The curling stone thundered down the rough ice and hit the rock at the far end with a huge bang that moments later bounced off the hills surrounding Lac Brume. It was a bitterly cold morning, the coldest of the winter so far and the mercury still falling. By midday their flesh would freeze in seconds. The sun, teasing them with light but no warmth, hit the snow and magnified, blinding anyone not wearing dark glasses.
Billy Williams had cleared the curling surface on Lac Brume for them, and now he, Beauvoir, Lemieux and Gamache watched tiny émilie Longpré straighten up, her breath coming out in jagged puffs.
Not long, thought Gamache. We’ll have to get her in soon before she freezes. Before we all do.
‘Your turn,’ she said to Beauvoir, who’d been watching her with polite attention. Curling was not to be taken seriously. As Beauvoir crouched and stared at the other end of the ice, twenty-five feet away, he could see where this was going. He’d astonish them with his natural ability. Soon he’d be fighting off pleas to join the Canadian Olympic curling team. He’d turn them down, of course, too embarrassed to be associated with such a ridiculous pastime. Though maybe, when he could no longer do any real sports, he’d consider joining the Olympic curling team.
Clara slipped into the claw-foot tub. She was still pissed off at Peter for dumpster diving, but was beginning to feel better. She slid down into the hot scented water, her toes playing with lumps of herbal bath, a Christmas gift from Peter’s mother. She knew she should call to thank her, but that could wait. His mother insisted on calling her Clare and up until this year had given her cooking gifts. Books, pans, an apron once. Clara hated cooking and suspected Peter’s mother knew it.
Clara swished her hands back and forth and let her mind wander to her favorite fantasy. The director of the Museum of Modern Art in New York knocking on her door. His car would have stalled out in the bitterly cold temperatures, and he’d need help.
Clara could see it all. He’d come into the house and she’d make him a cup of tea, but when she turned to give it to him he’d have disappeared. Into her studio. She’d find him there, staring.
No. Weeping.
He’d be weeping at the beauty, the pain, the brilliance of her art.
‘Who did these?’ he’d ask, not bothering to wipe the tears away.
She’d say nothing, just let him realize the great artist was before him, humble and beautiful. He’d declare her the greatest artist of her generation, or any other. The most gifted, astonishing, brilliant artist that ever lived, anywhere, any time.
Because she was nothing if not fair, she’d show him Peter’s studio, and the chief curator of MOMA would be polite. But there’d be no doubt. She was the real talent in the family.
Clara hummed.
‘Now kneel down, Inspector. You grab the handle of the rock as though you’re going to shake hands.’ She was bending over him. ‘Now, you bring the rock back with your right arm and your left leg also swings back, then you bring both forward at the same time and slide down the ice, the rock leading the way. Don’t shove it, mind. Just release.’
Beauvoir looked down the curling rink to her stone at the far end. It suddenly seemed very far away.
Gamache watched Beauvoir take a deep breath and bring his right hand back, the rock threatening to overbalance him already. Beauvoir remembered the silly broom and leaned over on it, feeling his boots begin to slip. This couldn’t be right.
The rock thumped onto the ice and he gave a great heave, knowing he’d somehow lost the momentum he was meant to build up. His right arm shot out, still clinging to the stone, and his left leg scrambled for purchase. He could feel himself falling.
Beauvoir fell flat on the ice, arms and legs splayed, the stone still in his grip.
‘Whale oil beef hooked,’ said Billy Williams, laughing.
Clara was thinking about the movie the night before. It’d been a while since she’d watched a video. Almost all their movies were on DVD, mostly because Peter’s favorite videos were ruined. He’d kept pausing them at his favorite spots to watch over and over and the tape had stretched. Gone wonky.
Clara sat up in the bath, bits of fragrant herbs clinging to her body. Could that be it?
‘Honey, Mom’s on the phone from Montreal, calling to thank us for our gift.’ Peter walked in holding the phone. Clara waved him off, but it was too late. Wiping her hands she glared at Peter.
‘Hello, Mrs Morrow. Well you’re welcome, and Merry Christmas to you too. My job at the pharmacy? It’s going very well, thank you.’ She looked daggers at Peter. Clara hadn’t worked at the pharmacy in fifteen years. ‘And thank you for your gift. Very thoughtful. I’m using it now. Yes, bon appétit.’ Clara hung up and handed the phone to Peter. ‘Seems she gave me a pack of dried soup. Vegetable.’
Looking down at her toes, Clara noticed a pea bobbing on the surface, next to a bright orange rehydrated carrot.
‘Did I win?’ Beauvoir brushed himself off and stared at the curling stone at his feet.
‘Depends what game you’re playing.’ Em smiled. ‘You’ve definitely mastered the stationary stone game. Félicitations.’
‘Merci, madame.’ The terrible cold of the day was kind to the Inspector. It hid any blush he might have produced. As he looked at the rock sitting forlornly at his feet a grudging, and secret, respect for curlers was born in Beauvoir.
Gamache took out the photos his people had taken of the crime scene. Five curling stones were imbedded in the snow where Mother had ‘cleared the house’.
An idea started to form in Gamache’s mind.