Glancing at the child Beauvoir remembered that had been one of the reasons people considered Dr. Vincent Gilbert a saint. His decision to abandon a lucrative career to live in a community of people with Down syndrome, to care for them. From that experience he’d written the book Being. It was by most accounts a book of staggering honesty and humility. Staggering because it had been written by such an asshole.
Well, as Clara often told them, great works of creation often were.
Sitting with Old and The Wife were Roar and Hanna Parra. They’d been among the main suspects. Roar was cutting the paths through the woods and could have found the cabin with its priceless contents and shabby old occupant.
But why take the life and leave the treasure?
The same question held true for their son, Havoc Parra. Clara and Beauvoir glanced over at him, waiting a table by the other fireplace. He’d worked late in the bistro the night the Hermit had been killed and had closed up.
Had he followed Olivier through the woods and found the cabin?
Had he looked inside, seen the treasures, and realized what it meant? It meant no more tips, no more tables, no more smiling at rude customers. No wondering what the future held.
It meant freedom. And all he’d have to do was knock a solitary old man on the head. But, again, why were most of the priceless treasures still in the cabin?
Across the room were Marc and Dominique Gilbert. The owners of the inn and spa. In their mid-forties they’d escaped high-paying, high-pressure jobs in Montreal, to come to Three Pines. They’d bought the wreck on the hill and turned it into a magnificent hotel.
Olivier despised Marc and it was mutual.
Had the Gilberts bought the run-down old home because the Hermit and the cabin came with it? Buried in their woods?
And finally there was the asshole saint Dr. Vincent Gilbert, Marc’s estranged father who’d appeared at exactly the same time as the body. How could that have been a coincidence?
Clara’s gaze returned to Beauvoir just as the bistro door slammed shut.
“Goddamned snow.”
Beauvoir didn’t have to look round to know who it was. “Ruth,” he whispered to Clara, who nodded. “Still crazy?”
“After all these years,” Clara confirmed.
“Jeez,” Ruth appeared at Beauvoir’s chair, a scowl on her deeply wrinkled face. Her cropped white hair lay flat on her head, looking like exposed skull. She was tall and stooped and walked with a cane. The only good news was that she wasn’t in her nightgown.
“Welcome to the bistro,” she snarled, giving Clara the once over. “Where dignity goes to die.”
“And not just dignity,” said Beauvoir.
She gave a barking laugh. “You find another body?”
“I don’t follow bodies, you know. I have a life outside of work.”
“God, I’m bored already,” said the old poet. “Say something smart.”
Beauvoir was silent, looking at her with disdain.
“Thought so.” She took a swig of his beer. “Blech, this is crap. Can’t you drink something decent? Havoc! Get him a Scotch.”
“You old hag,” Beauvoir murmured.
“Oh, banter. Very clever.”
She intercepted his Scotch and stomped away. When she’d gotten far enough Beauvoir leaned across the table to Clara, who also leaned forward. The bistro was noisy with laughter and conversation, perfect for a quiet talk.
“If not Olivier,” said Beauvoir, keeping his voice down and a sharp eye on the room, “who?”
“I don’t know. What makes you think it wasn’t Olivier?”
Beauvoir hesitated. Should he cross the Rubicon? But he knew he already had.
“This must go no further. Olivier knows we’re looking into it, but I’ve told him to keep quiet. And you too.”
“Don’t worry, but why’re you telling me this?”
Why indeed? Because she was the best of a bad lot.
“I need your help. You obviously know everyone way better than I do. The Chief’s worried. Gabri keeps asking him why Olivier would move the body. It makes sense if he found the Hermit already dead but if you’ve just killed someone in a remote place you’re almost certainly not going to advertise. The Chief thinks we might have gotten it wrong. What do you think?”
She was obviously taken aback by the question. She thought about it before slowly answering. “I think Gabri will never believe Olivier did it, even if he’d witnessed it himself, but I also think that’s a good question. Where do we begin?”
We, thought Beauvoir, there is no “we.” There’s “me” and “you.” In that order. But he needed her so he swallowed the retort, pasted a smile on his face and answered.
“Well, Olivier now says the Hermit wasn’t Czech.”
Clara rolled her eyes and ran her fingers through her hair which now stood out on both sides like Bozo. Beauvoir grimaced, but Clara neither noticed nor cared. Her mind was on other things. “Honestly, that man. Any other lies he’s admitting to?”
“Not so far. He thought the Hermit was Québécois or perhaps English but completely fluent in French. All his books were English and the ones he asked Olivier to find for him were also English. But he spoke perfect French.”
“How can I help?”
He thought for a moment then made a decision. “I’ve brought the case file. I’d like you to read it.”
She nodded.
“And since you know everyone here I’d like you to sometimes ask questions.”
Clara hesitated. She didn’t like the idea of being a spy but if he was right then an innocent man was in prison and a murderer was among them. Almost certainly in the room with them at that moment.
Myrna and Peter arrived and Beauvoir joined them for a bistro dinner, ordering the filet mignon with cognac blue cheese sauce. They chatted about various events in the village, the ski conditions at Mont Saint-Rémy, the Canadiens game the night before.
Ruth came by for dessert, eating most of Peter’s cheesecake, then she limped off alone into the night.
“She misses Rosa terribly,” said Myrna.
“What happened to her duck?” asked Beauvoir.
“Flew off in the fall,” said Myrna.
The duck was smarter than it looked, thought Beauvoir.
“I dread the spring,” said Clara. “Ruth’ll be expecting her back. Suppose she doesn’t come.”
“It doesn’t mean Rosa’s dead,” said Peter, though they all knew that wasn’t true. Rosa the duck was raised from birth, literally hatched, by Ruth. And against all odds, Rosa had survived and thrived and had grown up, to follow Ruth everywhere she went.
The duck and the fuck, as Gabri called them.
And then last fall Rosa did what ducks do, what was in her nature to do. As much as she loved Ruth, she had to go. And one afternoon, as other ducks quacked and flew in formation overhead, heading south, Rosa rose up.
And left.
After dinner Beauvoir thanked them and got up. Clara walked him to the door.
“I’ll do it,” she whispered.
Beauvoir handed her the dossier and headed into the cold dark night. Walking slowly back to the B and B toward his warm bed, he stopped partway across the village green and looked at the three tall pine trees still wearing their multi-color Christmas lights. The colors bounced off the drifts of fresh snow. Looking up he saw the stars and smelled the fresh, crisp air. Behind him he heard people calling good night to each other and heard their scrunching steps in the snow.
Jean-Guy Beauvoir changed direction and arriving at the old clapboard home he knocked. The door was opened a crack.
“Can I come in?” he asked.
Ruth stepped back and opened her door.