The Brutal Telling (10 page)

“Agent Morin, will you please take a seat at the table. We’d like your thoughts on this murder investigation.”

Morin looked astonished. But not quite as astonished as the burly men behind him. Beauvoir turned back and walked slowly toward the conference table. It felt good.

“Reports, please,” said Gamache and glanced at his watch. It was five thirty.

“Results are beginning to come in on some of the evidence we collected this morning in the bistro,” said Beauvoir. “The victim’s blood was found on the floor and between some of the floorboards, though there wasn’t much.”

“Dr. Harris will have a fuller report soon,” said Gamache. “She thinks the lack of blood is explained by internal bleeding.”

Beauvoir nodded. “We do have a report on his clothing. Still nothing to identify him. His clothes were old but clean and of good quality once. Merino wool sweater, cotton shirt, corduroy pants.”

“I wonder if he’d put on his best clothes,” said Agent Lacoste.

“Go on,” said Gamache, leaning forward and taking off his glasses.

“Well.” She picked her way through her thoughts. “Suppose he was going to meet someone important. He’d have a shower, shave, clip his nails even.”

“And he might pick up clean clothes,” said Beauvoir, following her thoughts. “Maybe at a used clothing store, or a Goodwill depot.”

“There’s one in Cowansville,” said Agent Morin. “And another in Granby. I can check them.”

“Good,” said the Chief Inspector.

Agent Morin looked over at Inspector Beauvoir, who nodded his approval.

“Dr. Harris doesn’t think this man was a vagrant, not in the classic sense of the word,” said Chief Inspector Gamache. “He appeared in his seventies, but she’s convinced he was closer to fifty.”

“You’re kidding,” said Agent Lacoste. “What happened to him?”

That was the question, of course, thought Gamache. What happened to him? In life, to age him two decades. And in death.

Beauvoir stood up and walked to the fresh, clean sheets of paper
pinned to the wall. He picked out a new felt pen, took off the cap and instinctively wafted it under his nose. “Let’s go through the events of last night.”

Isabelle Lacoste consulted her notes and told them about her interviews with the bistro staff.

They were beginning to see what had happened the night before. As he listened Armand Gamache could see the cheerful bistro, filled with villagers having a meal or drinks on Labor Day weekend. Talking about the Brume County Fair, the horse trials, the judging of livestock, the crafts tent. Celebrating the end of summer and saying good-bye to family and friends. He could see the stragglers leaving and the young waiters clearing up, banking the fires, washing the dishes. Then the door opening and Old Mundin stepping in. Gamache had no idea what Old Mundin looked like, so he placed in his mind a character from a painting by Bruegel the Elder. A stooped and cheery peasant. Walking through the bistro door, a young waiter perhaps helping to bring in the repaired chairs. Mundin and Olivier would have conferred. Money would have changed hands and Mundin would have left with new items needing fixing.

Then what?

According to Lacoste’s interviews the waiters had left shortly before Olivier and Mundin. Leaving just one person in the bistro.

“What did you think of Havoc Parra?” Gamache asked.

“He seemed surprised by what had happened,” said Lacoste. “It might’ve been an act, of course. Hard to tell. His father told me something interesting, though. He confirmed what we heard earlier. He saw someone in the woods.”

“When?”

“Earlier in the summer. He’s working at the old Hadley house for the new owners and thinks he saw someone up there.”

“Thinks? Or did?” asked Beauvoir.

“Thinks. He chased him, but the guy disappeared.”

They were silent for a moment, then Gamache spoke. “Havoc Parra says he locked up and left by one in the morning. Six hours later the man’s body was found by Myrna Landers, who was out for a walk. Why would a stranger be murdered in Three Pines, and in the bistro?”

“If Havoc really did lock up, then the murderer had to be someone who knew where to find a key,” said Lacoste.

“Or already had one,” said Beauvoir. “Do you know what I wonder? I wonder why the murderer left him there.”

“What do you mean?” asked Lacoste.

“Well, no one was there. It was dark. Why not pick up the body and take it into the forest? You wouldn’t have to take him far, just a few hundred feet. The animals would do the rest and chances are he’d never be found. We’d never know a murder had been committed.”

“Why do you think the body was left?” asked Gamache.

Beauvoir thought for a minute. “I think someone wanted him to be found.”

“In the bistro?” asked Gamache.

“In the bistro.”

Olivier and Gabri strolled across the village green. It was seven in the evening and lights were beginning to glow in windows, except at the bistro, which was dark and empty.

“Christ,” came a growl through the dusk. “The fairies are out.”

“
Merde
,” said Gabri. “The village idiot’s escaped from her attic.”

Ruth Zardo limped toward them followed by Rosa.

“I hear you finally killed someone with your rapier wit,” said Ruth to Gabri, falling into step.

“Actually, I hear he read one of your poems and his head exploded,” said Gabri.

“Would that that were true,” said Ruth, slipping her bony arms into each of theirs, so that they walked across to Peter and Clara’s arm in arm. “How are you?” she asked quietly.

“Okay,” said Olivier, not glancing at the darkened bistro as they passed.

The bistro had been his baby, his creation. All that was good about him, he put in there. All his best antiques, his finest recipes, great wines. Some evenings he’d stand behind the bar, pretending to polish glasses, but really just listening to the laughter and looking at the people, who’d come to his bistro. And were happy to be there. They belonged, and so did he.

Until this.

Who’d want to come to a place where there’d been a murder?

And what if people found out he actually knew the Hermit? What if they found out what he’d done? No. Best to say nothing and see what happened. It was bad enough as it was.

They paused on the walk just outside Peter and Clara’s house. Inside they saw Myrna putting her effusive flower arrangement on the kitchen table, already set for supper. Clara was exclaiming at its beauty and artistry. They couldn’t hear the words, but her delight was obvious. In the living room Peter tossed another log on the fire.

Ruth turned from the comforting domestic scene to the man beside her. The old poet leaned in to whisper in his ear, so that not even Gabri could hear. “Give it time. It’ll be all right, you know that, don’t you?”

She turned to glance again through the glow at Clara hugging Myrna and Peter walking into the kitchen and exclaiming over the flowers as well. Olivier bent and kissed the old, cold cheek and thanked her. But he knew she was wrong. She didn’t know what he knew.

Chaos had found Three Pines. It was bearing down upon them and all that was safe and warm and kind was about to be taken away.

P
eter had poured them all drinks, except Ruth who’d helped herself and was now sipping from a vase filled with Scotch and sitting in the middle of the sofa facing the fire. Rosa was waddling around the room, barely noticed by anyone anymore. Even Lucy, Peter and Clara’s golden retriever, barely looked at Rosa. The first time the poet had shown up with Rosa they’d insisted she stay outside, but Rosa set up such a quacking they were forced to let her in, just to shut the duck up.

“
Bonjour.
”

A deep, familiar voice was heard from the mudroom.

“God, you didn’t invite Clouseau, did you?” asked Ruth, to the empty room. Empty except for Rosa, who raced to stand beside her.

“It’s lovely,” said Isabelle Lacoste as they walked from the mudroom into the airy kitchen. The long wooden table was set for dinner with baskets of sliced baguette, butter, jugs of water and bottles of wine. It smelled of garlic and rosemary and basil, all fresh from the garden.

And in the center of the table was a stunning arrangement of hollyhocks and climbing white roses, clematis and sweet pea and fragrant pink phlox.

More drinks were poured and the guests wandered into the living room and milled around nibbling soft runny Brie or orange and pistachio caribou pâté on baguette.

Across the room Ruth was interrogating the Chief Inspector.

“Don’t suppose you know who the dead man was.”

“Afraid not,” said Gamache evenly. “Not yet.”

“And do you know what killed him?”

“
Non.
”

“Any idea who did it?”

Gamache shook his head.

“Any idea why it happened in the bistro?”

“None,” admitted Gamache.

Ruth glared at him. “Just wanted to make sure you’re as incompetent as ever. Good to know some things can be relied upon.”

“I’m glad you approve,” said Gamache, bowing slightly before wandering off toward the fireplace. He picked up the poker, and examined it.

“It’s a fireplace poker,” said Clara, appearing at his elbow. “You use it to poke the fire.”

She was smiling and watching him. He realized he must have looked a little odd, holding the long piece of metal to his face as though he’d never seen one before. He put it down. No blood on it. He was relieved.

“I hear your solo show is coming up in a few months.” He turned to her, smiling. “It must be thrilling.”

“If putting a dentist’s drill up your nose is thrilling. Yes.”

“That bad?”

“Oh, well, you know. It’s only torture.”

“Have you finished all the paintings?”

“They’re all done, at least. They’re crap, of course, but at least they’re finished. Denis Fortin is coming down himself to discuss how they’ll be hung. I have a specific order in mind. And if he disagrees I have a plan. I’ll cry.”

Gamache laughed. “That’s how I got to be Chief Inspector.”

“I told you so,” Ruth hissed at Rosa.

“Your art is brilliant, Clara. You know that,” said Gamache, leading her away from the crowd.

“How’d you know? You’ve only seen one piece. Maybe the others suck. I wonder if I made a mistake going with the paint by numbers.”

Gamache made a face.

“Would you like to see them?” Clara asked.

“Love to.”

“Great. How about after dinner? That gives you about an hour to practice saying, ‘My God, Clara, they’re the best works of art ever produced by anyone, anywhere.’ ”

“Sucking up?” smiled Gamache. “That’s how I made Inspector.”

“You’re a Renaissance Man.”

“I see you’re good at it too.”

“
Merci
. Speaking of your job, do you have any idea who that dead man is?” She’d lowered her voice. “You told Ruth you didn’t, but is that true?”

“You think I’d lie?” he asked. But why not, he thought. Everyone else does. “You mean, how close are we to solving the crime?”