Still Life

ELEVEN

'Tabernacle', whispered Beauvoir, then after a pause during which neither man breathed. 'Christ.'

They stood on the threshold of Jane's living room, frozen in place. Riveted as to a particularly gruesome accident. But what held them fast was no mere accident, it was more aggressive, more intentional.

'If I was Jane Neal I'd keep people out, too,' said Beauvoir, regaining his secular voice. For a moment. 'Sacre.'

Jane's living room assaulted them with color. Huge Timothy Leary flowers daygloed, psychedelic three-dimensional silver towers and mushrooms advanced and retreated, enormous yellow Happy Faces marched around the fireplace. It was a veritable parade of bad taste.

'Shit,' whispered Beauvoir.

The room glowed in the gathering gloom. Even the ceiling between the old timbers was wallpapered. It was more than a joke, it was a travesty. Any lover of Quebecois heritage and architecture would feel wretched in this room and Gamache, who was both, could taste his lunch in his throat.

He hadn't expected this. Faced with this cacophony of color he couldn't remember what he'd expected, but certainly not this. He tore his eyes from the maniacal Happy Faces and forced himself to look down to the wide plank floors, made with timber hand-hewn by a man being chased by winter two hundred years ago. Floors like this were rare, even in Quebec, and considered by some, Gamache included, works of art. Jane Neal was fortunate enough to live in one of the tiny original fieldstone homes, made from stones literally yanked from the land as it was cleared for planting. To own a home like this was to be a custodian of Quebec history.

With dread Gamache lowered his eyes from the walls to the floor.

It was painted pink. Glossy pink.

He groaned. Beside him Beauvoir almost, almost reached out to touch the Chief Inspector on the arm. He knew how upsetting this would be for any lover of heritage. It was a sacrilege.

'Why?' asked Gamache, but the Happy Faces remained mute. So did Beauvoir. He had no answer but then he was always astonished by 'les Anglais'. This room was just one more example of their unfathomable behavior. As the silence stretched on Beauvoir felt he owed the Chief at least an attempt at an answer.

'Maybe she needed a change. Isn't that how most of our antiques ended up in other people's homes? Our grandparents sold them to rich Anglos. Got rid of pine tables and armoirs and brass beds to buy junk from the Eaton's catalogue.'

'True,' agreed Gamache. That was exactly how it had happened sixty, seventy years earlier, 'but look at that.' He pointed to a corner. An astonishing diamond-point pine armoire with its original milk paint sat filled with Port Neuf pottery. 'And there.' Gamache pointed to a huge oak Welsh dresser. 'This here,' he walked over to a side table, 'is a faux Louis Quatorze table, made by hand by a woodworker who knew the style in France and was trying to duplicate it. A piece like this is almost priceless. No, Jean Guy, Jane Neal knew antiques and loved them. I can't imagine why she'd collect these pieces, then turn around and paint the floor. But that wasn't what I was asking.' Gamache turned around slowly, surveying the room. A throbbing was starting in his right temple. 'I was wondering why Miss Neal kept her friends out of here.'

'Isn't it obvious?' an amazed Beauvoir asked.

'No, it isn't. If she did this she must have liked this style. She certainly wouldn't have been ashamed of it. So why keep them out? And let's even suppose this was done by someone else, her parents, for example, back in the days this sort of thing was in-'

'Hate to tell you, but it's back.' Beauvoir had just bought a lava lamp, but didn't think he'd tell the chief about that now. Gamache brought his hands up and rubbed his face. Lowering them he still saw the acid-trip room. Shit, indeed.

'All right, let's just say her elderly and probably demented parents did this and she didn't change it for some reason, like finances or loyalty to them or something like that, well, really it's pretty awful, but it's not that bad. Embarrassing at worst, but not shameful. To keep friends out of the heart of her home for decades speaks of more than embarrassment.'

Both men looked around again. The room had beautiful proportions, Beauvoir had to admit. But that was kind of like saying a blind date had a good personality. You still wouldn't want to introduce her to your friends. Beauvoir could understand perfectly how Jane Neal felt. He thought, perhaps, he'd return the lava lamp.

Gamache walked slowly around the room. Was there anything here he shouldn't see? Why had Jane Neal, a woman who loved and trusted her friends, kept them out of this room? And why did she change her mind two days before she was killed? What secret did this room hold?

'Upstairs?' suggested Beauvoir.

'After you.' Gamache lumbered over and looked at the stairway which ascended from the rear of the living room. It was also wallpapered, this time in a burgundy velveteen effect. To say it clashed with the flowers would be to suggest there was a wallpaper in existence which wouldn't. Still, of all the colors and styles to have chosen, this was the worst. Up it went, like a strep throat, into the second floor. The steps of the stairs had also been painted. It broke Gamache's heart.

The modest second floor had a large bathroom and two good-size bedrooms. What looked to be the master bedroom had dark red painted walls. The next room had been painted a deep blue.

But something was missing in the house.

Gamache went back downstairs and searched the living room, then back out into the kitchen and mudroom.

'There're no easel, no paints. There's no studio. Where'd she do her art?'

'How about the basement?'

'Sure, go down and check, but I can guarantee you an artist isn't going to paint in a windowless basement.' Though, come to think of it, Jane Neal's work did look like it'd been done in the dark.

'There're paints down there, but no easel,' Beauvoir said, emerging from the basement. 'Her studio wasn't in the basement. There're another thing -' he loved being able see something the chief had missed. Gamache turned an interested face to him. 'Pictures. There are no pictures on the walls. Anywhere.'

Gamache's face opened in astonishment. He was right. Gamache spun in place, searching the walls. Nothing.

'Upstairs too?'

'Upstairs too.'

'I just don't get it. All of this is odd, the wallpaper, the painted rooms and floors, the lack of pictures. But none of it's so odd she'd have to keep her friends out. But there is something around here she didn't want anyone to see.'

Beauvoir flopped into the big sofa and looked around. Gamache subsided into the leather chair, put his hands together like steeples on his stomach, and thought. After a few minutes he rocked himself to his feet and went downstairs. The unfinished basement was replete with cardboard boxes, an old cast iron tub, a fridge with wines. He took one out. A Dunham vineyard, reputed to be quite good. Replacing the bottle he closed the fridge and turned around. Another door led to her preserves cupboard. Auburn jellies, rich red and purple jams, British racing-green dill pickles. He looked at the dates, some from the year before, most from this year. Nothing spectacular. Nothing abnormal. Nothing he hadn't found in his mother's basement after she'd died.

He closed the door and took a step backward. Just as his back brushed the rough basement wall something bit his shoe. Hard. It was at once shocking and familiar.

'Tabernacle!' he yelped. Above he could hear feet running to the basement door. In an instant Beauvoir was there, his hand resting on his revolver still in its holster.

'What! What is it?' He'd so rarely heard the chief swear that when he did it acted like a siren. Gamache pointed to his foot. A small wooden plank had attached itself to his shoe.

'Pretty big mouse,' said Beauvoir with a grin. Gamache bent down and removed the trap. It had been smeared with peanut butter to attract mice. He wiped a bit off his shoe and looked around. More traps became apparent, all lined up against the wall.

'She got a couple,' said Beauvoir, pointing to some upturned traps, little tails and balled up fists poking out from underneath.

'I don't think she set those. I think these are hers.' Gamache bent down and picked up a small gray box. Opening it he found a small field mouse curled up inside. Dead. 'It's a humane trap. She caught them alive then released them. This, poor one, must have been caught after she was murdered. It starved to death.'

'So who set those other mousetraps? Wait, don't tell me. Yolande and Andre, of course. They were here alone for a week or so. Still, you'd think they could have at least checked the humane trap,' said Beauvoir with disgust. Gamache shook his head. Violent, intentional, death still surprised him, whether of a man or mouse.

'Come with me, little one,' he said to the curled-up mouse, as he took it upstairs. Beauvoir tossed the other traps into a plastic bag and followed the chief. The two men locked up and walked down Jane's garden path and across the Commons. A few headlights could be seen now that the sun had set. Rush hour. And a few villagers were out doing errands or walking dogs. In the silence Gamache could hear unintelligible snippets of conversations from other strollers. Off toward du Moulin he heard, 'Pee, please pee.' He hoped it was directed at a dog. The two men crossed the village green toward the brightly lit and welcoming B. & B. Halfway across Gamache stopped and laid the mouse on the grass, beside him Beauvoir opened the plastic bag and released the other little bodies from the traps.

'They'll be eaten,' said Beauvoir.

'Exactly. Something will benefit at least. Abby Hoffman said we should all eat what we kill. That would put an end to war.'

Not for the first time Beauvoir was at a loss for words with Gamache. Was he serious? Was he, perhaps, a little touched? And who was Abbe Offman? A local cleric? Sounds like exactly the sort of things some Christian mystic would say.

The next morning the team had reassembled in the incident room, been briefed on the latest developments, and given their assignments. At Gamache's desk he found a little paper bag and inside it an eclair. A note, in large childish letters, said, 'From Agent Nichol.'

Nichol watched him open the bag.

'Agent Nichol, a word please.'

'Yes, sir.' The eclair had obviously worked. He couldn't possibly continue his unreasonable behavior.

Gamache pointed to a desk at the far end of the room, well away from the others.

'Thank you for the eclair. Did you make sure Maitre Stickley held the latest will for Jane Neal?'

That was it? All that effort to go across to Sarah's boulangerie early and buy the pastry? For one line? And now he's cross-examining me again? Her mind raced. This was patently unfair, but she had to think fast. She knew the truth, but that would get her into trouble. What to say? Maybe she should mention the pastry again? But no, he was expecting an answer to his question.

'Yes sir, I did. He confirmed that Maitre Stickley has the latest will.'

'And who was "he"?'

'He was the guy at the other end of the phone.'

Gamache's calm face changed. He leaned forward, stern and annoyed.

'Stop using that tone with me. You'll answer my questions thoroughly, respectfully and thoughtfully. And more than that -' his voice grew quiet, almost to a whisper. People who had heard this tone rarely forgot it. 'You will answer my questions truthfully.' He paused and stared into her defiant eyes. He was tired of this dysfunctional person. He'd done his best. Against good advice he'd kept her on but now she'd actually lied not once, but twice.

'Stop slouching in that chair like a petulant child. Sit up straight when you talk to me. Eyes on me.'

Nichol responded immediately.

'Who did you call to ask about the will, Agent?'

'I called headquarters in Montreal and told the person who answered to check it for me. He called back with this information. Was it wrong, sir? If it was it wasn't my fault. I believed him. I trusted him to do the job properly.'

Gamache was so amazed by her response he would have felt admiration if he hadn't been so repelled.

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?Who hurt you, once, so far beyond repair that you would greet each overture with curling lip?'

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:When were these seeds of anger sown, and on what ground that they should flourish so, watered by tears of rage, or grief?'

'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 God-damned 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.

Surete 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.

'Olivier would know,' said Peter. 'If there's a trick to it, he'll know it.'

Gamache thought for a moment and nodded. They really had no choice. Beauvoir was dispatched and within ten minutes he returned with the antiques dealer.

'Where's the patient? Holy Mary, Mother of God.' He raised his eyebrows and stared at the walls, his lean, handsome face looking attractively boyish and quizzical. 'Who did this?'

'Ralph Lauren. Who do you think?' said Peter.

'Certainly no one gay. Is that the chest?' He walked over to where the others were standing. 'Beautiful. A tea chest, modeled on one the British used back in the 1600s, but this is Quebecois. Very simple yet far from primitive. You want to get in?'

'If you don't mind,' said Gamache and Clara marveled at his patience. She was about to slap Olivier. The antiques dealer walked around the box, knocked on it in a few places, holding his ear to the polished wood, then came to rest directly in front of it. Putting out his hands he grabbed the top and yanked. Gamache rolled his eyes.

'It's locked,' said Olivier.

'Well, we know that,' said Beauvoir. 'How do we unlock it?'

'You don't have a key?'

'If we had a key we wouldn't need you.'

'Good point. Look, the only way I know is to take the hinges off the back. That could take a while since they're old and corroded. I don't want to break them.'

'Please start,' said Gamache. 'The rest of us will continue our search.'

Twenty minutes later Olivier announced he had the last hinge off. 'It's fortunate for you I'm a genius.'

'What luck,' said Beauvoir, and showed a reluctant Olivier to the door. At the chest Gamache and Peter took hold of either side of the large pine top and lifted. It came up and all four of them peered in.

Nothing. The chest was empty.

They spent a few minutes making sure there were no secret drawers then the disheartened group flopped back into their seats around the fireplace. Slowly Gamache sat up. He turned to Beauvoir, 'What did Olivier ask? Who decorated this place?'

'So?'

'Well, how do we know it was Jane Neal?'

'You think she hired someone to do this?' asked Beauvoir, amazed. Gamache just stared at him. 'No, you're thinking someone else who stayed here did it. My God, what an idiot I am,' said Beauvoir. 'Yolande. When I interviewed her yesterday she said she'd been decorating here

'That's right,' said Clara, leaning forward in her seat, 'I saw her lugging in a step ladder and bags full of stuff from the Reno Depot in Cowansville. Peter and I talked about whether she planned to move in.' Peter nodded his agreement.

'So Yolande put up the wallpaper?' Gamache got up and looked at it again. 'Her home must be a real monstrosity if this is how she decorates.'

'Not even close,' said Beauvoir. 'Just the opposite. Her home is all off-whites and beiges and tasteful colors, like a Decormag model home.'

'No Happy Faces?' asked Gamache.

'Probably never.'

Gamache stood up and paced slowly, his head down, hands clasped behind his back. He took a couple of quick strides over to the Port Neuf pottery, speaking as he went, and was standing facing a wall like a naughty schoolboy. Then he turned to face them. 'Yolande. What does she do? What drives her?'

'Money?' suggested Peter after a moment's silence.

'Approval?' said Beauvoir, coming up beside Gamache, the chief's excitement transmitting itself to everyone in the room.

'Close, but it goes deeper. In herself.'

'Anger?' Peter tried again. He didn't like being wrong but he was again, he could tell by Gamache's reaction. After a moment's silence Clara spoke, thinking out loud, 'Yolande lives in a world of her own making. The Decormag perfect world, even though her husband's a criminal and her son's a thug and she lies and cheats and steals. And she's not a

real blonde, in case you hadn't figured it out. She's not a real anything from what I can tell. She lives in denial -'

'That's it 'Gamache almost jumped up and down like a game-show host. 'Denial. She lives in denial. She coveres things up. That's the reason for all her make-up. It's a mak. Her face is a mask, her home is a mask, a sad attempt to paint and paper over something very ugly.' He turned to face the wall then knelt down, his hand on a seam of wallpaper. 'People tend to be consistent. That's what's wrong here. Had you said', he turned to Beauvoir, 'that Yolande had this same wallpaper at hom, that'd be one thing, but she doesn't. So why would she spend days putting this up?'

'To hide something' said Clara, kneeling down beside him. His fingers had found a small corner of the wallpaper that was already peeling back

'Exactly.' Carefully Gamache pulled back one the corner and it rolled off, exposing about a foot of wall, and more wallpaper underneath.

'Could she have put two layers on?' Clara asked, feeling herself deflating.

'I don't think she had time,' said Gamache. Clara leaned in closer.

'Peter, look at this.' He joined them on his knees and peered at the exposed wall. 'This isn't wallpaper,' he said, looking at Clara, stunned.

' I didn't think so,' said Clara

'Well, what is it, for God's sake?' said Gamache.

'It's Jane's drawing,' said Clara. 'Jane drew this.'

Gamache looked again and could see it. The bright colors, the childish strokes. He couldn't tell what is was, not enough had been revealed, but it had indeed been put there by Miss Neal.

'Is it possible?' he asked Clara as the two stood and looked around the room.

'Is what possible?' asked Beauvoir. 'Voyons, what are you talking about?'

'The wallpaper,' said Gamache. 'I was wrong. It wasn't meant to distract, it was meant to cover up. Where you see wallpaper, that's where she drew.'

'But it's everywhere,' protested Beauvoir. 'She couldn't-' He stopped, seeing the look on the chief's face. Maybe she did. Was it possible, he wondered, joining the others and turning around and around. All the walls? The ceiling? The floors even? He realised he'd far underestimated Les Anglais and their potential for insanity.

'And upstairs?' he asked. Gamache caught his eye and it was as though the world paused for an instant. He nodded.

'C'est incroyable,' whispered the two men together. Clara was beyond speech, and Peter was already over at another seam across the room, tugging.

'There's more here,' he called, standing up.

'This was her shame,' said Gamache, and Clara knew the truth of it.

Within an hour Peter and Clara had spread tarpaulins and moved the furniture. Before leaving, Gamache gave his approval for them to remove the wallpaper and as much of the covering paint as possible. Clara called Ben and he readily volunteered. She was delighted. She would have called Myrna, who would definitely have been a far harder worker than Ben, but this was a job that called for delicacy and the touch of an artist, and Ben had that.

'Any idea how long this'll take?' asked Gamache.

'Honestly? Including the ceiling and the floors? Probably a year.'

Gamache frowned.

'It's important, isn't it?' said Clara, reading his expression.

'Could be. I don't know, but I think it is.'

'We'll go as fast as we dare. Don't want to ruin the images underneath. But I think we can get a lot of the stuff off, enough to see what's underneath.'

Fortunately Yolande, proving slapdash to the end, hadn't prepped the wall, so the paper was peeling off already. Nor had she used primer under the painted bits, to Peter and Clara's great relief. They started after lunch and continued with only a break for beer and chips mid-afternoon. In the evening Peter rigged up some floodlights and they continued, except Ben who felt maybe his elbow was acting up.

At about seven a tired and bedraggled Peter and Clara decided to break for food and joined Ben by the fireplace. He'd at least managed to lay it and light it, and now they found him, his feet on the hassock, sipping red wine and reading Jane's latest copy of The Guardian Weekly. Gabri arrived with Szechwan take-out. He'd heard rumors of the activity and wanted desperately to see for himself. He'd even rehearsed.

The huge man, made even more enormous by his coat and scarves, swept into the room. Stopping dead in the center, and making sure he held his audience, he looked around and declared, 'Either that wallpaper goes, or I do.'

His appreciative audience roared their approval, took the food and kicked him out feeling that Jane and Oscar Wilde made one dead person too many in the room.

They worked into the night, and finally gave it up around midnight, too tired to trust themselves anymore and both slightly nauseous from inhaling paint remover. Ben had long since gone home.

The next morning, in the light of day, they saw they'd done about four square feet upstairs and a quarter of one wall downstairs. It looked as though Gamache had been right. Jane had covered every inch of her home. And Yolande had covered that. By midday a little more had been uncovered. Clara stood back to admire the few feet of wallpaper she'd stripped and Jane's work underneath. Enough was emerging now to make it quite exciting. There seemed to be a pattern and purpose to Jane's work. But what that purpose might be wasn't clear, yet.

'For God's sake, Ben, is that all you've done?' A disheartened Clara couldn't help herself. Upstairs Peter had managed to get a couple of feet done, but Ben had hardly done anything, though, granted, what he had done was brilliant. Crystal clear and beautiful. But not enough. If they were going to solve the murder they needed to uncover all the walls. Quickly. Clara could feel her anxiety rising and knew she was becoming obsessed.

'I'm sorry,' they both said at once then Ben stood up and looked down at her, hang-dog. 'I'm sorry, Clara. I'm slow, I know, but I'll get better. Practice.'

'Never mind.' She put her arm around his slim waist. 'It's Miller time. We can get back to work soon enough.' Ben perked up and put his arm around her shoulder. The two of them walked by Peter, leaving him to watch their retreating backs and walk down the stairs alone.

By that night a fair amount of the living-room walls had been exposed. They called Gamache, who brought beer and pizza and Beauvoir.

'The answer's here,' said Gamache, simply, reaching for another beer. They ate in front of the fireplace in the living room, the aroma of three extra large 'All Dressed' from Pizza Pizza just masking the mineral spirits they'd used to remove the paint. 'In this room, with this art. The answer's here, I can feel it. It's too much of a coincidence that Jane would invite you all here on the same night her art's being shown, then be murdered within hours of telling everyone this.'

'We have something to show you,' said Clara, brushing off her jeans and standing up. 'We've uncovered more of the walls. Shall we start upstairs?'

Grabbing pieces of pizza they trooped upstairs. In Peter's room the lighting was too dark to really appreciate what Jane had done, but Ben's work was different. Though tiny, the area he'd uncovered was astonishing. Brilliant, bold strokes leapt from the walls as people and animals came alive. And, in some cases, people as animals.

'Is that Nellie and Wayne?' Gamache was looking at a patch of wall. There, clear as day, was a stick-figure woman leading a cow. It was a very thick stick, and a skinny, happy cow, with a beard.

'Wonderful,' Gamache murmured.

They went back into the darkness downstairs. Peter had turned off the industrial floodlights he'd hooked up earlier in the day to allow them to work. Through dinner they'd eaten by firelight and the warm glow of a couple of table lamps. The walls had been in darkness. Now Peter went to the switch and flooded the room with light.

Gamache screwed his eyes tight shut. After a few moments he opened them.

It was like being in a cave, one of those wondrous caves explorers sometimes found filled with ancient symbols and depictions. Running caribou and swimming people. Gamache had read all about them in National Geographic, now he felt as though he'd been magically transported into one, here in the heart of Quebec, in a settled and even staid old village. As with cave drawings, Gamache knew the history of Three Pines and its people was depicted here. Slowly, hands clasped behind his back, Gamache walked around the walls. They were covered floor to ceiling with village scenes and rural scenes and classrooms and children and animals and adults singing and playing and working. A few of the scenes were of accidents, and there was at least one funeral.

He no longer felt he'd walked into a cave. Now he felt surrounded by life. He took a couple of steps back and could feel tears stinging his eyes. He screwed them shut again, hoping they'd think him bothered by the strong light. And in a way he was. He was overwhelmed by emotion. Sadness and melancholia. And delight. Joy. He was lifted right out of himself. It transcended the literal. This was Jane's long house. Her home had become her long house, where every one, every event, every thing, every emotion was present. And Gamache knew then the murderer was there as well. Somewhere on those walls.

The next day Clara took the envelope to Yolande at home. Ringing the gleaming faux-brass bell and hearing the Beethoven chimes, Clara steeled herself. Just this one thing for Jane, just this one thing for Jane.

'Bitch,' a furious Yolande screamed. There followed a stream of insults and accusations, ending with a promise to sue Clara for everything she had.

Just this one thing for Jane, just this one thing for Jane. 'You're a goddamned thief, tete carree. That home belongs to me. To my family. How can you sleep at night, you bitch?'

Just this one thing.

Clara held up the envelope until it caught Yolande's attention, and like a child presented with something shiny and new, Yolande stopped screaming and stared, mesmerised by the slim white paper.

'Is that for me? Is that mine? That's Aunt Jane's writing, isn't it?'

'I have a question for you.' Clara waved it back and forth.

'Give it to me.' Yolande lunged, but Clara flicked it out of her reach.

'Why did you cover up her drawings?'

'So you found them,' Yolande spat. 'Filthy, insane things. Everyone thought she was so wonderful but her family knew she was nuts. My grandparents knew she was crazy since she was a teenager and doing those hideous drawings. They were ashamed of her. All her art looked retarded. My mother said she actually wanted to study art but my grandparents put an end to that. Told her the truth. Told her it wasn't art. It was an embarrassment. They told her never to ever show anyone her scrawls. We told her the truth. It was our duty. We didn't want her to get hurt, did we? It was for her own good. And what did we get for it? Thrown out of the family home. She actually had the nerve to say I'd be allowed back the moment I apologised. The only thing I was sorry about, I told her, was that she ruined our home. Crazy old lady.'

Clara saw again Jane sitting in the Bistro, crying. Tears of joy that someone, finally, accepted her art. And Clara knew then what it had taken for Jane to expose one of her works.

'She fooled you, didn't she? You didn't know your friend was a freak. Well, now you know what we've had to put up with.'

'You have no idea, have you? No idea what you've thrown away? You're a stupid, stupid woman, Yolande.' Clara's mind went blank, as it always did in confrontations. She was vibrating and on the verge of losing it completely. She paid for her outburst by being forced to listen to a string of accusations and threats. Oddly enough, Yolande's rage was so deeply unattractive Clara could feel her own anger ease.

'Why that particular wallpaper?' she asked into Yolande's purple face.

'Hideous, wasn't it? It seemed fitting to cover one monstrosity with another. Besides, it was cheap.'

The door slammed. Clara realised she was still holding the envelope so she slipped it under the door. Done. Just this one thing for Jane. And it wasn't so hard, after all, standing up to Yolande. All those years she'd stood silent in the face of Yolande's sly and sometimes outright attacks, and now to find it's possible to speak out. Clara wondered whether Jane knew this would happen when she addressed the envelope. Knew Clara would be the one to deliver it. Knew Yolande would react the way she always did to Clara. And knew she'd given Clara one last chance to stand up for herself.

As she walked away from the perfect, silent house, Clara thanked Jane.

Yolande saw the envelope appear. Tearing it open she found a single playing card. The Queen of Hearts. The same one Aunt Jane had put out on the kitchen table at night when tiny Yolande had visited her and Aunt Jane had promised that in the morning that card would be different. It would have changed.

She peered into the envelope again. Surely there was something else? Some inheritance from her aunt? A cheque? A key to a safety deposit box? But the envelope was empty. Yolande examined the card, trying to remember whether it was the same one from her childhood. Were the markings on the Queen's robes the same? Did her face have one eye or two? No, Yolande concluded. This wasn't the same card. Someone had switched them. She'd been cheated again. As she made for the bucket to clean off the front stoop where Clara had stood, she threw the Queen of Hearts on the fire.

Worthless.