‘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 André, 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 éclair. A note, in large childish letters, said, ‘From Agent Nichol.’
Nichol watched him open the bag.
‘Agent Nichol, a word please.’
‘Yes, sir.’ The éclair 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 éclair. Did you make sure Maître 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 Maître 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 h
er 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 Régie 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.’ Rut
h 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.
Sûreté 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.