The Brutal Telling

FOUR

“You didn’t recognize him?” asked Clara as she sliced some fresh bread from Sarah’s Boulangerie.

There was only one “him” Myrna’s friend could be talking about. Myrna shook her head and sliced tomatoes into the salad, then turned to the shallots, all freshly picked from Peter and Clara’s vegetable garden.

“And Olivier and Gabri didn’t know him?” asked Peter. He was carving a barbecued chicken.

“Strange, isn’t it?” Myrna paused and looked at her friends. Peter—tall, graying, elegant and precise. And beside him his wife Clara. Short, plump, hair dark and wild, bread crust scattered into it like sparkles. Her eyes were blue and usually filled with humor. But not today.

Clara was shaking her head, perplexed. A couple of crumbs fell to the counter. She picked them up absently, and ate them. Now that the initial shock of discovery was receding, Myrna was pretty sure they were all thinking the same thing.

This was murder. The dead man was a stranger. But was the killer?

And they probably all came to the same conclusion. Unlikely.

She’d tried not to think about it, but it kept creeping into her head. She picked up a slice of baguette and chewed on it. The bread was warm, soft and fragrant. The outer crust was crispy.

“For God’s sake,” said Clara, waving the knife at the half-eaten bread in Myrna’s hand.

“Want some?” Myrna offered her a piece.

The two women stood at the counter eating fresh warm bread. They’d normally be at the bistro for Sunday lunch but that didn’t seem likely today, what with the body and all. So Clara, Peter and Myrna had gone next door to Myrna’s loft apartment. Downstairs the door to her shop was armed with an alarm, should anyone enter. It wasn’t really so much an alarm as a small bell that tinkled when the door opened. Sometimes Myrna went down, sometimes not. Almost all her customers were local, and they all knew how much to leave by the cash register. Besides, thought Myrna, if anyone needed a used book so badly they had to steal it then they were welcome to it.

Myrna felt a chill. She looked across the room to see if a window was open and cool, damp air pouring in. She saw the exposed brick walls, the sturdy beams and the series of large industrial windows. She walked over to check, but all of them were closed, except for one open a sliver to let in some fresh air.

Walking back across the wide pine floors, she paused by the black pot-bellied woodstove in the center of the large room. It was crackling away. She lifted a round lid and slipped another piece of wood in.

“It must have been horrible for you,” said Clara, going to stand by Myrna.

“It was. That poor man, just lying there. I didn’t see the wound at first.”

Clara sat with Myrna on the sofa facing the woodstove. Peter brought over two Scotches then quietly retired to the kitchen area. From there he could see them, could hear their conversation, but wouldn’t be in the way.

He watched as the two women leaned close, sipping their drinks, talking softly. Intimately. He envied them that. Peter turned away and stirred the Cheddar and apple soup.

“What does Gamache think?” asked Clara.

“He seems as puzzled as the rest of us. I mean really,” Myrna turned to face Clara, “why was a strange man in the bistro? Dead?”

“Murdered,” said Clara and the two thought about that for a moment.

Clara finally spoke. “Did Olivier say anything?”

“Nothing. He seemed just stunned.”

Clara nodded. She knew the feeling.

The police were at the door. Soon they’d be in their homes, in their kitchens and bedrooms. In their heads.

“Can’t imagine what Gamache thinks of us,” said Myrna. “Every time he shows up there’s a body.”

“Every Quebec village has a vocation,” said Clara. “Some make cheese, some wine, some pots. We produce bodies.”

“Monasteries have vocations, not villages,” said Peter with a laugh. He placed bowls of rich-scented soup on Myrna’s long refectory table. “And we don’t make bodies.”

But he wasn’t really so sure.

“Gamache is the head of homicide for the Sûreté,” said Myrna. “It must happen to him all the time. In fact, he’d probably be quite surprised if there wasn’t a body.”

Myrna and Clara joined Peter at the table and as the women talked Peter thought of the man in charge of the investigation. He was dangerous, Peter knew. Dangerous to whoever had killed that man next door. He wondered whether the murderer knew what sort of man was after him. But Peter was afraid the murderer knew all too well.

Inspector Jean Guy Beauvoir looked around their new Incident Room and inhaled. He realized, with some surprise, how familiar and even thrilling the scent was.

It smelled of excitement, it smelled of the hunt. It smelled of long hours over hot computers, piecing together a puzzle. It smelled of teamwork.

It actually smelled of diesel fuel and wood smoke, of polish and concrete. He was again in the old railway station of Three Pines, abandoned by the Canadian Pacific Railway decades ago and left to rot. But the Three Pines Volunteer Fire Department had taken it over, sneaking in and hoping no one noticed. Which, of course, they didn’t, the CPR having long forgotten the village existed. So now the small station was home to their fire trucks, their bulky outfits, their equipment. The walls retained the tongue-in-groove wood paneling, and were papered with posters for scenic trips through the Rockies and life-saving techniques. Fire safety tips, volunteer rotation and old railway timetables competed for space, along with a huge poster announcing the winner of the Governor General’s Prize for Poetry. There, staring out at them in perpetuity, was a madwoman.

She was also staring at him, madly, in person.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” Beside her a duck stared at him too.

Ruth Zardo. Probably the most prominent and respected poet in the country. And her duck Rosa. He knew that when Chief Inspector Gamache looked at her he saw a gifted poet. But Beauvoir just saw indigestion.

“There’s been a murder,” he said, his voice he hoped full of dignity and authority.

“I know there’s been a murder. I’m not an idiot.”

Beside her the duck shook its head and flapped its wings. Beauvoir had grown so used to seeing her with the bird it was no longer surprising. In fact, though he’d never admit it, he was relieved Rosa was still alive. Most things, he suspected, didn’t last long around this crazy old fart.

“We need to use this building again,” he said and turned away from them.

Ruth Zardo, despite her extreme age, her limp, and her diabolical temperament, had been elected head of the volunteer fire department. In hopes, Beauvoir suspected, that she’d perish in the flames one day. But he also suspected she wouldn’t burn.

“No.” She whacked her cane on the concrete floor. Rosa didn’t jump but Beauvoir did. “You can’t have it.”

“I’m sorry, Madame Zardo, but we need it and we plan to take it.”

His voice was no longer as gracious as it had been. The three stared at each other, only Rosa blinking. Beauvoir knew the only way this nut-case could triumph was if she started reciting her dreary, unintelligible verse. Nothing rhymed. Nothing even made sense. She’d break him in an instant. But he also knew that of all the people in the village, she was the least likely to quote it. She seemed embarrassed, even ashamed, by what she created.

“How’s your poetry?” he asked and saw her waver. Her short, shorn hair was white and thin and lay close to her head, as though her bleached skull was exposed. Her neck was scrawny and ropy and her tall body, once sturdy he suspected, was feeble. But nothing else about her was.

“I saw somewhere that you’ll soon have another book out.”

Ruth Zardo backed up slightly.

“The Chief Inspector is here too, as you probably know.” His voice was kind now, reasonable, warm. The old woman looked as though she was seeing Satan. “I know how much he’s looking forward to talking to you about it. He’ll be here soon. He’s been memorizing your verses.”

Ruth Zardo turned and left.

He’d done it. He’d banished her. The witch was dead, or at least gone.

He got to work setting up their headquarters. He ordered desks and communications equipment, computers and printers, scanners and faxes. Corkboards and fragrant Magic Markers. He’d stick a corkboard right on top of that poster of the sneering, mad old poet. And over her face he’d write about murder.

The bistro was quiet.

The Scene of Crime officers had left. Agent Isabelle Lacoste was kneeling on the floor where the body had been found, thorough as ever. Making absolutely sure no clues were missed. From what Chief Inspector Gamache could see Olivier and Gabri hadn’t stirred: they still sat on the faded old sofa facing the large fireplace, each in his own world, staring at the fire, mesmerized by the flames. He wondered what they were thinking.

“What are you thinking?” Gamache went over and sat in the large armchair beside them.

“I was thinking about the dead man,” said Olivier. “Wondering who he was. Wondering what he was doing here, and about his family. Wondering if anyone was missing him.”

“I was thinking about lunch,” said Gabri. “Anyone else hungry?”

From across the room Agent Lacoste looked up. “I am.”

“So am I, patron,” said Gamache.

When they could hear Gabri clanking pots and pans in the kitchen, Gamache leaned forward. It was just him and Olivier. Olivier looked at him blankly. But the Chief Inspector had seen that look before. It was, in fact, almost impossible to look blank. Unless the person wanted to. A blank face to the Chief Inspector meant a frantic mind.

From the kitchen came the unmistakable aroma of garlic and they could hear Gabri singing, “What shall we do with a drunken sailor?”

“Gabri thought the man was a tramp. What do you think?”

Olivier remembered the eyes, glassy, staring. And he remembered the last time he’d been in the cabin.

Chaos is coming, old son. It’s taken a long time, but it’s finally here.

“What else could he’ve been?”

“Why do you think he was killed here, in your bistro?”

“I don’t know.” And Olivier seemed to sag. “I’ve been racking my brains trying to figure it out. Why would someone kill a man here? It makes no sense.”

“It does make sense.”

“Really?” Olivier sat forward. “How?”

“I don’t know. But I will.”

Olivier stared at the formidable, quiet man who suddenly seemed to fill the entire room without raising his voice.

“Did you know him?”

“You’ve asked me that before,” snapped Olivier, then gathered himself. “I’m sorry, but you have, you know, and it gets annoying. I didn’t know him.”

Gamache stared. Olivier’s face was red now, blushing. But from anger, from the heat of the fire, or did he just tell a lie?

“Someone knew him,” said Gamache at last, leaning back, giving Olivier the impression of pressure lifted. Of breathing room.

“But not me and not Gabri.” His brow pulled together and Gamache thought Olivier was genuinely upset. “What was he doing here?”

“ ‘Here’ meaning Three Pines, or ‘here’ meaning the bistro?”

“Both.”

But Gamache knew Olivier had just lied. He meant the bistro, that was obvious. People lied all the time in murder investigations. If the first victim of war was the truth, some of the first victims of a murder investigation were people’s lies. The lies they told themselves, the lies they told each other. The little lies that allowed them to get out of bed on cold, dark mornings. Gamache and his team hunted the lies down and exposed them. Until all the small tales told to ease everyday lives disappeared. And people were left naked. The trick was distinguishing the important fibs from the rest. This one appeared tiny. In which case, why bother lying at all?

Gabri approached carrying a tray with four steaming plates. Within minutes they were sitting around the fireplace eating fettuccine with shrimp and scallops sautéed in garlic and olive oil. Fresh bread was produced and glasses of dry white wine poured.

As they ate they talked about the Labor Day long weekend, about the chestnut trees and conkers. About kids returning to school and the nights drawing in.

The bistro was empty, except for them. But it seemed crowded to the Chief Inspector. With the lies they’d been told, and the lies being manufactured and waiting.