Bury Your Dead (37 page)

Gamache remained silent. He knew the young minister was wrong, sometimes it was too late. Général Montcalm knew that. He knew that.

“They should have sold all those boxes of books,” said Tom Hancock, at last, lost in his own reverie. “Now, there’s a symbol for you. The Lit and His cluttered with unwanted English words. Weighed down by the past.”

“Je me souviens,”
whispered Gamache.

“It’ll drag them under,” said the Reverend Mr. Hancock, sadly.

Gamache was beginning to understand this community and this case.

And himself.

“Ten more.”

Clara groaned and lifted her legs in unison.

“Keep your back flat!”

Clara ignored the order. This wasn’t pretty. It certainly wasn’t perfect, but she was going to damn well do it.

“One, grunt, two, groan, three . . .”

“Did I tell you about my day skiing at Mont Saint-Rémy?”

Pina, the exercise instructor, apparently didn’t need to breathe. Her legs and arms seemed independent of the rest of her, moving in military precision while she lay on the mat chatting away as though at a slumber party.

Myrna was swearing and sweating freely and sometimes making other noises while Ricky Martin sang “Livin’ la Vida Loca.” Clara was always happy to exercise close to Myrna since any number of sins, and sounds, could be blamed on her. And she was easy to hide behind. The entire class could hide behind Myrna.

Myrna turned to Clara. “If you hold her down, I’ll kill her.”

“But how? We’d never get away with it.” Clara had been giving it some thought. So far she’d done twelve leg lifts of the ten Pina announced, and now Pina was complaining bitterly about snowboarders while her own pneumatic legs went up and down.

“No one would say anything,” said Myrna, lifting her legs a millimeter. “And if they threaten to, we kill them too.”

It was as good a plan as Clara had heard.

“Where are we with the leg lifts?” Pina asked. “Three, four . . .”

“OK, Bugsy, I’m in,” snorted Clara.

“So’m I,” said Dominique Gilbert on Clara’s other side, her voice almost as unrecognizable as her purple face.

“Dear God,” said The Wife, across the room, “do it soon.”

“Do what?” asked Pina, starting to bicycle her legs in mid-air.

“Murder you, of course,” snapped Myrna.

“Oh, that,” laughed Pina, never totally appreciating how close it came every class.

Twenty minutes later the class was over, after a last Tai Chi movement in which Clara meditated on murder. It was a good thing she adored Pina and needed the class.

Toweling off and rolling up her mat, Clara wandered over to the cluster of women who’d formed in the middle of the room. After a minute or so Clara managed to get the conversation around to where she wanted it.

“Did you see Inspector Beauvoir’s back in the village?” she asked, nonchalantly, dabbing at a trickle of sweat down her neck.

“Poor guy,” said Hanna Parra. “Still, he seems better.”

“I think he’s kinda cute,” said The Wife. Her eyes were large, expressive and without guile. An earth mother, married to a carpenter.

“You don’t,” said Myrna with a laugh. “He’s too skinny.”

“I’d fatten him up,” said The Wife.

“There’s something about that Inspector. I want to save him,” said Hanna. “Heal him, make him smile.”

“Mr. Spock,” said Clara, though this conversation wasn’t exactly going as she’d hoped and she hadn’t helped by just taking it off into outer space. “The Vulcan?” she explained when a few of the women looked perplexed. “Oh, for God’s sake, you can’t tell me you don’t know
Star Trek
? Everyone had a crush on Mr. Spock because he was so cool and distant. They wanted to be the one to break down his reserve, to get into that heart.”

“It’s not his heart we want to get into,” said Hanna and everyone laughed.

They put on their coats and ran across the snowy road to the inn and spa for the regular post-exercise tea and scones.

Clara was still amazed every time she entered the inn and spa, remembering it as the crumbling old Hadley house before Dominique
and her husband Marc had bought it. Now their hostess sat relaxed and elegant, smiling and pouring tea.

Had Dominique killed the Hermit? Clara couldn’t see it. No, if Clara was being honest, the most likely suspect months ago, and the most likely one still, was Marc Gilbert. Dominique’s husband.

Clara brought the conversation around to murder once again.

“Hard to believe Olivier’s been gone almost six months,” she said, accepting a fragrant cup of tea from Dominique. Out the window she could see the clear blue day, always the coldest. Snow caught up in a whirlwind swirled by the window, making a slight sprinkling sound, like sand against the glass.

Inside the inn and spa it was peaceful. The room was filled with antiques, not cumbersome Victorian oak, but simple pine and cherry pieces. The walls were painted pastel shades and felt restful, serene. A fire was lit and the place smelled delicately of maple wood smoke, moisturizers and tisanes. Chamomile, lavender, cinnamon.

A young woman arrived with a plate of warm scones, clotted cream and homemade strawberry jam. This was Clara’s favorite part of exercise class.

“How’s Olivier doing?” The Wife asked.

“He’s trying to adjust,” said Myrna. “I saw him a few weeks ago.”

“He still insists he didn’t kill the Hermit,” said Clara, watching everyone closely. She felt a fraud, pretending to be a homicide investigator, play-acting. Still, there were worse stages. Clara smoothed clotted cream on her warm scone, then strawberry jam.

“Well, if he didn’t do it, who did?” Hanna Parra was a stout, attractive pillar. Clara had known her for decades. Could she be party to a murder? Might as well ask.

“Could you kill anyone?”

Hanna looked at her with some surprise, but no anger or suspicion.

“Now there’s an interesting question. I know for sure I could.”

“How can you be so sure?” asked Dominique.

“If someone broke into our home and threatened Havoc or Roar? I’d kill them in a second.”

“Kill the women first,” said The Wife.

“I beg your pardon?” asked Dominique. She sat forward and placed her delicate teacup on its saucer.

“It’s a training booklet put out by the Mossad,” said The Wife. Even the therapists who were giving Myrna and Hanna pedicures stopped what they were doing to stare at this lovely young woman who’d said the ugliest thing.

“How would you know that?” asked Myrna.

The Wife smiled fully. “Got you scared, don’t I?”

They all laughed, but the truth was, they were thrown off a little. The Wife let them stew for a moment then laughed.

“I heard it on CBC Radio. A show on terrorism. The theory is that women almost never kill. It takes a great deal to get a woman to murder, but once she decides to, she won’t stop until it’s done.”

There was silence as they thought about that.

“Makes sense to me,” said Myrna, at last. “When a woman commits to something she does it with both her heart and her head. Very powerful.”

“That was the point of the interview,” said The Wife. “Women rarely join terrorist cells, but Mossad agents are told if they raid a cell and there’s a female terrorist, kill her first because she’ll never surrender. She’ll be the most vicious one there. Merciless.”

“I really hate that thought,” said Dominique.

“So do I,” admitted The Wife. “But I think it might be true. Almost nothing could get me to hurt anyone, physically or emotionally, but I can see if I had to, I could. And it’d be awful.”

The last sentence was said with sadness, and Clara knew it to be the truth.

Had one of these women killed the Hermit after all? But why? What could have driven them to it? And what did she really know about them?

“Did you know Charlie’s speaking now?” said The Wife, changing the subject. “Thanks to Dr. Gilbert. He comes by once a week and works with him.”

“How kind.” A man’s voice spoke from the doorway. They looked over.

Marc Gilbert stood there, tall, lanky, his blond hair was cut to his scalp and his blue eyes were intense.

“Charlie can now say ‘boo’ and ‘shoo,’ ” said The Wife with enthusiasm.

“Congratulations,” Marc smiled. There was sarcasm there, and amusement.

Clara felt her back go up. How easy it was to dislike this smiling man.

She’d tried to like him, for Dominique’s sake, but it was a losing battle.

“I remember, my first word was ‘poo,’ ” she said to The Wife, who was looking at Marc, perplexed.

“Poo?” asked Myrna, jumping into the awkward silence. “Should I ask?”

Clara laughed. “I was trying to say ‘puppy.’ Came out as ‘poo.’ Then it became my nickname, everyone called me that for years. My father still does, sometimes. Did your father have a nickname for you, growing up?” Clara asked Marc, trying to break some of the tension.

“He was never around. Then he took off and that was that. So, no.”

The tension in the room rose.

“And now, it seems he’s found another family.” Marc stared at The Wife.

So that was it, thought Clara. Jealousy.

The Wife stared at Marc and Clara could see a flush spreading up her neck. Marc smiled, turned on his heels, and left.

“I’m sorry—” Dominique started to say to The Wife.

“It’s all right, he has a point actually. Old worships your father-in-law. I think he sees him as a sort of surrogate grandfather for Charles.”

“His own father doesn’t visit?”

“No. He died when Old was a teenager.”

“Must have been a fairly young man when he died,” said Myrna. “An accident?”

“He walked out onto the river one spring. The ice wasn’t as solid as he thought.”

She left it at that and it was far enough. Everyone in the room knew what must have happened. The cracking underfoot, the web of lines, the man looking down. Stopping. Standing still.

How far away the shore must seem when you’re on thin ice.

“Did they ever find him?” Myrna asked.

The Wife shook her head. “I think that’s the worst. Old’s mother’s still waiting for him.”

“Oh, God,” moaned Clara.

“Does Old?” Myrna asked.

“Think he’s still alive? No, thank God, but he doesn’t think it was an accident.”

Neither did Clara. It sounded deliberate to her. Everyone knew that walking on ice in spring was courting death.

And sure enough, the ice had broken under the father, as he knew it would, but his son had also lost his footing that day. And Vincent Gilbert had righted him. The Asshole Saint had stepped in and was helping Charlie, and helping Old. But at what cost?

Was that what she’d heard a few minutes ago in Marc Gilbert’s voice? Not sarcasm, but a small crack?

“What about you Clara?” Dominique asked, pouring more tea. “Are your parents still alive?”

“My father is. My mother died a few years ago.”

“Do you miss her?”

There was a question, thought Clara. Do I miss her?

“At times. She had Alzheimer’s at the end.” Seeing their faces she hurried to reassure them. “No, no. Strangely enough the last few years were some of our best.”

“When she was demented?” asked Dominique. “I begin to see why they called you Poo.”

Clara laughed. “It was actually a bit of a miracle. She forgot everything, her address, her sisters. She forgot Dad, she even forgot us. But she also forgot to be angry. It was wonderful,” Clara smiled. “Such a relief. She couldn’t remember her long list of grievances. She actually became a delightful person.”

She’d forgotten to love, but she also forgot to hate. It was a trade-off Clara was happy to accept.

The women in the room chatted about love, about childhood, about losing parents, about Mr. Spock, about good books they’d read.

They mothered each other. And by lunch they were ready to meet the winter’s day. As Clara walked home, scone crumbs in her hair, the taste of chamomile on her lips, she thought of Old’s father, frozen in time. And the look on Marc Gilbert’s face as the crack had appeared.