TWELVE
Jean-Guy Beauvoir got back to Three Pines by mid-afternoon after his visits to Olivier in prison and the antique shop in Montreal. He’d stopped at the Tim Hortons at exit 55 for a sandwich, a chocolate glazed doughnut and a double double coffee.
And now he was tired.
This was way more activity than he’d had since it had all happened, and he knew he needed to rest. At the B and B he had a long, luxurious bath and thought about what to do next.
Olivier had dropped a bombshell. Now he was saying the Hermit’s name wasn’t Jakob, and he wasn’t even Czech. He’d only said that to spread round the guilt, put attention onto the Parras and the other Czech families in the areas.
Not only was that not very neighborly, it wasn’t very effective. They’d still decided Olivier was the murderer and the courts had agreed.
OK. So. Beauvoir slipped deeper into the tub. Soaping himself he barely even noticed the ragged scar on his abdomen anymore. What he did notice was that his muscles were no longer toned. He wasn’t fat, but he was flabby from inactivity. Still, he could feel his strength slowly returning, more slowly than he would have imagined.
He cleared his mind of those thoughts and instead concentrated on what the Chief had asked him to do. Quietly reopen Olivier’s case.
Where do the day’s findings leave us? he wondered.
But nothing came to mind except his large, inviting bed which he could see through the bathroom door, with its crisp white sheets and down duvet and soft pillows.
Ten minutes later the bath was drained, the Do Not Disturb sign was outside his door and Jean-Guy was fast asleep, warm and safe under the covers.
He awoke to darkness and rolling over contentedly he looked at the bedside clock. 5:30. He sat up. 5:30? A.M. or P.M.?
Had he been asleep for two hours or fourteen? He felt rested but it could be either.
Putting on the light he got dressed then stood on the landing outside his door. The B and B was quiet. A couple of lights were on, but they often were. Feeling disoriented, disconcerted, he went downstairs and looking out the bay window of the B and B he had his answer.
Lights were on at the homes around the village green and they glowed bright and cheery at the bistro. Happy that he was in for dinner and not breakfast Jean-Guy threw on his coat and boots and crunched across the green to be greeted inside by Gabri who was, unexpectedly, in his pajamas.
Beauvoir was back to his original question. Was it A.M. or P.M.? He was damned if he was going to ask.
“Welcome back. I hear you spent last night in the woods with the saint. Was it as much fun as it sounds? You don’t look converted.”
Beauvoir looked at the large man in pajamas and slippers and decided not to tell him what he looked like.
“What can I get you, patron?” asked Gabri when Beauvoir didn’t respond.
What did he want? Scrambled eggs or a beer?
“A beer would be great, merci.” He took the micro-brewery ale and found a comfortable wing chair by the window. A paper lay on the table and picking it up, he read about the murder of Augustin Renaud in Quebec City. The mad archeologist.
“May I join you?”
He looked at Clara Morrow. She was also in pajamas and a dressing gown and, he glanced down, slippers. Could this be a new, and nightmarish, fashion trend? How long had he slept? While he knew flannel was an aphrodisiac to Anglos, it did nothing for Beauvoir. He’d never, ever worn it and didn’t plan to start.
Glancing around he noticed every third or fourth person was in a dressing gown. He’d always secretly suspected this was not a village but an out-patient clinic from an asylum, now he had his proof.
“Here for your meds?” he asked as she sat.
Clara laughed and held up her beer. “Always.” She nodded at his Maudite beer. “You too?”
Leaning forward he whispered, “What time is it?”
“Six.” When he still stared she added, “In the evening.”
“Then why . . .” He indicated her get-up.
“After Olivier was arrested it took Gabri a while to really function, so some of us helped out. He didn’t want to open on Sundays, but Myrna and I convinced him to and he finally agreed, on one condition.”
“Pajamas?”
“You are clever,” she smiled. “He didn’t want to have to get dressed. After a while most of us started doing the same thing, showing up in our pajamas. It’s very relaxing. I stay in them all day.”
Beauvoir tried to look disapproving but had to admit, she did look comfortable. She completed the look by having bed-head, though that was nothing new. Her hair always stuck out in all directions, probably where she ran her hands through it. And that would also account for the crumbs in there, and the flecks of paint.
He tried to think of something friendly to say, something that would lead her to believe he was there because he liked their company.
“Do you have your art show soon?”
“A couple of months.” She took a long haul of her beer. “When I’m not practicing my interview for the New York Times and Oprah I try not to think about it.”
“Oprah?”
“Yes. It’ll be a huge tribute show, to me. All the top art critics will be there, weeping of course, overwhelmed by my insight, by the power of my images. Oprah will buy a few pieces for 100 million each. Sometimes it’s 50 million, sometimes 150 million.”
“So she’s getting a bit of a bargain today.”
“I’m feeling generous.”
He laughed, surprising himself. He’d never had an actual conversation with Clara. With any of them. The Chief had. Somehow he’d managed to become friends with most of them but Beauvoir had never been able to pass through that membrane, to see people as both suspects and human. He’d never wanted to. The idea repulsed him.
He watched her take some mixed nuts and sip on her beer.
“Can I ask you something?” he said.
“Sure.”
“Do you think Olivier killed the Hermit?”
Her hand stopped on its way for more nuts. He’d dropped his voice as he spoke, making sure they weren’t overheard. She lowered her hand and thought for a good minute before answering.
“I don’t know. I wish I could say absolutely he didn’t, but the evidence is so strong. And if he didn’t then someone else did.”
She casually looked around the room, and he followed her gaze.
There was Old Mundin and The Wife. The handsome young couple was dining with the Parras. Old, despite his name, wasn’t yet thirty and was a carpenter. He also restored Olivier’s antiques and had been among the last people in the bistro the night the Hermit was killed. The Wife, Beauvoir knew, had an actual name though he’d forgotten what it was as had, he suspected, most people. What had started as a joke, the young couple mocking their married state, had become reality. She was The Wife. They had a young son, Charlie, who had Down syndrome.