Still Life

THREE

Clara sat in her kitchen drained and stunned with the overwhelming need to call Jane and tell her what had happened. What had happened was inconceivable. A world suddenly, violently, without Jane. Without that touch, that comfort, that kindness. Clara felt that someone had scooped not just her heart but her brain right out of her body. How is it possible, Clara wondered, looking down at her hands folded neatly in her lap, that my heart can still beat? I must call Jane.

After leaving the church they had, with Gamache's permission, gone to get Jane's golden retriever Lucy, who was now curled at Clara's feet as though hugging her own inconceivable loss.

Peter was willing the water to boil so he could make tea and then all this would go away. Maybe, said his brain and his upbringing, if you make enough tea and small talk, time reverses and all bad things are undone. But he'd lived too long with Clara to be able to hide in denial. Jane was dead. Killed. And he needed to comfort Clara and somehow make it all right. And he didn't know how. Rummaging through the cupboard like a wartime surgeon frantically searching for the right bandage, Peter swept aside Yogi Tea and Harmony Herbal Blend, though he hesitated for a second over chamomile. But no. Stay focused, he admonished himself. He knew it was there, that opiate of the Anglos. And his hand clutched the box just as the kettle whistled. Violent death demanded Earl Grey. Glancing out the window as he splashed boiling water into the pot and felt the painful pricks of scalding water bouncing on to his hand, he saw Chief Inspector Gamache sitting alone on the bench on the village green. The inspector appeared to be feeding the birds, but that couldn't be right. His attention returned to the important task of making tea.

Armand Gamache sat on the bench, watching the birds but mostly watching the village. Before his eyes the village of Three Pines seemed to slow right down. The insistence of life, the bustle and energy became muffled. The voices dropped, gaits slowed. Gamache sat back and did what he did best. He watched. He took in the people, their faces, their actions, and where possible he took in what they said, though people stayed far enough away from his wooden bench on the grass that he couldn't hear much. He noticed who touched and who didn't. Who hugged and who shook hands. He noticed who had red eyes and who gave the appearance of business as usual.

Three huge pine trees faced him at the far end of the green. Between him and them was a pond, a bunch of sweater-clad children circling it, hunting for frogs, he supposed. The village green sat, not surprisingly, in the center of the village, a road called The Commons circling it with homes, except behind him, which seemed to be the commercial district. It was a very short commercial. It consisted, as far as Gamache could see, of a depanneur whose Pepsi sign read 'Beliveau'. Beside that was a boulangerie, the Bistro and a bookstore. Four roads led off The Commons, like the spokes of a wheel, or the directions of a compass.

As he sat quietly and let the village happen around him he was impressed by how beautiful it was, these old homes facing the green, with their mature perennial gardens and trees. By how natural everything looked, undesigned. And the pall of grief that settled on this little community was worn with dignity and sadness and a certain familiarity. This village was old, and you don't get to be old without knowing grief. And loss.

'They say it's supposed to rain tomorrow.' Gamache looked up and saw Ben holding an ancient and, by the aroma, perhaps decomposing dog on a leash.

'Is that right?' Gamache indicated the seat next to him and Ben sat down, Daisy collapsing gratefully at his feet.

'Starting in the morning. And getting colder.'

The two men sat silently for a moment or two.

'That's Jane's home.' Ben pointed to a small stone cottage off to the left. 'And that place beside it belongs to Peter and Clara.' Gamache shifted his gaze. Their home was slightly larger than Jane's and while hers was made of fieldstone, theirs was red brick, in the style known as Loyalist. A simple wooden veranda ran along the front of the home and held two wicker rocking chairs. A front door was flanked by windows and upstairs he could see two more windows, with shutters painted a warm and deep blue. The pretty front garden was planted with roses and perennials and fruit trees. Probably crab apple, thought Gamache. A stand of trees, mostly maple, separated Jane Neal and the Morrows. Though more than the trees separated them now.

'My place is over there.' Ben nodded at a charming old white clapboard home, with a veranda below and three dormers above. 'But I guess that place up there is also mine.' Ben waved vaguely into the sky. Gamache thought it possible Ben was speaking metaphorically, or even meteorologically. Then his eyes dropped from the puffy clouds and landed on the roof of a home on the side of the hill leading out of Three Pines.

'Been in my family for generations. My mother lived there.'

Gamache didn't quite know what to say. He'd seen homes like that before. Many times. They were what he'd heard referred to during his time at Christ's College, Cambridge as Victorian piles. Quite descriptive, he'd always thought. And Quebec, notably Montreal, boasted its share of piles, built by the Scottish robber barons, of railway, booze and banking money. They were held together with hubris, a short-term binder at best since many of them had long ago been torn down or donated to McGill University, which needed another Victorian monstrosity like it needed the Ebola virus. Ben was looking at the home with great affection.

'Will you move to the big house?'

'Oh yes. But it needs some work. Parts of it are straight out of a horror movie. Gruesome.'

Ben remembered telling Clara about the time he and Peter had played war in the basement as kids and had come across the snake's nest. He'd never seen a person turn green, but Clara had.

'Is the village named after those trees?' Gamache looked at the cluster on the green.

'You don't know the story? Those pines aren't the originals, of course. They're only sixty years old. My mother helped plant them when she was a kid. But there have been pines here since the village was founded, more than two hundred years ago. And always in a group of three. Three Pines.'

'But why?' Gamache leaned forward, curious.

'It's a code. For the United Empire Loyalists. They settled all the land around here, except for the Abenaki, of course.' In a sentence, Gamache noticed, Ben had dismissed a thousand years of native habitation. 'But we're only a couple of kilometers from the border with the States. When the people loyal to the crown during and after the War of Independence were fleeing, they had no way of knowing when they were safe. So a code was designed. Three pines in a cluster meant the loyalists would be welcome.'

'Mon Dieu, c'est incroyable. So elegant. So simple,' said Gamache, genuinely impressed. 'But why haven't I heard of this? I'm a student of Quebec history myself, and yet this is completely unknown to me.'

'Perhaps the English want to keep it a secret, in case we need it again.' Ben at least had the grace to blush as he said this. Gamache turned in his seat and looked at the tall man, slumping as was his nature, his long sensitive fingers loosely holding the leash of a dog who couldn't possibly leave him.

'Are you serious?'

'The last sovereignty referendum was perilously close, as you know. And the campaign was ugly at times. It's not always comfortable being a minority in your own country,' said Ben.

'I appreciate that, but even if Quebec separates from Canada, surely you wouldn't feel threatened? You know your rights would be protected.'

'Do I? Do I have the right to put up a sign in my own language? Or work only in English? No. The language police would get me. The Office de la Langue Francaise. I'm discriminated against. Even the Supreme Court agrees. I want to speak English, Chief Inspector.'

'You are speaking English. And so am I. And so are all my officers. Like it or not, Mr Hadley, the English are respected in Quebec.'

'Not always, and not by everyone.'

'True. Not everyone respects police officers either. That's just life '.

'You're not respected because of your actions, what Quebec police have done in the past. We're not respected just by virtue of being English. It's not the same thing. Do you have any idea how much our lives have changed in the last twenty years? My mother barely spoke French, but I'm bilingual. We're trying, Inspector, but still the English are the laughing stock. Blamed for everything. The tete carree. No,' Ben Hadley nodded toward the three sturdy pine trees swaying slightly in the wind. 'I'll put my faith in individuals, not the collective.'

It was, reflected Gamache, one of the fundamental differences between anglophone and francophone Quebecers; the English believed in individual rights and the French felt they had to protect collective rights. Protect their language and culture.

It was a familiar and sometimes bitter debate, but one that rarely infected personal relationships. Gamache remembered reading in the Montreal Gazette a few years ago an article by a columnist who observed that Quebec worked in reality, just not on paper.

'Things change, you know, Monsieur Hadley,' Gamache said gently, hoping to lift the tension that had settled on their little park bench. The French-English debate in Quebec was a polarising force. Best, in Gamache's opinion, leave it to politicans and journalists, who had nothing better to do.

'Do they, Chief Inspector? Are we really growing more civilised? More tolerant? Less violent? If things had changed, you wouldn't be here.'

'You're referring to Miss Neal's death. You believe it was murder?' Gamache himself had been wondering just that.

'No, I don't. But I know whoever did that to her intended murder of some sort this morning. At the very least the murder of an innocent deer. That is not a civilised act. No, inspector, people don't change.' Ben dipped his head and fiddled with the leash in his hands. 'I'm probably wrong.' He looked at Gamache and smiled disarmingly.

Gamache shared Ben's feelings about hunting but couldn't have disagreed more about people. Still, it had been a revealing exchange, and that was his job. To get people to reveal themselves.

He'd been busy in the two hours since leaving Beauvoir. He'd walked with Peter Morrow and Ben Hadley to the church, where Peter had broken the news to his wife. Gamache had watched, standing back by the door, needing to see how she reacted, and not wanting to interfere. He'd left them then and he and Mr Hadley had continued down the road into the village.

He'd left Ben Hadley at the entrance to the charming village and made straight for the Bistro. It was easy to spot with its blue and white awnings and round wooden tables and chairs on the sidewalk. A few people were sipping coffee, all eyes on him as he made his way along the Commons.

Once his eyes adjusted to the inside of the Bistro he saw not the one largish room he'd expected but two rooms, each with its own open fireplace, now crackling with cheery fires. The chairs and tables were a comfortable mishmash of antiques. A few tables had armchairs in faded heirloom materials. Each piece looked as though it had been born there. He'd done enough antique hunting in his life to know good from bad, and that diamond point in the corner with the display of glass and tableware was a rare find. At the back of this room the cash register stood on a long wooden bar. Jars of licorice pipes and twists, cinnamon sticks and bright gummy bears shared the counter with small individual boxes of cereal.

Beyond these two rooms French doors opened on to a dining room, no doubt, thought Gamache; the room Ben Hadley had recommended.

'May I help you?' a large young woman with a bad complexion was asking him in perfect French.

'Yes. I'd like to speak with the owner please. Olivier Brule, I believe.'

'If you'd like a seat, I'll get him. Coffee while you wait?'

The woods had been chilly and the thought of a cafe au lait in front of this open fire was too good. And maybe a licorice pipe, or two. Waiting for Mr Brule and the coffee, he tried to figure out what was unusual or unexpected about this lovely bistro. Some small thing was a little off.

'I'm sorry to disturb you,' came a throaty voice slightly above him. He looked up and saw an elderly woman with cropped white hair leaning on a gnarled cane. As he shot to his feet he noticed she was taller than he'd expected. Even leaning she was almost as tall as he, and he had the impression she was not as frail as she appeared.

Armand Gamache gave a subtle bow and indicated the other chair at his small table. The woman hesitated, but finally the ramrod bent and sat down.

'My name is Ruth Zardo,' she spoke loudly and slowly, as though to a dull child. 'Is it true? Is Jane dead?'

'Yes, Madame Zardo. I'm very sorry.'

A great bang, so sudden and violent it made even Gamache jump, filled the Bistro. None of the other patrons, he noticed, even flinched. It took him just an instant to realise that the noise came from Ruth Zardo whacking her cane against the floor, like a caveman might wield a club. He'd never seen anyone do that before. He'd seen people with canes lift them up and rap on the floor in an annoying bid for attention, which generally worked. But Ruth Zardo had picked up her cane in a swift and apparently practiced move, taken hold of the straight end, and swung the cane over her head until the curved handle whacked the floor.

'What are you doing here while Jane is lying dead in the woods? What kind of police are you? Who killed Jane?'

The Bistro grew momentarily silent, then slowly the murmur of conversation started up again. Armand Gamache held her imperious stare with his own thoughtful eyes and leaned slowly across the table until he was sure only she could hear. Ruth, believing he might be about to actually whisper the name of the person who had killed her friend, leaned in as well.

'Ruth Zardo, my job is to find out who killed your friend. And I will do that. I will do it in the manner I see fit. I will not be bullied and I will not be treated with disrespect. This is my investigation. If you have anything you'd like to say, or to ask, please do. But never, ever, swing that cane in my company again. And never speak to me like that again.'

'How dare I! This officer is obviously hard at work.' Both Ruth and her voice rose. 'Mustn't disturb the best the Surete has to offer.'

Gamache wondered whether Ruth Zardo really believed this sarcasm would be fruitful. He also wondered why she would take this attitude at all.

'Mrs Zardo, what can I get you?' the young waitress asked as though none of the dramatics had happened. Or perhaps it was simply intermission.

'A Scotch, please, Marie,' said Ruth, suddenly deflating and sinking back into the chair. 'I'm sorry. Forgive me.'

She sounded to Gamache like someone used to apologising.

'I suppose I could blame Jane's death for my poor behavior, but as you'll discover, I'm just like this. I have no talent for choosing my battles. Life seems, strangely, like a battle to me. The whole thing.'

'So I can expect more where that came from?'

'Oh, I think so. But you'll have plenty of company in your foxhole. And I promise not to whack my cane, at least around you.'

Armand Gamache leaned back in his chair, just as the Scotch and his cafe au lait and candy arrived. He took them and with all the dignity he could muster, turned to Ruth.

'Pipe, Madame?'

Ruth took the largest one and immediately bit the red candy end off.

'How did it happen?' Ruth asked.

'It looks like a hunting accident. But can you think of anyone who would want to deliberately kill your friend?'

Ruth told Gamache about the boys throwing manure. When she'd finished, Gamache asked, 'Why do you think these boys might have killed her? I agree it was a reprehensible thing to do, but she'd already announced their names, so it's not as though killing her would stop that. What's gained?'

'Revenge?' suggested Ruth. 'At that age, humiliation could be considered a capital offense. True, they were the ones who were trying to humiliate Olivier and Gabri, but the tables turned. And bullies don't much like getting some of their own back.'

Gamache nodded. It was possible. But surely, unless you're psychotic, the revenge would take a different form, something short of cold-blooded murder.

'How long did you know Mrs Neal?'

'Miss. She never married,' said Ruth. 'Though she almost did, once. What was his name?' She consulted the yellowing Rolodex in her head. 'Andy. Andy Selchuk. No. Sel… Sel… Selinsky. Andreas Selinsky. That was years ago. Fifty or more. Doesn't matter.'

'Please, tell me,' said Gamache.

Ruth nodded and absently stirred her Scotch with the butt end of her licorice pipe.

'Andy Selinsky was a logger. These hills were full of logging operations for a hundred years. Most of them are closed now. Andy worked on Mont Echo at the Thompson operation. The lumberjacks could be violent men. They'd work all week on the mountain, sleeping rough through storms and bear season, and the blackflies must have driven them crazy. They'd smear themselves with bear grease to keep away bugs. They were more afraid of blackflies than black bears. On weekends they'd come out of the woods, like living filth.'

Gamache was listening closely, genuinely interested, though not sure whether it was all pertinent to the investigation.

'Kaye Thompson's operation was different, though. I don't know how she did it, but somehow she kept those huge men in line. Nobody messed with Kaye,' said Ruth, in admiration.

'Andy Selinksy worked his way up to foreman. A natural leader. Jane fell in love with him, though I must admit most of us had a crush on him. Those huge arms and that rugged face…' Gamache could feel himself receding as she spoke and drifted back in time. 'He was immense but gentle. No, gentle isn't right. Decent. He could be tough, even brutal. But not vicious. And he was clean. Smelled like Ivory soap. He'd come to town with the other lumberjacks from the Thompson mill and they'd stand out because they didn't stink of rancid bear fat. Kaye must have scrubbed them with lye.'

Gamache wondered how low the bar was set when all a man had to do to attract a woman was not smell of decomposing bears.

'At the opening dance of the County Fair Andy chose Jane.' Ruth fell quiet, remembering. 'Still don't understand it,' said Ruth. 'I mean, Jane was nice and all. We all liked her. But, frankly, she was ugly as sin. Looked like a goat.'

Ruth laughed out loud at the image she'd conjured up. It was true. Young Jane's face seemed to stretch out ahead of her, as though reaching for something, her nose elongating and her chin receding. She was also shortsighted, though her parents hated to admit they'd produced anything other than a perfect child, so they ignored her weak eyesight. This only accentuated the peering look, sticking her head out to the limits of her neck, trying to bring the world into focus. She always had a look on her face as though asking, 'Is that edible?' Young Jane was also chubby. She would remain chubby her whole life.

'For some unfathomable reason, Andreas Selinsky chose her. They danced all night. It was quite a sight.' Ruth's voice had hardened.

Gamache tried to imagine the young Jane, short, prim and plump, dancing with this huge muscled mountain man.

'They fell in love but her parents found out and put a stop to it. Caused quite a little stir. Jane was the daughter of the chief accountant for Hadley's Mills. It was inconceivable she'd marry a lumberjack.'

'What happened?' he couldn't help but ask. She looked at him as though surprised he was still there.

'Oh, Andy died.'

Gamache raised an eyebrow.

'No need to get excited, Inspector Clouseau,' said Ruth.

'An accident in the woods. A tree fell on him. Lots of witnesses. Happened all the time. Though there was some romantic notion at the time that he was so heartbroken he became deliberately careless. Bullshit. I knew him too. He liked her, perhaps even loved her, but he wasn't nuts. We all get dumped at sometime or another and don't kill ourselves. No, it was just an accident.'

'What did Jane do?'

'She went away to school. Came back a couple of years later with her teaching degree and took over at the school here. School House Number 6.'

Gamache noticed a slight shadow at his arm and looked up. A man in his mid-thirties was standing there. Blond, trim, well-dressed in a casual way as though he'd walked out of a Lands End catalogue. He looked tired, but eager to help.

'I'm sorry I was so long. I'm Olivier Brule.'

'Armand Gamache, I'm the Chief Inspector of Homicide with the Surete du Quebec.'

Unseen by Gamache, Ruth's eyebrows rose. She'd underestimated the man. He was the big boss. She'd called him Inspector Clouseau, and that was the only insult she could remember. After Gamache arranged for lunch, Olivier turned to Ruth, 'How are you?' he touched Ruth lightly on the shoulder. She winced as though burned.

'Not bad. How's Gabri?'

'Not good. You know Gabri, he wears his heart on his sleeve.' In fact, there were times Olivier wondered whether Gabri hadn't been born inside out.

Before Ruth left, Gamache got the bare outline of Jane's life. He also got the name of her next of kin. A niece named Yolande Fontaine, a real estate agent working out of St Remy. He looked at his watch: 12.30. St Remy was about fifteen minutes away. He could probably make it. As he fished in his pocket for his wallet he saw Olivier just leaving and wondered if he couldn't do two things at once.

Grabbing his hat and coat from the rack he noticed a tiny white tag hanging from one of the hooks. It twigged. The thing that was out of place, unusual. He turned around, putting on his coat, and peered at the tables and chairs and mirrors and all the other antiques in the Bistro. Every one of them had a tag. This was a shop. Everything was for sale. You could eat your croissant and buy your plate. He felt a wave of pleasure at solving the little riddle. A few minutes later he was in Olivier's car heading for St Remy. It wasn't hard to convince Olivier to give him a lift. Olivier was anxious to help.

'Rain on the way,' said Olivier, bumping along the gravel road.

'And turning colder tomorrow,' Gamache added. Both men nodded silently. After a couple of kilometers, Gamache spoke. 'What was Miss Neal like?'

'It's just so unbelievable that anyone would kill her. She was a wonderful person. Kind and gentle.'

Unconsciously, Olivier had equated the way people lived with the way they died. Gamache was always impressed with that. Almost invariably people expected that if you were a good person you shouldn't meet a bad end, that only the deserving are killed. And certainly only the deserving are murdered. However well hidden and subtle, there was a sense that a murdered person had somehow asked for it. That's why the shock when someone they knew to be kind and good was a victim. There was a feeling that surely there had been a mistake.

'I've never met anyone uniformly kind and good. Didn't she have any flaws? Anyone she rubbed the wrong way?'

There was a long pause and Gamache wondered whether Olivier had forgotten the question. But he waited. Armand Gamache was a patient man.

'Gabri and I have only been here twelve years. I didn't know her before that. But I have to say, honestly, I've never heard anything bad about Jane.'

They arrived in St Remy, a town Gamache knew slightly, having skied at the mountain that grew behind the village when his children were young.

'Before you go in, do you want me to tell you about her niece Yolande?'

Gamache noticed the eagerness in Olivier's voice. Clearly there were things to tell. But that treat would have to wait.

'Not now, but on the way back.'

'Great.' Olivier parked the car and pointed to the real estate office in the little mall. Where nearby Williamsburg was self-consciously quaint, St Remy was just an old Townships town. Not really planned, not designed, it was working-class, and somehow more real than the far prettier Williamsburg, the main town in the area. They arranged to meet back at the car at 1.15. Gamache noticed that even though Olivier had a few things in the back seat he didn't lock the car. Just strolled away.

A blonde woman with a great big smile greeted Chief Inspector Gamache at the door.

'M. Gamache, I'm Yolande Fontaine,' her hand was out and pumping before he'd even slipped his into it. He felt a practiced eye sweep over him, assessing. He'd called to make sure she was in the office before leaving Three Pines and clearly he, or his Burberry, measured up.

'Now, please have a seat. What kind of property are you interested in?' She maneuvered him into an orange-upholstered cupped chair. Bringing out his warrant card he handed it across the desk and watched the smile fade.

'What's that goddamned kid done now? Tabernacle. Her impeccable French had disappeared as well, replaced by street French, twangy and harsh, the words covered in grit.

'No, Madame. Is your aunt Jane Neal? Of Three Pines?'

'Yes. Why?'

'I'm sorry, but I have bad news. Your aunt was found dead today.'

'Oh, no,' she responded, with all the emotion one greets a stain on an old T-shirt. 'Heart?'

'No. It wasn't a natural death.'

Yolande Fontaine stared as though trying to absorb the words. She clearly knew what each individual word meant, but put together they didn't make any sense.

'Not natural? What does that mean?'

Gamache looked at the woman sitting in front of him. Lacquered nails, blonde hair puffed up and soldered into place, her face made up as though for a ball, at noon. She'd be in her early thirties, he figured, but perversely the heavy make-up made her look about fifty. She didn't appear to be living a natural life.

'She was found in the woods. Killed.'

'Murdered?' she whispered.

'We don't know. I understand you're her closest relative. Is that right?'

'Yes. My mother was her younger sister. She died of breast cancer four years ago. They were very close. Like this.' Here Yolande attempted to cross her fingers but the nails kept knocking into each other making it look like a finger puppet version of All Star Wrestling. She gave up and looked at Gamache knowingly.

'When can I get into the house?' she asked.

'I'm sorry?'

'In Three Pines. Aunt Jane always said it would be mine.' Gamache had seen enough grief in his time to know that people handle it in different ways. His own mother, upon waking up next to her husband of fifty years dead in the bed, called her hairdresser first to cancel her appointment. Gamache knew better than to judge people based upon what they do when presented with bad news. Still, it was an odd question.

'I don't know. We haven't even been in yet.'

Yolande became agitated.

'Well, I have a key. Can I go in before you, just to kind of tidy up?'

He wondered briefly whether this was a real estate agent's learned response.

'No.'

Yolande's face became hard and red, matching her nails. This was a woman not used to hearing 'no', and a woman without mastery of her anger.

'I'm calling my lawyer. The house is mine and I do not give you permission to enter. Got it?'

'Speaking of lawyers, do you happen to know who your aunt used?'

'Stickley. Norman Stickley.' Her voice brittle. 'We use him too from time to time for house transactions around Williamsburg.'

'May I have his co-ordinates, please?'

While she wrote them down in a florid hand Gamache glanced around and noticed some of the listings on the 'For Sale' board were estates, beautiful, sprawling ancestral homes. Most were more modest. Yolande had a lot of condos and trailer homes. Still, someone had to sell them, and it probably took a far better salesperson to sell a trailer home than a century home. But you'd have to sell a lot of trailers to make ends meet.

'There,' she shoved it across her desk. 'You'll hear from my lawyer.'

Gamache found Olivier waiting for him in the car. 'Am I late?' he asked, checking his watch. It said 1.10.

'No, a little early, in fact. I just had to pick up some shallots for tonight's dinner.' Gamache noticed a distinct and very pleasant odor in the car. 'And, to be honest, I didn't figure the interview with Yolande would take long.'

Olivier smiled as he pulled the car on to rue Principale. 'How'd it go?'

'Not quite as I expected,' admitted Gamache. Olivier gave a bark of a laugh.

'She's quite a piece of work is our Yolande. Did she cry hysterically?'

'Actually, no.'

'Well, that is a surprise. I would've thought given an audience, and the police at that, she'd make the most of her role as sole survivor. She's a triumph of image over reality. I'm not even sure if she knows what reality is anymore, she's so busy creating this image of herself.'

'Image as what?'

'A success. She needs to be seen as a happy and successful wife and mother.'

'Don't we all?'

Here Olivier gave him an arch and openly gay look. Gamache caught it and realised what he'd said. He raised his eyebrow to Olivier as though returning the look and Olivier laughed again.

'I meant'-Gamache smiled-'we all have our public images.'

Olivier nodded. It was true. Especially true in the gay community, he thought, where you had to be entertaining, clever, cynical and, above all, attractive. It was exhausting looking so bored all the time. It was one of the things that made him flee to the country. He felt in Three Pines he had a shot at being himself. What he hadn't counted on was it taking so long to figure out who 'he' was.

'That's true. But it goes deeper with Yolande, I think. She's like a Hollywood set. This big fake front and all sort of empty and ugly behind. Shallow.'

'What was her relationship with Miss Neal?'

'Well, apparently they were quite close when Yolande was small, but there was a rupture of sorts. No idea what it was. Yolande eventually pisses everyone off, but it must have been pretty big. Jane even refused to see Yolande.'

'Really? Why?'

'Not a clue. Clara might know. Timmer Hadley could certainly have told you, but she's dead.'

There it was again. Timmer's death, so close to Jane's.

'And yet Yolande Fontaine seems to think Miss Neal left everything to her.'

'Well, she might have. For some blood is thicker, etc.'

'She seemed particularly anxious to get into Miss Neal's home before we do. Does that make any sense to you?'

Olivier considered. 'Can't say. I don't think anyone can answer that question since no one has ever been into Jane's home.'

'Pardon?' Gamache thought he must have misheard.

'Funny, I'm so used to it I never even thought to mention it. Yes. That's the only thing that was weird about Jane. She'd have us into the mudroom and kitchen. But never, ever, beyond the kitchen.'

'Surely Clara-'

'Not even Clara. Not Timmer. Nobody.'

Gamache made a note to make that the first activity after lunch. They arrived back with a few minutes to spare. Gamache settled into the bench on the green and watched Three Pines go about its life and its singular death. Ben joined him for a few minutes chat then dragged Daisy back home. Before heading to the Bistro for lunch Gamache reflected on what he'd heard so far, and who would want to kill kindness.

Beauvoir had set up a large stand with paper and magic markers. Gamache took a seat next to him in Olivier's private back room and looked out through the wall of French doors. He could see tables, their umbrellas down, and beyond them the river. Bella Bella. He agreed.

The room filled with hungry and cold Surete 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 Surete. 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 Surete, 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 Surete 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 comer 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 Remy. 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 Gaspe 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. 'Desole. 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.

'It does. It makes perfect sense,' said Gamache, and he meant it. Few people understood so quickly that most premeditated murders were about rancid emotions, greed, jealousy, fear, all repressed. As Gabri said, people don't see it coming, because the murderer is a master at image, at the false front, at presenting a reasonable, even placid exterior. But it masked a horror underneath. And that's why the expression he saw most on the faces of victims wasn't fear, wasn't anger. It was surprise.

'Who knows what evil lurks in the hearts of men?' Gabri asked and Gamache wondered if he knew he was quoting an old radio drama. Then Gabri winked.

Gabri disappeared again, and returned, handing Gamache a small bag of muffins.

'One more question,' said Gamache at the door, the bag of muffins in one hand and the door handle in the other. 'You mentioned the Charles de Mills rose.'

'Jane's favorite. He's not just any rose, Chief Inspector.

He's considered by rosarians to be one of the finest in the world. An old garden rose. Only blooms once a season but with a show that's spectacular. And then it's gone. That's why I made the muffins from rose water, as a homage to Jane. Then I ate them, as you saw. I always eat my pain.' Gabri smiled slightly. Looking at the size of the man, Gamache marveled at the amount of pain he must have. And fear perhaps. And anger? Who knows, indeed.

Ben Hadley was waiting for them outside the schoolhouse, as Beauvoir had requested in his call.

'Is everything as it should be from the outside, Mr Hadley?' Gamache asked.

Ben, a little surprised at the question, looked around. Gamache wondered whether Ben Hadley wasn't a little surprised all the time.

'Yes. Do you want to see inside?' Ben reached for the knob, but Beauvoir quickly brought his own hand down on Ben's arm and stopped him. Instead, Beauvoir pulled a roll of yellow police tape from his jacket and handed it to Nichol. While Nichol put the yellow 'Do not cross, crime scene' tape around the door and windows Beauvoir explained.

'It looks as though Miss Neal was killed by an arrow. We need to go over your clubhouse carefully in case the weapon came from here.'

'But that's ridiculous.'

'Why?'

Ben simply looked around as though the peaceful setting was reason enough. Into Beauvoir's outstretched hand he deposited the keys.

As Agent Nichol maneuvered the car on to the Champlain Bridge and back into Montreal she looked past Chief Inspector Gamache, silent and thinking in the seat beside her, and toward the Montreal skyline, the huge cross just beginning to glow on the top of Mont Royal. Her family would have held back Thanksgiving dinner for her. They'd do anything for her, she knew, both comforted and bound by the certainty. And all she had to do was succeed.

Walking into his own home that evening Gamache smelt roasting partridge. It was one of Reine-Marie's holiday specialties, the small game birds wrapped in bacon and slowly cooked in a sauce of mulled wine and juniper berries. Normally he'd have made the wild rice stuffing, but she'd probably have done that herself. They exchanged news while he stripped and took a shower. She told him about the baptism and the finger food afterward. She was almost certain she was at the right baptism, though she didn't recognise all that many people. He told her about his day and the case. He told her everything. In this he was unusual, but he couldn't quite see how he could have a deep partnership with Reine-Marie and keep this part of his life secret. So he told her everything, and she told him everything. So far, after thirty-five years, it seemed to be working.

Their friends came, and it was a comfortable, easy night. A couple of good bottles of wine, an outstanding Thanksgiving meal, and warm and thoughtful company. Gamache was reminded of the beginning of Virginia Woolf's Orlando. Orlando, through the ages, wasn't looking for wealth or fame, or honors. No, all Orlando wanted was company.

Clara rocked back and forth, back and forth, cradling her loss. Earlier in the day she'd felt someone had scooped her heart and her brain right out of her body. Now they were back, but they were broken. Her brain jumped madly about the place, but always back to that one scorched spot.

Peter crept to the bedroom door and looked in. God help him, part of him was jealous. Jealous of the hold Jane had over Clara. He wondered whether Clara would have been like this had he died. And he realised that, had he died in the woods, Clara would have had Jane to comfort her. And Jane would have known what to do. In that instant a door opened for Peter. For the first time in his life he asked what someone else would do. What would Jane do if she was here and he was dead? And he had his answer. Silently he lay down beside Clara and wrapped himself around her. And for the first time since getting the news, her heart and mind calmed. They settled, just for one blessed instant, on a place that held love, not loss.