The Brutal Telling (18 page)

He could hear the midway clearly now, and hawkers promising huge stuffed toys if you shot a tin duck. Bells jingled to call attention to games and the ring announcer warned people the horse show was about to start. But from his audience there was silence. Until finally Clara spoke.

“That’s great news for Olivier, isn’t it?”

“You mean it makes him less of a suspect?” said Gamache. “I suppose. But it raises a lot more questions.”

“Like how’d the body get into the bistro,” said Myrna.

“And where he was killed,” said Peter.

“We’re searching the village. House by house.”

“You’re what?” asked Peter. “Without our permission?”

“We have warrants,” said Gamache, surprised by Peter’s vehement reaction.

“It’s still a violation of our privacy. You knew we’d be back, you could’ve waited.”

“I could have, but chose not to. These weren’t social calls, and frankly your feelings are secondary.”

“Apparently our rights are too.”

“That’s not accurate.” The Chief Inspector spoke firmly. The more heated Peter became the calmer Gamache grew. “We have warrants. Your right to privacy I’m afraid ended when someone took a life in your village. We’re not the ones who’ve violated your rights, the murderer is. Don’t forget that. You need to help us, and that means stepping aside and letting us do our work.”

“Letting you search our homes,” said Peter. “How would you feel?”

“I wouldn’t feel good about it either,” admitted Gamache. “Who would? But I hope I’d understand. This has just begun, you know. It’s going to get worse. And before it’s over we’ll know where everything is hidden.”

He looked sternly at Peter.

Peter saw the closed door into his studio. He imagined Sûreté officers opening it. Flicking on the light switch. Going into his most private space. The place he kept his art. The place he kept his heart. His latest work was in there, under a sheet. Hiding. Away from critical eyes.

But now strangers would have opened that door, lifted that veil and seen it. What would they think?

“So far we haven’t found anything, except, I understand, Guylaine’s missing boots.”

“So you found them,” said Ruth. “The old bitch accused me of stealing them.”

“They were found in the hedge between her place and yours,” said Gamache.

“Imagine that,” said Ruth.

Gamache noticed the Mundins standing on the edge of the field, waiting for him. “Excuse me.”

He walked briskly to the young couple and their son and joined them as they walked to the stall Old Mundin had set up. It was full of furniture, hand made. A person’s choices were always revealing, Gamache found. Mundin chose to make furniture, fine furniture. Gamache’s educated eye skimmed the tables, cabinets and chairs. This was painstaking, meticulous work. All the joints dovetailed together without nails; the details were beautifully inlaid, the finishes smooth. Faultless. Work like this took time and patience. And the young carpenter could never, ever be paid what these tables, chairs, dressers were worth.

And yet Old Mundin chose to do it anyway. Unusual for a young man these days.

“How can we help?” The Wife asked, smiling warmly. She had very dark hair, cut short to her head, and large, thoughtful, eyes. Her clothing was layered and looked both comfortable and bohemian. An earth mother, thought Gamache, married to a carpenter.

“I have a few questions, but tell me about your furniture. It’s beautiful.”

“
Merci
,” said Mundin. “I spend most of the year making pieces to sell at the fair.”

Gamache ran his large hand over the smooth surface of a chest of drawers. “Lovely polish. Paraffin?”

“Not unless we want them to burst into flames,” laughed Old. “Paraffin’s highly flammable.”

“Varathane?”

Old Mundin’s beautiful face crinkled in a smile. “You are perhaps mistaking us for Ikea. Easy to do,” he joked. “No, we use beeswax.”

We, thought Gamache. He’d watched this young couple for just a few minutes but it seemed clear they were a team.

“Do you sell much at the fair?” he asked.

“This’s all we have left,” The Wife said, indicating the few exquisite pieces around them.

“They’ll be gone by the end of the fair tonight,” said Old Mundin. “Then I need to get going again. Fall’s a great time of year to get into the forests and find wood. I do most of my woodwork through the winter.”

“I’d like to see your workshop.”

“Any time.”

“How about now?”

Old Mundin stared at his visitor and Gamache stared back.

“Now?”

“Is that a problem?”

“Well . . .”

“It’s okay, Old,” said The Wife. “I’ll watch the booth. You go.”

“Is it okay if we take Charles?” Old asked Gamache. “It’s hard for The Wife to watch him and look after customers.”

“I insist he comes along,” said Gamache, holding out his hand to the boy, who took it without hesitation. A small shard stabbed Gamache’s heart as he realized how precious this boy was, and would always be. A child who lived in a perpetual state of trust.

And how hard it would be for his parents to protect him.

“He’ll be fine,” Gamache assured The Wife.

“Oh, I know he’ll be. It’s you I worry about,” she said.

“I’m sorry,” said Gamache, reaching out to shake her hand. “I don’t know your name.”

“My actual name is Michelle, but everyone calls me The Wife.”

Her hand was rough and calloused, like her husband’s, but her voice was cultured, full of warmth. It reminded him a little of Reine-Marie’s.

“Why?” he asked.

“It started out as a joke between us and then it took. Old and The Wife. It somehow fits.”

And Gamache agreed. It did fit this couple, who seemed to live in their own world, with their own beautiful creations.

“Bye.” Charles gave his mother the new one-fingered wave.

“Old,” she scolded.

“Wasn’t me,” he protested. But he didn’t rat on Ruth, Gamache noticed.

Old strapped his son into the van and they drove out of the fair parking lot.

“Is ‘Old’ your real name?”

“I’ve been called ‘Old’ all my life, but my real name is Patrick.”

“How long have you lived here?”

“In Three Pines? A few years.” He thought for a moment. “My God, it’s been eleven years. Can hardly believe it. Olivier was the first person I met.”

“How do people feel about him?”

“Don’t know about ‘people,’ but I know how I feel. I like Olivier. He’s always fair with me.”

“But not with everyone?” Gamache had noticed the inflection.

“Some people don’t know the value of what they’ve got.” Old Mundin was concentrating on the road, driving carefully. “And lots of people just want to stir up trouble. They don’t like being told their antique chest is really just old. Not valuable at all. Pisses them off. But Olivier knows what he’s doing. Lots of people set up antique businesses here, but not many really know what they’re doing. Olivier does.”

After a moment or two of silence as both men watched the countryside go by, Gamache spoke. “I’ve always wondered where dealers find their antiques.”

“Most have pickers. People who specialize in going to auctions or getting to know people in the area. Mostly elderly people who might be interested in selling. Around here if someone knocks on your door on a Sunday morning it’s more likely to be an antique picker than a Jehovah’s Witness.”

“Does Olivier have a picker?”

“No, he does it himself. He works hard for what he gets. And he knows what’s worth money and what isn’t. He’s good. And fair, for the most part.”

“For the most part?”

“Well, he has to make a profit, and lots of the stuff needs work. He gives the old furniture to me to restore. That can be a lot of work.”

“I bet you don’t charge what it’s worth.”

“Now, worth is a relative concept.” Old shot Gamache a glance as
they bumped along the road. “I love what I do and if I charged a reasonable amount per hour nobody’d be able to buy my pieces, and Olivier wouldn’t hire me to repair the great things he finds. So it’s worth it to me to charge less. I have a good life. No complaints here.”

“Has anyone been really angry at Olivier?”

Old drove in silence and Gamache wasn’t sure he’d heard. But finally he spoke.

“Once, about a year ago. Old Madame Poirier, up the Mountain road, had decided to move into a nursing home in Saint-Rémy. Olivier’d been buzzing around her for a few years. When the time came she sold most of her stuff to him. He found some amazing pieces there.”

“Did he pay a fair price?”

“Depends who you talk to. She was happy. Olivier was happy.”

“So who was angry?”

Old Mundin said nothing. Gamache waited.

“Her kids. They said Olivier’d insinuated himself, taken advantage of a lonely old woman.”

Old Mundin pulled into a small farmhouse. Hollyhocks leaned against the wall and the garden was full of black-eyed Susans and old-fashioned roses. A vegetable garden, well tended and orderly, was planted at the side of the house.

The van rolled to a halt and Mundin pointed to a barn. “That’s my workshop.”

Gamache unbuckled Charles from the child seat. The boy was asleep and Gamache carried him as the two men walked to the barn.

“You said Olivier made an unexpected find at Madame Poirier’s place?”

“He paid her a flat fee for all the stuff she no longer needed. She chose what she wanted to keep and he bought the rest.”

Old Mundin stopped at the barn door, turning to Gamache.

“There was a set of six Chippendale chairs. Worth about ten thousand each. I know, because I worked on them, but I don’t think he told anyone else.”

“Did you?”

“No. You’d be surprised how discreet I need to be in my work.”

“Do you know if Olivier gave Madame Poirier any extra money?”

“I don’t.”

“But her kids were angry.”

Mundin nodded curtly and opened the barn door. They stepped into a different world. All the complex aromas of the late summer farm had disappeared. Gone was the slight scent of manure, of cut grass, of hay, of herbs in the sun.

Here there was only one note—wood. Fresh sawn wood. Old barn wood. Wood of every description. Gamache looked at the walls, lined with wood waiting to be turned into furniture. Old Mundin smoothed one fine hand over a rough board.

“You wouldn’t know it, but there’s burled wood under there. You have to know what to look for. The tiny imperfections. Funny how imperfections on the outside mean something splendid beneath.”

He looked into Gamache’s eyes. Charles stirred slightly and the Chief Inspector brought a large hand up to the boy’s back, to reassure him.

“I’m afraid I don’t know much about wood but you seem to have different sorts. Why’s that?”

“Different needs. I use maple and cherry and pine for inside work. Cedar for outside. This here’s red cedar. My favorite. Doesn’t look like much now, but carved and polished . . .” Mundin made an eloquent gesture.

Gamache noticed two chairs on a platform. One was upside down. “From the bistro?” He walked over to them. Sure enough one had a loose arm and the leg of the other was wobbly.

“I picked those up Saturday night.”

“Is it all right to talk about what happened at the bistro in front of Charles?”

“I’m sure it is. He’ll understand, or not. Either way, it’s okay. He knows it’s not about him.”

Gamache wished more people could make that distinction. “You were there the night of the murder.”

“True. I go every Saturday to pick up the damaged furniture and drop off the stuff I’ve restored. It was the same as always. I got there just after midnight. The last of the customers was leaving and the kids were beginning to clean up.”

Kids, thought Gamache. And yet they weren’t really that much younger than this man. But somehow Old seemed very, well, old.

“But I didn’t see a body.”

“Too bad, that would’ve helped. Did anything strike you as unusual at all?”

Old Mundin thought. Charles woke up and squirmed. Gamache lowered him to the barn floor where he picked up a piece of wood and turned it around and around.

“I’m sorry. I wish I could help, but it seemed like any other Saturday night.”

Gamache also picked up a chunk of wood and smoothed the sawdust off it.

“How’d you start repairing Olivier’s furniture?”

“Oh, that was years ago. Gave me a chair to work on. It’d been kept in a barn for years and he’d just moved it into the bistro. Now, you must understand . . .”

What followed was a passionate monologue on old Quebec pine furniture. Milk paint, the horrors of stripping, the dangers of ruining a fine piece by restoring it. That difficult line between making a piece usable and making it valueless.

Gamache listened, fascinated. He had a passion for Quebec history, and by extension Quebec antiques, the remarkable furniture made by pioneers in the long winter months hundreds of years ago. They’d made the pine furniture both practical and beautiful, pouring themselves into it. Each time Gamache touched an old table or armoire he imagined the
habitant
shaping and smoothing the wood, going over it and over it with hardened hands. And making something lovely.