Still Life (30 page)

The truth was, she hadn’t called anyone because she had had no idea whom to call. The least Gamache could have done was give her guidance. He was so big on bragging how he loved to take young people under his wing and then do fuck all for them. It was his own fault.

‘Who at headquarters?’

‘I don’t know.’

Gamache was tired of this, it was a waste of time. She was a waste of time. But there was one more thing he might try. He could show her her future, if she wasn’t careful. ‘Come with me.’

Ruth Zardo’s home was tiny and cramped, full of papers and magazines and work books, piled high. Books lined every wall, and camped on the footstools and coffee table and kitchen counter. They were stacked in the closet where she threw their coats.

‘I just had the last cup of coffee and don’t intend to make anymore.’

What a bitch, thought Nichol.

‘We just have a few questions,’ said Gamache.

‘I’m not going to invite you to sit down, so you can hurry up.’

Nichol couldn’t believe the discourtesy. Really, some people.

‘Did Jane Neal know you’d told her parents about Andreas Selinsky?’ Gamache asked, and a stillness settled on the home.

Ruth Zardo might have had a very good reason to want Jane Neal dead. “Suppose Ruth thought if her ancient betrayal of Jane came to light her friendships in Three Pines would end. These people who loved her despite herself might suddenly see her for what she really was. They’d hate her if they knew of this horrible thing she’d done, then she’d be alone. An angry, bitter, lonely old lady. She couldn’t risk it, there was too much at stake.

Gamache knew from years of investigating murders there was always a motive, and the motive often made absolutely no sense to anyone other than the murderer. But it made absolute sense to that person.

‘Come in,’ she said, motioning to the kitchen table. It was a garden table surrounded by four metal Canadian Tire garden chairs. Once seated she saw him looking around and volunteered, ‘My husband died a few years ago. Since then I’ve been selling bits and pieces, mostly antiques from the family. Olivier handles them for me. It keeps my head above water, just.’

‘Andreas Selinsky,’ he reminded her.

‘I heard you the first time. That was sixty years ago. Who cares now?’

‘Timmer Hadley cared.’

‘What do you know about that?’

‘She knew what you’d done, she overheard you talking to Jane’s parents.’ As he spoke he studied Ruth’s fortress face. ‘Timmer kept your secret, and regretted it the rest of her life. But maybe Timmer told Jane, in the end. What do you think?’

‘I think you make a lousy psychic. Timmer’s dead, Jane’s dead. Let the past lie.’

‘Can you?

Ruth snorted. ‘You really think throwing my own poetry at me’s going to do it? What’d you do, stay up all night cramming like a student for this interview? Hoping to reduce me to tears in the face of my own pain? Crap.’

‘Actually, I know that whole poem by heart:

‘It was not always so,’ Ruth and Gamache finished the stanza together.

‘Yeah, yeah. Enough. I told Jane’s parents because I thought she was making a mistake. She had potential and it’d be lost on that brute of a man. I did it for her sake. I tried to convince her; when that failed, I went behind her back. In retrospect it was a mistake, but only that. Not the end of the world.’

‘Did Miss Neal know?’

‘Not that I know of, and it wouldn’t have mattered if she did. It was long ago, gone and buried.’

What a horrible, self-involved woman, thought Nichol, looking around for something to eat. Then Nichol awoke to a realisation. She had to pee.

‘May I use your toilet?’ She’d be damned if she’d say please to this woman.

‘You can find it.’

Nichol opened every door on the main floor and found books, and magazines but no toilet. Then she climbed the stairs and found the only washroom in the home. After flushing she ran the water, pretending to wash her hands, and looked into the mirror. A young woman with a short-bob haircut looked back. As did some lettering, probably another Goddamned poem. She leaned in closer and saw there was a sticker attached to the mirror. On it was written, ‘You’re looking at the problem.’

Nichol immediately began searching the area behind her, the area reflected in the mirror, because the problem was there.

‘Did Timmer Hadley tell you she knew what you’d done?’

Ruth had wondered whether this question would ever be asked. She hoped not. But here it was.

‘Yes. That day she died. And she told me what she thought. She was pretty blunt. I had a lot of respect for Timmer. Hard to hear a person you admire and respect say those things, even harder because Timmer was dying and there was no way to make up for it.’

‘What did you do?’

‘It was the afternoon of the parade and Timmer said she wanted to be alone. I’d started to explain but she was tired and said she needed to rest, and could I go to the parade and come back in an hour. We could talk then. By the time I got back, exactly an hour later, she was dead.’

‘Did Mrs Hadley tell Jane Neal?’

‘I don’t know. I think perhaps she planned to, but felt she needed to say something to me first.’ ‘Did you tell Miss Neal?’

‘Why would I? It was long ago. Jane had probably long forgotten.’

Gamache wondered how much of this was Ruth Zardo trying to convince herself. It certainly didn’t convince him.

‘Do you have any idea who could have wanted Miss Neal dead?’

Ruth folded both hands on her cane, and carefully placed her chin on her hands. She looked past Gamache. Finally, after about a minute of silence, she spoke.

‘I told you before I think one of those three boys who threw manure might have wanted her dead. She’d embarrassed them. I still think there’s nothing like a brooding, adolescent mind for creating poison. But it often takes time. They say time heals. I think that’s bullshit, I think time does nothing. It only heals if the person wants it to. I’ve seen time, in the hands of a sick person, make situations worse. They ruminate and brood and turn a minor event into a catastrophe, given enough time.’

‘Do you think that’s what might have happened here?’ Ruth Zardo’s thoughts so mirrored his own it was as though she’d read his mind. But did she realise this made her a perfect suspect?

‘Could have.’

On their walk back across the village Nichol told Gamache about the sticker on Ruth’s mirror and her own search, which had revealed shampoo, soap and a bath mat. Nichol was confirmed in her certainty Gamache was beyond it. All he did was laugh.

‘Let’s get started, said Solange Frenette, a few minutes later when Gamache, Beauvoir and Ruth had arrived. Clara and Peter were already seated. ‘I called the Regie du Notaries in Quebec City and they looked up the official registered wills. According to them, Miss Neal’s last will and testament was made in this office on 28 May this year. Her previous will was ten years ago. It’s been nullified.

‘Her will is very simple. After covering burial expenses and any debts, credit card, taxes, et cetera, she leaves her home and its contents to Clara Morrow.’

Clara felt the blood race from her skin. She didn’t want Jane’s home. She wanted Jane’s voice in her ears and her arms around her. And her laughter. She wanted Jane’s company.

‘Miss Neal asks Clara to have a party, invite certain people, the list is in the will, and ask each of those people to choose one item from the home. She leaves her car to Ruth Zardo and her book collection to Myrna. The rest she leaves to Clara Morrow.’

‘How much?’ asked Ruth, to Clara’s relief. She wanted to know but didn’t want to look greedy.

‘I made some calls and did some calculations this morning. It’s roughly a quarter of a million dollars, after tax.’

The air seemed to have been sucked from the room. Clara couldn’t believe it. Rich. They’d be rich. Despite herself she saw a new car, and new bedlinens and a good dinner in a restaurant in Montreal. And …

‘There are two more things; envelopes, actually. One is for you, Mrs Zardo.’ Ruth took it and shot a glance at Gamache who’d been watching this entire process intently. ‘The other is for Yolande Fontaine. Who’d like it?’ No one spoke.

‘I’ll take it,’ said Clara.

Outside the notary’s office Chief Inspector Gamache approached Peter and Clara.

‘I’d like your help at Miss Neal’s home. Your home, now, I suppose.’

‘I can’t imagine ever thinking of it as anything other than Jane’s home.’

‘I hope that’s not true,’ said Gamache, smiling slightly at Clara.

‘Of course we’ll help,’ said Peter. ‘What can we do?’

‘I’d like both of you to come into the home and just look.’ He didn’t want to say more.

*    *    *

It was, unexpectedly, the smells that got to Clara. That unmistakable aroma of Jane, the coffee and woodsmoke. The undercurrent of fresh baking and wet dog. And Floris, her one extravagance. Jane adored Floris eau de toilette, and ordered some from London every Christmas as her gift to herself.

Sûreté officers were crawling all over the home, taking fingerprints and samples and photographs. They made it very strange, and yet Clara knew that Jane was there too, in the spaces between the strangers. Gamache led Clara and Peter through the familiar kitchen and to the swinging door. The one they’d never been through. Part of Clara now wanted to turn around and go home. To never see what Jane had so deliberately kept from them all. To go through the door felt like a betrayal of Jane’s trust, a violation, an admission that Jane was no longer there to stop them.

Oh, well, too bad. Her curiosity won out, as though there was never any doubt, and she strong-armed the swinging door and walked through. Straight into an acid flashback.

Clara’s first reaction was to laugh. She stood stunned for a moment then started to laugh. And laugh. And laugh until she thought she’d piddle. Peter was soon infected and began laughing. And Gamache, who up until this moment had only seen a travesty, smiled, then chuckled, then laughed and within moments was laughing so hard he had to wipe away tears.

‘Holy horrible taste, Batman,’ said Clara to Peter who doubled over, laughing some more.

‘Solid, man, solid,’ he gasped and managed to raise a peace sign before having to put both hands on his knees to support his heaving body. ‘You don’t suppose Jane tuned in, turned on and dropped out?’

‘I’d have to say the medium is the message.’ Clara pointed to the demented Happy Faces and laughed until no sound came out. She held on to Peter, hugging him to stop herself slipping to the floor.

The room was not only sublimely ridiculous, it was also a relief. After a minute or two to compose themselves they all went upstairs. In the bedroom Clara picked up the well-worn book beside Jane’s bed, C. S. Lewis’s,
Surprised by Joy.
It smelled of Floris.

‘I don’t understand,’ said Peter as they walked back down the stairs and sat in front of the fireplace. Clara couldn’t help herself. Reaching out she touched the brilliant yellow Happy Face wallpaper. It was velvet. An involuntary guffaw burped out and she hoped she wouldn’t erupt into laughter again. It really was too ridiculous.

‘Why wouldn’t Jane let us see this room?’ asked Peter. ‘I mean, it’s not that bad.’ They all stared at him in disbelief. ‘Well, you know what I mean.’

‘I know exactly what you mean,’ agreed Gamache. ‘That’s my question too. If she wasn’t ashamed of it, then she’d let people in. If she was, then why not just get rid of it? No, I think we’re being distracted by all this, perhaps even intentionally.’ He paused. Maybe that was the reason for the horrid wallpaper. It was a ruse, a red herring, put there deliberately to distract them from the one thing Jane didn’t want them to see. Finally, he felt, he might have the answer to why she put up this gruesome paper.

‘There’s something else in this room. A piece of furniture, perhaps, the pottery, a book. It’s here.’

The four of them split up and started searching the room again. Clara made for the Port Neuf, which Olivier had taught her about. The old clay mugs and bowls made in Quebec were one of the first industries back in the 1700s. Primitive images of cows and horses and pigs and flowers were sponged on to the rough earthenware. They were valuable collector’s items and Olivier would certainly shriek. But there was no need to keep them hidden. Gamache had a small desk upside-down and was searching for hidden drawers, while Peter examined a large pine box closely. Clara
opened the drawers of the armoir, which were stuffed with lace doilies and picture placemats. She took them out. They were reproductions of old paintings of Quebec village scenes and landscapes from the mid-1800s. She’d seen them before, on Jane’s kitchen table during her dinners, but also elsewhere. They were very common. But maybe they weren’t reproductions after all? Is it possible these were the originals? Or that they’d been altered to include some hidden code?

She found nothing.

‘Over here, I think I have something.’ Peter stood back from the pine box he’d been examining. It stood on sturdy little wooden legs and came to hip height. Wrought iron handles were attached to either side, and two small, square drawers pulled out from the front. From what Peter could see, not a single nail had been used on the honey pine piece, all the joints were dovetail. It was exquisite and very maddening. The main body of the box was accessible by lifting the top, only it wouldn’t lift. Somehow, and for some reason, it had been locked. Peter yanked on the top again, but it wouldn’t lift. Beauvoir shoved him aside and tried it himself, much to Peter’s annoyance, as though there was more than one way to open a lid.

‘Maybe there’s a door on the front, like a trick or a puzzle,’ suggested Clara, and they all searched. Nothing. Now they stood back and stared, Clara willing it to speak to her, like so many boxes seemed to recently.