The Brutal Telling

FOURTEEN

They arrived back at the B and B to find Beauvoir waiting up for them. Sort of. He was fast asleep in his chair. Beside him was a plate with crumbs and a glass of chocolate milk. The fireplace glowed with dying embers.

“Should we wake him?” asked Olivier. “He looks so peaceful.”

Beauvoir’s face was turned to the side and there was a slight glisten of drool. His breathing was heavy and regular. On his chest lay the small stuffed lion Gabri had won for Olivier at the fair, his hand resting on it.

“Like a little baby cop,” said Gabri.

“That reminds me. Ruth asked me to give him this.” Olivier handed Gamache a slip of paper. The Chief took it and when he declined their offer of help watched as the two men trudged wearily up the stairs. It was nine o’clock.

“Jean Guy,” Gamache whispered. “Wake up.”

He knelt and touched the younger man’s shoulder. Beauvoir started awake with a snort, the lion slipping off his chest onto the floor.

“What is it?”

“Time for bed.”

He watched Beauvoir sit up. “How was it?”

“No one died.”

“That’s a bit of an achievement in Three Pines.”

“Olivier said Ruth wanted you to have this.” Gamache handed him the slip of paper. Beauvoir rubbed his eyes, unfolded the paper and read it. Then, shaking his head, he handed it to the Chief.

“What does it mean? Is it a threat?”

Gamache frowned. “Haven’t a clue. Why would she be writing to you?”

“Jealous? Maybe she’s just nuts.” But they both knew the “maybe” was being generous. “Speaking of nut, your daughter called.”

“Annie?” Gamache was suddenly worried, instinctively reaching for his cell phone, which he knew didn’t work in the village in the valley.

“Everything’s fine. She wanted to talk to you about some upset at work. Nothing major. She just wanted to quit.”

“Damn, that was probably what she wanted to talk about yesterday when we got called down here.”

“Well don’t worry about it. I handled it.”

“I don’t think telling her to fuck off can be considered ‘handling it.’ ”

Beauvoir laughed and bending down he picked up the stuffed lion. “There’s certainly good reason she’s known as ‘the lion’ in your family. Vicious.”

“She’s known as the lion because she’s loving and passionate.”

“And a man-eater?”

“All the qualities you hate in her you admire in men,” said Gamache. “She’s smart, she stands up for what she believes in. She speaks her mind and won’t back down to bullies. Why do you goad her? Every time you come for a meal and she’s there it ends in an argument. I for one am growing tired of it.”

“All right, I’ll try harder. But she’s very annoying.”

“So are you. You have a lot in common. What was the problem at work?” Gamache took the seat next to Jean Guy.

“Oh, a case she’d wanted was assigned to another lawyer, someone more junior. I talked to her for a while. I’m almost certain she won’t kill everyone at work after all.”

“That’s my girl.”

“And she’s decided not to quit. I told her she’d regret any hasty decision.”

“Oh, you did, did you?” asked Gamache with a smile. This from the king of impulse.

“Well, someone had to give her good advice,” laughed Beauvoir. “Her parents are quite mad, you know.”

“I’d heard. Thank you.”

It was good advice. And he could tell Beauvoir knew it. He seemed pleased. Gamache looked at his watch. Nine thirty. He reached for Gabri’s phone.

As Gamache spoke to his daughter Beauvoir absently stroked the lion in his hand.

That was the fear in a murder investigation. Missing something. Chief Inspector Gamache had assembled a brilliant department. Almost two hundred of them in all, hand picked, investigating crime all over the province.

But this team, Beauvoir knew, was the best.

He was the bloodhound. The one way out in front, leading.

Agent Lacoste was the hunter. Determined, methodical.

And the Chief Inspector? Armand Gamache was their explorer. The one who went where others refused to go, or couldn’t go. Or were too afraid to go. Into the wilderness. Gamache found the chasms, the caves, and the beasts that hid in them.

Beauvoir had long thought Gamache did it because he was afraid of nothing. But he’d come to realize the Chief Inspector had many fears. That was his strength. He recognized it in others. Fear more than anything was the thrust behind the knife, the fist. The blow to the head.

And young Agent Morin? What did he bring to the team? Beauvoir had to admit he’d quite warmed to the young man. But that hadn’t blinded him to his inexperience. So far Beauvoir the bloodhound could smell fear quite clearly in this case.

But it came from Morin.

Beauvoir left the Chief in the living room speaking to his daughter and walked upstairs. As he climbed he hummed an old Weavers tune and hoped Gamache didn’t notice the stuffed animal clutched in his hand.

When Monsieur Béliveau arrived to open his general store the next morning he had a customer already waiting. Agent Paul Morin stood up from the bench on the veranda and introduced himself to the elderly grocer.

“How can I help you?” Monsieur Béliveau asked as he unlocked the door. It wasn’t often people in Three Pines were so pressed for his produce they were actually waiting for him. But then, this young man wasn’t a villager.

“Do you have any paraffin?”

Monsieur Béliveau’s stern face broke into a smile. “I have everything.”

Paul Morin had never been in the store before and now he looked around. The dark wooden shelves were neatly stacked with tins. Sacks of dog food and birdseed leaned against the counter. Above the shelves were old boxes with backgammon games. Checkers, Snakes and Ladders, Monopoly. Paint by numbers and jigsaw puzzles were stacked in neat, orderly rows. Dried goods were displayed along one wall, paint, boots, birdfeeders were down another.

“Over there, by the Mason jars. Are you planning on doing some pickling?” he chuckled.

“Do you sell much?” Morin asked.

“At this time of year? It’s all I can do to keep it in stock.”

“And how about this?” He held up a tin. “Sell many of these?”

“A few. But most people go into the Canadian Tire in Cowansville for that sort of thing, or the building supply shops. I just keep some around in case.”

“When was the last time you sold some?” the young agent asked as he paid for his goods. He didn’t expect an answer really, but he felt he had to ask.

“July.”

“Really?” Morin suspected he’d have to work on his “interrogation” face. “How’d you remember that?”

“It’s what I do. You get to know the habits of people. And when they buy something unusual, like this,” he held up the tin just before placing it in the paper bag, “I notice. Actually, two people bought some. Regular run on the market.”

Agent Paul Morin left Monsieur Béliveau’s shop with his goods, and a whole lot of unexpected information.

Agent Isabelle Lacoste started her day with the more straightforward of the interviews. She pressed the button and the elevator swished shut and took her to the top of the Banque Laurentienne tower in Montreal. As she waited she looked out at the harbor in one direction and Mont Royal with its huge cross in the other. Splendid glass buildings clustered all around downtown, reflecting the sun, reflecting the aspirations and achievements of this remarkable French city.

Isabelle Lacoste was always surprised by the amount of pride she felt when looking at downtown Montreal. The architects had managed to make it both impressive and charming. Montrealers never turned their back on the past. The Québécois were like that, for better or worse.

“Je vous en prie,” the receptionist smiled and indicated a now-opened door.

“Merci.” Agent Lacoste walked into a quite grand office where a slender, athletic-looking middle-aged man was standing at his desk. He came round, extending his hand, and introduced himself as Yves Charpentier.

“I have some of the information you asked for,” he said in cultured French. It delighted Lacoste when she could speak her own language to top executives. Her generation could. But she’d heard her parents and grandparents talk, and knew enough recent history to know had it been thirty years earlier she’d probably be speaking to a unilingual Englishman. Her English was perfect, but that wasn’t the point.

She accepted the offer of coffee.

“This is rather delicate,” said Monsieur Charpentier, when his secretary had left and the door was closed. “I don’t want you to think Olivier Brulé was a criminal, and there was never any question of laying charges.”

“But?”

“We were very happy with him for the first few years. I’m afraid we tend to be impressed by profit and he delivered on that. He moved up quickly. People liked him, especially his clients. A lot of people in this business can be glib, but Olivier was genuine. Quiet, respectful. It was a relief to deal with him.”

“But?” Lacoste repeated, with a slight smile she hoped took the edge off her insistence. Monsieur Charpentier smiled back.

“Some company money went missing. A couple of million.” He watched for her response but she simply listened. “A very discreet investigation was launched. In the meantime more money disappeared. Eventually we tracked it down to two people. One of them was Olivier. I didn’t believe it, but after a couple of interviews he admitted it.”

“Could he have been covering for the other employee?”

“Doubtful. Frankly, the other employee, while bright, wasn’t smart enough to do this.”

“Surely it doesn’t take brains to embezzle. I’d have thought you’d have to be quite stupid.”

Monsieur Charpentier laughed. “I agree, but I haven’t made myself clear. The money was gone from the company account, but not stolen. Olivier showed us what he’d done. The trail. Seems he’d been following some activity in Malaysia, saw what he thought were some fantastic investment opportunities and took them to his boss, who didn’t agree. So Olivier did it on his own, without authorization. It was all there. He’d documented it, intending to put it back, with the profits. And he’d been right. Those three million dollars turned into twenty.”

Now Lacoste reacted, not verbally, but her expression made Charpentier nod.

“Exactly. The kid had a nose for money. Where is he now?”

“You fired him?” asked Lacoste, ignoring the question.

“He quit. We were trying to decide what to do with him. The executives were torn. His boss was apoplectic and wanted him dangled from the top of the building. We explained we don’t do that. Anymore.”

Lacoste laughed. “Some of you wanted to keep him on?”

“He was just so good at what he did.”

“Which was making money. Are you convinced he was going to give it back?”

“Now, you’ve hit on the problem. Half of us believed him, half didn’t. Olivier finally resigned, realizing he’d lost our trust. When you lose that, well . . .”

Well, thought Agent Lacoste. Well, well.

And now Olivier was in Three Pines. But like everyone who moved, he took himself with him.

Well, well.

The three Sûreté officers gathered round the table in the Incident Room.

“So where are we?” asked Beauvoir, standing once again by the sheets of paper tacked to the walls. Instead of answers to the questions he’d written there, two more had been added.

He shook his head. They seemed to be moving in the wrong direction. Even the few things that seemed possible in this case, like the fire irons being the weapons, turned out to be nothing.

They had nothing.

“We actually know a great deal,” said Gamache. “We know the man wasn’t killed in the bistro.”

“That leaves the rest of the world to eliminate,” said Beauvoir.

“We know paraffin and Varathane are involved. And we know that somehow Olivier’s involved.”

“But we don’t even know who the victim was.” Beauvoir underlined that question on his sheet in frustration. Gamache let that sit for a moment, then spoke.

“No. But we will. We’ll know it all, eventually. It’s a puzzle, and eventually the whole picture will be clear. We just need to be patient. And persistent. We need more background information on other possible suspects. The Parras for instance.”

“I have that information you asked for,” said Agent Morin, squaring his slight shoulders. “Hanna and Roar Parra came here in the mid-80s. Refugees. Applied for status and got it. They’re now Canadian citizens.”

“All legal?” asked Beauvoir, with regret.

“All legal. One child. Havoc. Twenty-one years old. The family’s very involved in the Czech community here. Sponsored a few people.”

“Right, right,” waved Beauvoir. “Anything interesting?”

Morin looked down at his copious notes. What would the Inspector consider interesting?

“Did you find anything from before they came here?” asked Gamache.

“No, sir. I have calls in to Prague but their record keeping from that time isn’t good.”

“Okay.” Beauvoir snapped the top back on the Magic Marker. “Anything else?”

Agent Morin placed a paper bag on the conference table.

“I dropped by the general store this morning, and bought these.”

Out of the bag he brought a brick of paraffin wax. “Monsieur Béliveau says everyone’s been buying paraffin, especially at this time of year.”

“Not much help,” said Beauvoir, taking his seat again.

“No, but this might be.” And from the bag he pulled a tin. On it was written Varathane. “He sold two tins like this to two different people in July. One to Gabri and the other to Marc Gilbert.”

“Oh, really?” Beauvoir uncapped the marker.

Agent Lacoste, like every Montrealer, knew about Habitat, the strange and exotic apartment building created for Expo 67, the great World’s Fair. The buildings had been considered avant garde then, and still were. They sat on Île des Soeurs, in the St. Lawrence River, a tribute to creativity and vision. Once seen Habitat was never forgotten. Instead of a square or rectangular building to house people the architect had made each room a separate block, an elongated cube. It looked like a jumble of children’s building blocks, piled on top of each other. One interconnected with another, some above, some below, some off to the side, so that daylight shone through the building and the rooms were all bathed in sun. And the views from each room were spectacular, either of the grand river or of the magnificent city.

Lacoste had never been in a Habitat condo, but she was about to. Jacques Brulé, Olivier’s father, lived there.

“Come in,” he said, unsmiling, as he opened the door. “You said this was about my son?”

Monsieur Brulé was very unlike his son. He had a full head of dark hair and was robust. Behind him she could see the gleaming wood floors, the slate fireplace and the huge windows looking onto the river. The condo was tasteful and expensive.

“I wonder if we could sit down?”

“I wonder if you could come to the point?”

He stood at the door, blocking her way. Not allowing her farther into his home.

“As I mentioned on the phone, I’m with homicide. We’re investigating a murder in Three Pines.”

The man looked blank.

“Where your son lives.” He nodded, once. Lacoste continued. “A body was found in the bistro there.”

She’d intentionally not identified the bistro. Olivier’s father waited, showing absolutely no recognition, no alarm, no concern at all.

“Olivier’s Bistro,” she finally said.

“And what do you want from me?”

It was far from unusual in a murder case to find fractured families, but she hadn’t expected to find one here.

“I’d like to know about Olivier, his upbringing, his background, his interests.”

“You’ve come to the wrong parent. You’d need to ask his mother.”

“I’m sorry, but I thought she’d died.”

“She has.”

“You told me on the phone he went to Notre Dame de Sion. Quite a good school, I hear. But it only goes to grade six. How about after that?”

“I think he went to Loyola. Or was it Brébeuf? I can’t remember.”

“Pardon? Were you and his mother separated?”

“No, I’d never divorce.” This was the most animated he’d been. Much more upset by the suggestion of divorce than death and certainly than murder. Lacoste waited. And waited. Eventually Jacques Brulé spoke.

“I was away a lot, building a career.”

But Agent Lacoste, who hunted killers and still knew what schools her children attended, knew that wasn’t much of an explanation, or excuse.

“Was he ever in trouble? Did he get into fights? Any problems?”

“With Olivier? None at all. He was a regular boy, mind you. He’d get into scrapes, but nothing serious.”

It was like interviewing a marshmallow, or a salesman about a dining room set. Monsieur Brulé seemed on the verge of calling his son “it” throughout the conversation.

“When was the last time you spoke to him?” She wasn’t sure that was exactly on topic, but she wanted to know.

“I don’t know.”

She should have guessed. As she left he called after her, “Tell him I said hello.”

Lacoste stopped at the elevator, pressed the button, and looked back at the large man standing in the door frame, shutting out all the light that she knew was streaming into his apartment.

“Maybe you can tell him yourself. Visit even. Have you met Gabri?”

“Gabri?”

“Gabriel. His partner.”

“Gabrielle? He hasn’t told me about her.”

The elevator came and she stepped in, wondering if Monsieur Brulé would ever find Three Pines. She also wondered about this man who kept so much hidden.

But then, clearly, so did his son.

It was late morning and Olivier was in his bistro, at the front door. Trying to decide if he should unlock it. Let people in. Maybe the crowd would drown out the voice in his head. The Hermit’s voice. And that terrible story that bound them together. Even unto death.

The young man appeared at the base of the now barren mountain. Like everyone else in the region he’d heard the stories. Of bad children brought here as a sacrifice to the dreadful Mountain King.

He looked for tiny bones on the dusty soil, but there was nothing. No life. Not even death.

As he was about to leave he heard a small sigh. A breeze had blown up where nothing had stirred before. He felt it on the back of his neck, and he felt his skin grow cool and the hairs stand up. He looked down at the lush, green valley, the thick forests and the thatched roofs, and he wondered how he could have been so stupid as to have come up here. Alone.

“Don’t,” he heard on the wind. “Don’t.”

The young man turned round. “Go,” he heard.

“Don’t go,” said the sigh.