Still Life (9 page)

The room filled with hungry and cold Sûreté officers. Gamache noticed Agent Nichol was sitting by herself and wondered why she chose her isolated position. Beauvoir reported first between bites of a ham sandwich, made with thick-sliced ham carved from what must have been a maple-cured roast, with honey-mustard sauce and slabs of aged cheddar on a fresh croissant.

‘We scoured the site and found’ – Beauvoir checked his notebook, smearing a bit of mustard on the page – ‘three old beer bottles.’

Gamache raised his eyebrows. ‘That’s it?’

‘And fifteen million leaves.’

‘This is the wound.’ Beauvoir drew a circle using a red magic marker. The officers watched without interest. Then Beauvoir raised his hand again and completed the drawing, marking in four lines radiating from the circle, as though marking compass points. Several officers lowered their sandwiches. Now they were interested. It looked like a crude map of Three Pines. Contemplating the macabre image Gamache wondered if the killer could possibly have done that intentionally.

‘Would an arrow make this wound?’ Beauvoir asked. No one seemed to know.

If an arrow had made that wound, thought Gamache, then where was it? It should be in the body. Gamache had an image from Notre Dame de Bon Secours, the church he and Reine-Marie attended sporadically. The walls were thick with murals of saints in various stages of pain and ecstasy. One of those images floated back to him now. St Sebastien, writhing, falling, his body stuffed full of arrows. Each one pointing out of his martyred body like accusing fingers. Jane Neal’s body should have had an arrow sticking out of it, and that arrow should have pointed to the person who did this. There should not have been an exit wound. But there was. Another puzzle.

‘Let’s leave this and move on. Next report.’

The lunch progressed, the officers sitting around listening and thinking out loud, in an atmosphere that encouraged collaboration. He strongly believed in collaboration, not competition, within his team. He realised he was in a minority within the leadership of the Sûreté. He believed a good leader was also a good follower. And he invited his team to treat each other with respect, listen to ideas, support each other. Not everyone got it. This was a deeply competitive field, where the person who got results got promoted. And being second to solve a murder was useless. Gamache knew the wrong people were being rewarded within the Sûreté, so he
rewarded the team players. He had a near-perfect solution rate and had never risen beyond the rank he now held and had held for twelve years. But he was a happy man.

Gamache bit into a grilled chicken and roasted vegetable baguette and decided he was going to enjoy mealtimes in this place. Some of the officers took a beer, but not Gamache, who preferred ginger beer. The pile of sandwiches quickly disappeared.

‘The coroner found something odd,’ reported Isabelle Lacoste. ‘Two bits of feather imbedded in the wound.’

‘Don’t arrows have feathers?’ asked Gamache. He again saw St Sebastien and his arrows, all with feathers.

‘They used to,’ said Nichol quickly, glad of the opportunity to show expertise. ‘Now they’re plastic’

Gamache nodded. ‘I didn’t know that. Anything else?’

‘There was very little blood, as you saw, consistent with instant death. She was killed where she was found. The body wasn’t moved. Time of death, between six-thirty and seven this morning.’

Gamache told them what he’d learned from Olivier and Yolande and handed out assignments. First up was searching Jane Neal’s home. Just then Gamache’s cell phone rang. It was Yolande Fontaine’s lawyer. Gamache never raised his voice, but his frustration was obvious.

‘We won’t be getting into Jane Neal’s home just yet,’ he reported after clicking his cell closed. ‘Ms Fontaine’s lawyer has unbelievably found a justice willing to sign an injunction stopping us from searching the home.’

‘Until?’ Beauvoir asked.

‘Until it’s proven to be murder or Ms Fontaine is proven not to have inherited the home. The new priorities are as follows. Find Jane Neal’s will, get information on local archers, and I want to know why a hunter, if he accidentally shot Miss Neal, would bother removing the arrow. And we need to find out more about Timmer Hadley’s death.
I’ll get us an Incident Room somewhere in Three Pines. I’m also going to speak with the Morrows. Beauvoir, I’d like you with me. You too, Agent Nichol.’

‘It’s Thanksgiving,’ said Beauvoir. Gamache stopped in his tracks. He’d forgotten.

‘Who here has plans for Thanksgiving dinner?’

All hands went up. He did too, come to that. Reine-Marie had asked their best friends over for dinner. Intimate, so he’d certainly be missed. And he doubted the treatment center excuse would fly with them.

‘Change of plans. We’ll be on the road back to Montreal by four – that’s in an hour and a half. Cover as much ground as you can between now and then. We don’t want this going cold because the turkey wouldn’t wait.’

Beauvoir opened the wooden gate leading up the winding path to the cottage door. Hydrangea, turning pink now in the cold weather, bloomed around the house. The walk itself was lined with old garden roses, under-planted with some purple flower Gamache thought might be lavender. He made a mental note to ask Mrs Morrow, at a better time. The foxgloves and hollyhocks he knew immediately. His only regret about their apartment in Outremont was having only window boxes to plant. He’d love a garden exactly like this. It perfectly suited the modest brick home he was approaching. The deep blue door was opened by Peter even before they’d knocked and they stepped into a small mudroom with its collection of outdoor coats on pegs and boots stuffed under a long wooden bench.

‘The Burlington news says rain’s on the way,’ said Peter as he took their coats and led them through to the big country kitchen. “Course, they’re almost always wrong. We seem to have a microclimate here. Must be the mountains.’

The room was warm and comfortable, with shiny dark wood counters and open shelving revealing crockery and
tins and glasses. Rag throw rugs looked as though they had literally been thrown here and there on the vinyl floor, lending the room a relaxed charm. A huge bouquet, almost an island, sat at one end of the pine dining table. Clara sat at the other, wrapped in a multi-coloured afghan. She looked wan and disconnected.

‘Coffee?’ Peter wasn’t at all sure of the etiquette, but all three declined.

Clara smiled slightly and rose, holding out her hand, the afghan slipping off her shoulder. So ingrained, Gamache knew, was our training to be polite that even in the midst of a terrible personal loss people still smiled.

‘I’m so sorry,’ he said to Clara.

‘Thank you.’

‘I’d like you to sit over there,’ Gamache whispered to Nichol, pointing to a simple pine chair by the mudroom door, ‘and take notes.’

Notes, Nichol said to herself. He’s treating me like a secretary. Two years in the Sûreté du Quebec and I’m asked to sit and take notes. The rest of them sat at the kitchen table. Neither Gamache nor Beauvoir took out their notebooks, she observed.

‘We think Jane Neal’s death was an accident,’ Gamache began, ‘but we have a problem. We can’t find a weapon, and no one’s come forward, so I’m afraid we’re going to have to investigate this as a suspicious death. Can you think of anyone who would want to harm your friend?’

‘No. Not a soul. Jane ran bake sales and rummage sales for the ACW here at St Thomas’s. She was a retired schoolteacher. She led a quiet, uneventful life.’

‘Mrs Morrow?’

Clara thought a moment, or appeared to. But her brain was numb, incapable of giving a clear answer.

‘Does anyone gain by her death?’ Gamache thought maybe a clearer question would help.

‘I don’t think so,’ Clara rallied, feeling a fool for feeling so much. ‘She was comfortable, I think, though we never talked about it. Out here a little money goes a long way, thankfully. She grew her own vegetables but she gave most of them away. I always thought she did it more for fun than necessity.’

‘How about her home?’ Beauvoir asked.

‘Yes, that would be worth quite a lot,’ said Peter. ‘But quite a lot by Three Pines standards, not by Montreal standards. She could get, maybe, a hundred and fifty thousand for it. Perhaps a little more.’

‘Could there be another way someone could gain by her death?’

‘Not an obvious one.’

Gamache made to get up. ‘We need what we call an Incident Room. A private place we can make our temporary headquarters here in Three Pines. Can you think of a suitable spot?’

‘The railway station. It’s not used for that anymore. The volunteer fire department has its headquarters there. I’m sure they wouldn’t mind sharing it.’

‘We need something more private, I’m afraid.’

‘There’s the old schoolhouse,’ Clara suggested.

‘The one where Miss Neal worked?’

‘That’s it,’ said Peter. ‘We passed it walking down this morning. It’s owned by the Hadleys, but the archery club uses it these days.’

‘Archery club?’ Beauvoir asked, hardly able to believe his ears.

‘We’ve had one here for years. Ben and I started it years ago.’

‘Is it locked? Do you have a key?’

‘I have a key somewhere, I guess. Ben has one too, I think. But it’s never locked. Maybe it should have been.’ He looked at Clara, seeking her thoughts or comfort. He only found
a blank face. Gamache nodded to Beauvoir who picked up his cell phone and placed a call while the others spoke.

‘I’d like to call a community meeting in the morning,’ said Gamache, ‘at St Thomas’s at eleven-thirty. But we need to get the word out.’

‘That’s easy. Tell Olivier. They’ll have the whole province there, and the cast of Cats. And his partner Gabri’s the choir director.’

‘I don’t think we’ll need music,’ said Gamache.

‘Neither do I, but you do need to get in. He has a set of keys.’

‘The archery club is open but the church is locked?’

‘The minister’s from Montreal,’ explained Peter.

Gamache said his goodbyes and the three of them walked across the now familiar village green. Instinctively, they kicked their feet slightly as they walked through the fallen leaves, sending up a slight flutter and a musky autumn scent.

The bed and breakfast was kitty-corner to the row of commercial buildings, at the corner of the Old Stage Road, another route out of Three Pines. It had once served as a stagecoach stop on the well-traveled route between Williamsburg and St Rémy. Long since unnecessary, it had, with the arrival of Olivier and Gabri, rediscovered its vocation of housing weary travelers. Gamache told Beauvoir he intended to get both information and reservations.

‘For how long?’ Beauvoir asked.

‘Until this is solved, or we’re taken off the case.’

‘That must have been one hell of a good baguette.’

‘I’ll tell you, Jean Guy, had he put mushrooms on it I would have bought the damned bistro and moved right in. This’ll be a whole lot more comfortable than some places we’ve found ourselves.’

It was true. Their investigations had taken them far from home, to Kuujjuaq and Gaspé and Shefferville and James Bay. They had had to leave home for weeks on end. Beauvoir
had hoped this would be different, being so close to Montreal. Apparently not.

‘Book me in.’

‘Nichol?’ he called over his shoulder. ‘Want to stay too?’

Yvette Nichol felt she’d just won the lottery.

‘Great. I don’t have any clothes but that’s not a problem, I could borrow some and wash these in the tub tonight—’

Gamache held up his hand.

‘You weren’t listening. We’re going home tonight and starting here tomorrow.’

Damn. Every time she showed enthusiasm it kicked her in the ass. Would she never learn?

Carved pumpkins squatted on each step up to the sweeping veranda of the B. & B. Inside, worn oriental rugs and overstuffed chairs, lights with tassels and a collection of oil lamps gave Gamache the impression of walking into his grandparents’ home. To add to the impression, the place smelled of baking. Just then a large man in a frilly apron that said, ‘Never Trust a Skinny Cook’ made his entrance through a swinging door. Gamache was startled to see more than a passing resemblance to his grandmother.

Gabri sighed hugely and put a wan hand up to his forehead in a gesture not often seen this side of Gloria Swanson.

‘Muffins?’

The question was so unexpected even Gamache was thrown off guard.

‘Pardon, Monsieur?’

‘I have carrot, date, banana and a special tribute to Jane called “Charles de Mills”.’ And with that Gabri disappeared and reappeared a moment later with a platter holding rings of muffins marvelously decorated with fruit and roses.

‘They aren’t Charles de Mills roses, of course. They’re long dead,’ Gabri’s face dissolved into tears and the platter lurched perilously. Only Beauvoir’s quick action, fueled by desire, save the food.
‘Desolé. Excusez-moi.
I’m just so sad’
Gabri collapsed on to one of the sofas, arms and legs flopping. Gamache had the feeling that for all the dramatics, the man was sincere. He gave Gabri a moment to compose himself, fully realising it was possible Gabri had never been composed. He then asked Gabri to spread the word about the public meeting the next day, and to open the church. He also booked rooms in the bed and breakfast.

‘Bed and brunch,’ Gabri corrected. ‘But you may have your brunch at breakfast, if you like, since you’re helping bring the brute to justice.’

‘Any idea who might have killed her?’

‘It was a hunter, wasn’t it?’

‘We don’t actually know. But if it wasn’t, who comes to mind?’

Gabri reached for a muffin. Beauvoir took that as permission to take one himself. They were still warm from the oven.

Gabri was silent for two muffins, then said softly, ‘I can’t think of anyone, but,’ he turned intense brown eyes on Gamache, ‘am I likely to? I mean, isn’t that what’s so horrible about murder? We don’t see it coming. I’m not saying this very well.’ He reached for another muffin and ate it, rose and all. ‘The people I’ve been angriest at probably never even realised. Does that make sense?’

He seemed to be pleading with Gamache to understand.