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 spann
ed 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.
‘Then whose is it?’ she said evenly, trying to control her gag response.
Bernard gave her a malevolent leer. ‘Are you kidding? I’m not going to tell.’
‘Hey, are you all right?’ A woman and her dog were walking quickly toward them from the direction of the bridge.
Bernard swung around and saw them. He yanked up his bike and rode away, swerving so that he headed toward the dog, but just missed it.
‘Are you all right?’ the woman repeated, and reached out and touched Isabelle’s arm. Lacoste recognised the woman as Hanna Parra. ‘Was that young Malenfant?’
‘Yes. We had a few words. I’m fine, but thanks for checking.’ And she meant it. This wouldn’t have happened in Montreal.
‘Anytime.’ They walked over the Bella Bella into Three Pines, separating at the Bistro and waving goodbye.
The first thing Lacoste did upon reaching the cheerful lights and warmth of the Bistro was head to the washroom, to scrub her face with the fragrant soap and fresh water. Once clean she ordered a Martini and Rossi and caught the chief’s eye. He nodded toward a small, secluded table. The Martini and Rossi, a bowl of nuts and her chief in front of her, Lacoste relaxed. She then told him about her search of Bernard’s room, handing him the item she’d taken as she spoke.
‘Phew,’ said Gamache, examining the item. ‘Get this fingerprinted. Bernard denies it’s his? Did he say whose it was?’
Lacoste shook her head.
‘Did you believe it’s not his?’
‘I don’t know. I think I don’t want to believe him, but some instinct tells me he’s telling the truth.’
Only with Gamache could she talk about feelings, intuition and instinct without feeling defensive. He nodded and offered her dinner before she headed back to Montreal, but she declined. She wanted to see her family before they went to bed Gamache awoke to a pounding on his door. His bedside clock said 2.47. Putting on his dressing gown he opened the door. Yvette Nichol stood there in an impossibly fluffy pink and white number.
She’d been lying awake, tossing and turning, and finally just curling on her side, staring at the wall. How had it come to this? She was in trouble. Something had gone wrong. Something always went wrong, it seemed. But how? She’d tried so hard.
Now, in the tiny new day the familiar old voice spoke to her, It’s because you’re Uncle Saul, after all. Stupid Uncle Saul. They were counting on you, your family, and you’ve fucked up again. Shame on you.
Nichol felt the lump in her chest harden and she turned over. Looking out the window she saw a light go on across the village green. She leapt out of bed, threw on a dressing gown, and ran up the stairs to Gamache’s room.
‘There’s a light on,’ she said without preamble.
‘Where?’
‘Across the way, at Jane Neal’s home. It went on a few minutes ago.’
‘Get Inspector Beauvoir. Have him meet me downstairs.’
‘Yes, sir.’ And she left. Five minutes later he met a disheveled Beauvoir on the stairs. As they were leaving they heard a noise and saw Nichol descending.
‘Stay here,’ commanded Gamache.
‘No, sir. It’s my light.’ She might have said, ‘purple door candlestick’, for all the sense that made to Gamache or Beauvoir.
‘Stay here. That’s an order. If you hear shots, call for help.’
As the two men walked briskly across the green toward Jane Neal’s home, Gamache thought to ask, ‘Did you bring your gun?’
‘No. Did you?’
‘No. But you’ve got to know Nichol had her’s. Oh, well.’
They could see two lights in the home, one upstairs and another in the living room. Gamache and Beauvoir had done this hundreds of times before, they knew their routine. Gamache was always the first through, Beauvoir on his heels, ready to throw the chief out of any line of fire.
Gamache entered the dark mudroom silently and crept up the two steps into the kitchen. He tiptoed to the living-room door and listened. He could hear voices. A man’s and a woman’s. Unrecognisable, and unintelligible. He signaled to Beauvoir, took a breath, and shoved the door open.
Ben and Clara stood stunned in the middle of the room. Gamache felt as though he’d stumbled into a Noel Coward drawing-room comedy, all Ben needed was an ascot tied around his neck and a Martini glass. Clara, though, belonged more in a circus. She was wearing a bright red single-piece flannel outfit, complete with feet, and probably a hatch at the back.
‘We surrender,’ said Clara.
‘So do we,’ said Beauvoir, looking at her outfit, amazed. You’d never find a francophone woman in that.
‘What’re you doing here?’ Gamache went right to the point. It was 3 a.m. and he’d just geared himself up for some unpleasantness. He wanted to go back to bed.
‘That’s what I was asking Ben. I haven’t been sleeping so well since Jane died, so I got up to use the bathroom and saw the light. I came over to see.’
‘By yourself?’
‘Well, I didn’t want to disturb Peter, and besides, this is Jane’s home,’ she said, as though that explained it. Gamache thought he understood. Clara considered it a safe place. He’d have to have a talk with her.
‘Mr Hadley, what are you doing here?’
Ben was looking very embarrassed by now. ‘I set my alarm to come here. I wanted to, well, sort of go upstairs, you know.’
This was so deeply uninformative and uninteresting Beauvoir thought he might actually fall asleep on his feet.
‘Go on,’ said Gamache.
‘Well, to do more work. On the walls. You’d said yesterday how important it was to see everything, and well. Then there’s Clara, of course.’
‘Go on,’ said Gamache. In his peripheral vision he could see Beauvoir swaying.
‘You tried to hide it, but I could tell you were getting impatient with me,’ Ben said to Clara. ‘I’m not a very fast worker. I’m not a very fast person, I guess. Anyway, I wanted to surprise you by doing some work tonight. It was probably a dumb idea.’
‘I think it’s a beautiful idea,’ said Clara, going over and giving Ben a hug. ‘But you’ll just exhaust yourself, you know, and be slow again tomorrow.’
‘I hadn’t thought of that,’ admitted Ben. ‘Do you mind, though, if I just put in a couple of hours?’
‘That’s fine with me,’ said Gamache. ‘But next time, please tell us.’
‘Should I stay and help?’ Clara offered. Ben hesitated and seemed on the verge of saying something, but simply shook his head. As he left Gamache looked back at Ben standing alone in the living room. He looked like a little lost boy.
THIRTEEN
It was Thursday evening and Arts Williamsburg was enjoying a record turnout for a vernissage. The tail of Hurricane Kyla was forecast to hit later that night and the expectation added a frisson to the event, as though going t
o the opening meant taking your life in your hands and reflected both character and courage. Which wasn’t, actually, all that far off the mark for most Arts Williamsburg shows.
At past openings only the artists themselves and a few scraggly friends would show up, fortifying themselves with wine from boxes and cheese produced by a board member’s goat. This night a gnarly knot of people surrounded Jane’s work, which was sitting cloaked on an easel in the center of the room. Around the white walls the other artists’ works were ranged, as were the artists themselves. They’d had the misfortune to be chosen for an exhibition in which their work was clearly upstaged by that of a murdered woman. A few might have agreed their misfortune was eclipsed by that of the person actually dead, but even then she’d bested them, even in misfortune. Life as an artist was indeed unfair.
Gamache was waiting for Fair Day to be unveiled. The board of Arts Williamsburg had decided to make it an ‘event’, so they’d invited the press, which meant the Williamsburg County News and now the chairperson of the jury was waiting for ‘le moment juste’. Gamache glanced enviously at Jean Guy, sprawled on one of the comfortable chairs, refusing to give it up to an elderly man. He was exhausted. Bad art did this to him. Actually, he had to admit, any art did this to him. Bad wine, stinky cheese and pretty smelly art took the will to live right out of him. He looked around and came to the sad but inevitable conclusion that the building wouldn’t collapse when Kyla finally blew into town later that night.
‘As you know, a tragic event has robbed us of a fine woman and as it turns out, a gifted artist,’ Elise Jacob, the jury chair, was saying.
Clara sidled up between Ben and Peter. Elise was going on, and on, and on about the virtues of Jane. She practically had her sainted. Then, finally, just as Clara’s eyes began to bulge she said, ‘Here, without further ado’ - Clara, who knew and loved Jane, figured there’d been plenty of doodoo already - ‘is Fair Day by Jane Neal.’