TWENTY–FOUR
The Wife pushed away from the table and gaped.
“Old?” she whispered.
It was as though the bitter wind had found a way in and frozen everyone in place. Had Beauvoir accused the mantelpiece of murder they could not have been more astonished.
“Oh, God, Old, please,” The Wife begged. But a hint of desperation had crept into her eyes, slowly replacing disbelief. Like a healthy woman told she had terminal cancer, The Wife was in a daze. The end of her life was in sight, her simple life with a carpenter, making and restoring furniture, living in the country in a modest home. Raising Charles, and being with the only man she ever wanted to be with, the man she loved.
Over.
Old turned to her and his son. He was impossibly beautiful and even the vile accusation couldn’t tarnish that.
“He killed my father,” Old repeated. “I came to Three Pines to find him. He’s right,” he jerked his head toward Beauvoir. “I was working in Les Temps Perdu, restoring furniture when a walking stick came in. It was very old, handmade. Unique. I recognized it right away. My father had shown it to me and pointed out the inlaying, how the woodworker had designed it around the burling. It appeared to be just a simple, rustic walking stick, but it was a work of art. It had been my father’s and had been stolen after he died. Had been stolen by his murderer.”
“You found out from the shop records who had sold it to Les Temps Perdu,” said Beauvoir. This was supposition now, but he needed to make it sound as though he knew it to be true.
“It was from an Olivier Brulé, living in Three Pines.” Old Mundin breathed deeply, prepared to take the plunge. “I moved here. Got a job repairing and restoring Olivier’s furniture. I needed to get close to him, to watch him. I needed proof he’d killed my father.”
“But Olivier could never do that,” said Gabri, quietly but with certainty. “He could never kill.”
“I know,” said Old. “I realized that the more I got to know him. He was a greedy man. Often a little sly. But a good man. He could never have killed my father. But someone did. Olivier was getting my father’s things from someone. I spent years following him all over the place, as he did his antiquing. He visited homes and farms and other shops. Bought antiques from all over the place. But never did I see him actually pick up one of my father’s things. And yet, they kept appearing. And being sold on.”
Perhaps it was the atmosphere, the warm and snug bistro. The storm outside. The wine and hot chocolate and lit fires, but this felt unreal. As though their friend was talking about someone else. Telling them a tale. A fable.
“Over the years I met Michelle and fell in love,” he smiled at his wife. No longer The Wife. But the woman he loved. Michelle. “We had Charles. My life was complete. I’d actually forgotten about why I’d come here in the first place. But one Saturday night I was sitting in the truck after picking up the furniture and I saw Olivier close up and leave the bistro. But instead of heading home he did something strange. He went into the woods. I didn’t follow him. I was too surprised. But I thought about it a lot and the next Saturday I waited for him, but he just went home. But the following week he went into the woods again. Carrying a bag.”
“Groceries,” said Gabri. No one said anything. They could see what was happening. Old Mundin in his truck. Watching and waiting. Patient. And seeing Olivier disappear into the woods. Old quietly getting out of the vehicle, following Olivier. And finding the cabin.
“I looked in through the windows and saw—” Old’s voice faltered. Michelle reached out and quietly laid her hand on his. He slowly regained himself, his breathing becoming calmer, more measured, until he was able to continue with the story.
“I saw my father’s things. Everything he’d kept in the back room. The special place for his special things, he’d told me. Things only he and I knew about. The colored glass, the plates, the candlesticks, the furniture. All there.”
Old’s eyes gleamed. He stared into the distance. No longer in the bistro with the rest of them. Now he was back at the cabin. On the outside looking in.
“Olivier gave the bag to the old man and they sat down. They drank from china my father let me touch, and ate off plates he said came from a queen.”
“Charlotte,” said Beauvoir. “Queen Charlotte.”
“Yes. Like my mother. My father said they were special because they would always remind him of my mother. Charlotte.”
“That’s why you named your son Charles,” said Beauvoir. “We thought it was after your father, but it was your mother’s name. Charlotte.”
Mundin nodded but didn’t look at his son. Couldn’t look at his son, or his wife now.
“What did you do then?” Beauvoir asked. He knew enough now to keep his voice soft, almost hypnotic. To not break the spell. Let Old Mundin tell the story.
“I knew then I was looking at the man who’d killed my father fifteen years ago. I never believed it was an accident. I’m not a fool. I know most people think it was suicide, that he killed himself by walking onto the river. But I knew him. He would never have done that. I knew if he was dead he’d been killed. But it was only much later I realized his most precious things had been taken. I talked to my mother about it but I don’t think she believed me. He’d never shown her the things. Only me.
“My father had been murdered and his priceless antiques stolen. And now, finally, I’d found the man who’d done it.”
“What did you do, Patrick?” Michelle asked. It was the first time any of them had heard his real name. The name she reserved for their most intimate moments. When they were not Old and The Wife. But Patrick and Michelle. A young man and woman, in love.
“I wanted to torment the man. I wanted him to know someone had found him. One of our favorite books was Charlotte’s Web, so I made a web from fishing line and snuck into the cabin when he was working on his vegetable garden. I put it in the rafters. So that he’d find it there.”
“And you put the word ‘Woo’ into it,” said Beauvoir. “Why?”
“It was what my father called me. Our secret name. He taught me all about wood and when I was small I tried to say the words but all I could say was ‘woo.’ So he started calling me that. Not often. Just sometimes when I was in his arms. He’d hug me tight and whisper, ‘Woo.’ ”
No one could look at the beautiful young man now. They dropped their eyes from the scalding sight. From the eclipse. As all that love turned into hate.
“I watched from the woods, but the Hermit didn’t seem to find the web. So I took the most precious thing I own. I kept it in a sack in my workshop. Hadn’t seen it in years. But I took it out that night and took it with me to the cabin.”
There was silence then. In their minds they could see the dark figure walking through the dark woods. Toward the thing he had searched for and finally found.
“I watched Olivier leave and waited a few minutes. Then I left the thing outside his door and knocked. I hid in the shadows and watched. The old man opened the door and looked out, expecting to see Olivier. He looked amused at first, then puzzled. Then a little frightened.”
The fire crackled and cackled in the grate. It spit out a few embers that slowly died. And Old described what happened next.
The Hermit scanned the woods and was about to close the door when he saw something sitting on the porch. A tiny visitor. He stooped and picked it up. It was a wooden word. Woo.
And then Old had seen it. The look he’d dreamed of, fantasized about. Mortgaged his life to see. Terror on the face of the man who’d killed his father. The same terror his father must have felt as the ice broke underneath him.
The end. In that instant the Hermit knew the monster he’d been hiding from had finally found him.
And it had.
Old separated himself from the dark forest and approached the cabin, approached the elderly man. The Hermit backed into the cabin and said only one thing.
“Woo,” he whispered. “Woo.”
Old picked up the silver menorah and struck. Once. And into that blow he put his childhood, his grief, his loss. He put his mother’s sorrow and his sister’s longing. The menorah, weighed down with that, crushed the Hermit’s skull. And he fell, Woo clutched in his hand.
Old didn’t care. No one would find the body except Olivier and he suspected Olivier would say nothing. He liked the man very much, but knew him for what he was.
Greedy.
Olivier would take the treasure and leave the body and everyone would be happy. A man already lost to the world would be slowly swallowed by the forest. Olivier would have his treasure, and Old would have his life back.
His obligation to his father discharged.
“It was the first thing I ever made,” said Old. “I whittled Woo and gave it to my father. After he died I couldn’t bear to look at it anymore so I put it in the sack. But I brought it out that night. One last time.”
Old Mundin turned to his family. All his energy spent, his brilliance fading. He placed his hand on his sleeping son’s back and spoke.
“I’m so sorry. My father taught me everything, gave me everything. This man killed him, shoved him onto the river in spring.”
Clara grimaced, imagining a death like that, imagining the horror as the ice began to crack. As it did now beneath The Wife.
Jean-Guy Beauvoir went to the bistro door and opened it. Along with a swirl of snow two large S?reté officers entered.
“Can you leave us, please?” Beauvoir asked of the villagers, and slowly, stunned, they put their winter coats on and left. Clara and Peter took The Wife and Charles back to their home, while Inspector Beauvoir finished the interview with Old Mundin.
An hour later the police cars drew away, taking Old. Michelle accompanied him, but not before stopping at the inn and spa to hand Charles over to the only other person he loved.
The asshole saint. Dr. Gilbert. Who tenderly took the boy in his arms and held him for a few hours, safe against the bitter cold world pounding at the door.