in the chair opposite Gamache. Nichol was lounging on the sofa reading a magazine, punishing Gamache with her silence. Gabri and Olivier had gone to bed.

‘Yolande,’ said Gamache. ‘I keep coming back to that family. So many lines of enquiry lead us back there. The manure throwing, papering the walls. Andre has a hunting bow.’

‘But he doesn’t have a recurve,’ said Beauvoir, sadly.

‘He’ll have destroyed it,’ said Gamache, ‘but why use it at all, that’s the problem. Why would anyone use an old bow instead of a new compound-hunting bow?’

‘Unless it was a woman,’ said Beauvoir. This was his favorite part of the job, sitting with the chief late at night with a drink and a fireplace, hashing out the crime. ‘A recurve is easier to use and an old recurve easier still. We saw that with Suzanne Croft. She wasn’t able to use the modern bow, but she’d obviously used the older one. We’re back to Yolande. She’d know her aunt’s art, probably better than anyone, and art runs in the family. If we dug we’d probably find she’s done some painting in her life. Everyone around here does, I think it’s a law.’

‘OK, so let’s follow this through. Why would Yolande want to kill Jane?’

‘For money, or the home, which comes to the same thing. She probably thought she inherited, she probably bribes that crooked notary in Williamsburg for information and God knows she’d be highly motivated to find out about her aunt’s will.’

‘Agreed. But what’s the connection with
Fair Day?
What
was in the painting that would make Yolande change it? It’s of the closing parade of this year’s fair, but it seems to be a tribute to Timmer Hadley. How could Yolande have seen it, and even if she did see it, why would she need to change it?’

This met with silence. After a few minutes Gamache moved on.

‘OK, let’s look at others. What about Ben Hadley?’

‘Why him?’ Beauvoir asked.

‘He had access to the bows, has the skill and local knowledge, Miss Neal would have trusted him, and he knows how to paint. Apparently he’s very good. And he’s on the board of Arts Williamsburg, so he had a key to the gallery. He could have let himself in any time to see
Fair Day.’

‘Motive?’ asked Beauvoir.

‘That’s the problem. There’s no clear motive, is there? Why would he need to kill Jane Neal? Not for money. Why?’

Gamache stared into the dying flames, racking his brain. He wondered whether he was trying too hard, trying not to come to the other conclusion.

‘Come on. Peter Morrow did it. Who else?’

Gamache didn’t have to look up to know who spoke. The pumpkin on the cover of
Harrowsmith Country Life
had found its voice.

Clara stared at her reflection in the window of Jane’s kitchen. A ghostly, frightened woman looked back. Her theory made sense.

Ignore it, the voice inside said. It’s not your business. Let the police do their work. For God’s sake, don’t say anything. It was a seductive voice, one that promised peace and calm and the continuation of her beautiful life in Three Pines. To act on what she knew would destroy that life.

What if you’re wrong? cooed the voice. You’ll hurt a lot of people.

But Clara knew she wasn’t wrong. She was afraid of losing this life she loved, this man she loved.

He’ll be furious. He’ll deny it, shrieked the now panicked voice in her head. He’ll confuse you. Make you feel horrible for suggesting such a thing. Best not to say anything. You have everything to lose and nothing to gain. And, no one need know. No one will ever know that you said nothing.

But Clara knew the voice lied. Had always lied to her. Clara would know and that knowing would eventually destroy her life anyway.

Gamache lay in bed staring at
Fair Day.
Conversations and snippets of conversations swirled in his head as he stared at the stylised people and animals and remembered what each person had said at one time or another over the past two weeks.

Yvette Nichol had been right. Peter Morrow was the likeliest suspect, but there was no evidence. Gamache knew that their best chance of catching him lay with this picture and the analysis tomorrow.
Fair Day
was their smoking gun. But as he stared at each face in the picture something suggested itself, something so unlikely he couldn’t believe it. He sat up in bed. It wasn’t what was in
Fair Day
that would prove who murdered Jane Neal. It was what wasn’t in
Fair Day.
Gamache leapt out of bed and threw on his clothes.

Clara could barely see for the rain, but the wind was the worst. Kyla had turned the autumn leaves, so beautiful on the trees, into small missiles. They whipped around her, plastering against her face. She put an arm up to protect her eyes and leaned into the wind, stumbling over the uneven terrain. The leaves and twigs smacked her raincoat, trying to find her skin. Where the leaves failed the frigid water succeeded. It poured up her sleeves and down her back, into
her nose and pelted her eyeballs when she squinted them open. But she was almost there.

‘I was getting worried. I expected you earlier,’ he said, coming over to hug her. Clara stepped back, out of his embrace. He looked at her surprised and hurt. Then he looked down at her boots, puddling water and mud on the floor. She followed his gaze and automatically removed her boots, almost smiling at the normalcy of the action. Maybe she’d been wrong. Maybe she could just take off her boots, sit down, and not say anything. Too late. Her mouth was already working.

‘I’ve been thinking.’ She paused, not sure what to say, or how to say it.

‘I know. I could see it in your face. When did you figure it out?’

So, she thought, he’s not going to deny it. She didn’t know whether to be relieved or horrified.

‘At the party, but I couldn’t get it all. I needed time to think, to work it out.’

‘Was that why you said “she”, when describing the forger?’

‘Yes. I wanted to buy some time, maybe even throw the police off.’

‘It threw me off. I was hoping you meant it. But then at the B. & B. I could see your mind working. I know you too well. What’re we going to do?’

‘I needed to see if you’d really done it. I felt I owed you this, because I love you.’ Clara felt numb, as though she was having an out of body experience.

‘And I love you,’ he said in a voice that struck her as suddenly mincing. Was it always like this? ‘And I need you. You don’t have to tell the police, there’s no evidence. Even the tests tomorrow won’t show anything. I was careful. Once I put my mind to something I’m very good, but you know that.’

She did. And she suspected he was right. The police would have a hard time convicting him.

‘Why?’ she asked, ‘why did you kill Jane? And why did you kill your mother?’

‘Wouldn’t you?’ Ben smiled, and advanced.

Gamache had woken Beauvoir and now the two were banging on the Morrows’ door.

‘Did you forget your key?’ Peter was saying as he unlocked it. He stared, uncomprehending, at Gamache and Beauvoir. ‘Where’s Clara?’

‘That’s what we wanted to ask you. We need to speak with her, now.’

‘I left her at Jane’s, but that was’, Peter consulted his watch, ‘an hour ago.’

‘That’s a long time to search for a purse,’ said Beauvoir.

‘She didn’t have a purse, it was just a ruse to leave the B. & B. and go into Jane’s home,’ explained Peter. ‘I knew it, but I figured she wanted time alone, to think.’

‘But she’s not back yet?’ Gamache asked. ‘Weren’t you worried?’

‘I’m always worried about Clara. The instant she leaves the house I’m worried.’

Gamache turned and hurried through the woods to Jane’s home.

Clara awoke with a throbbing head. At least, she assumed she was awake. Everything was black. Blinding black. Her face was on a floor and she was breathing in dirt. It was sticking to her skin, wet from the rain. Her clothes under her raincoat clung to her body where the rain had driven in. She felt cold and sick. She couldn’t stop shivering. Where was she? And where was Ben? She realised her arms were tied behind her. She’d been at Ben’s home, so this must be Ben’s basement. She had a memory of being carried, drifting in and out of
consciousness. And of Peter. Of hearing Peter. No. Of smelling Peter. Peter had been close by. Peter had been carrying her.