‘I think a ritual would be perfect,’ said Clara, picking at a piece of bread but not really hungry. ‘But I have this feeling it should just be women. And not necessarily just Jane’s close friends, but any women who’d like to take part.’
‘Damn,’ said Peter, who’d been to the Summer Solstice ritual and had found it embarrassing and very strange.
‘When would you like it?’ Myrna asked Clara.
‘How about next Sunday?’
‘One week to the day Jane died,’ said Ruth.
Clara had spotted Yolande and her family arriving at the Bistro and knew she’d have to say something. Gathering her wits she walked over. The Bistro grew so silent Chief Inspector Gamache heard the sudden drop off in noise next door after he’d hung up from the call. Tiptoeing around the back he stood just inside the servers’ entrance. From there he could see and hear everything, but not be observed. You don’t get to be that good at this job, he thought, without being a sneak. He then noticed a server standing patiently behind him with a tray of cold cuts.
‘This should be good,’ she whispered. ‘Black forest ham?’
‘Thank you.’ He took a slice.
‘Yolande,’ Clara said, extending her hand. ‘I’m sorry for your loss. Your aunt was a wonderful woman.’
Yolande looked at the extended hand, took it briefly and then released it, hoping to give the impression of monumental grief. It would have worked had she not been playing to an audience well acquainted with her emotional range. Not to mention her real relationship with Jane Neal.
‘Please accept my condolences,’ Clara continued, feeling stiff and artificial.
Yolande bowed her head and brought a dry paper napkin to her dry eye.
‘At least we can re-use the napkin,’ said Olivier, who was also looking over Gamache’s shoulder. ‘What a pathetic piece of work. This is really awful to watch. Pastry?’
Olivier was holding a tray of mille feuilles, meringues, slices of pies and little custard tarts with glazed fruit on top. He chose one covered in tiny wild blueberries.
‘Thank you.’
‘I’m the official caterer for the disaster that’s about to happen. I can’t imagine why Clara is doing this, she knows what Yolande has been saying behind her back for years. Hideous woman.’
Gamache, Olivier and the server stared at the scene unfolding in the silent bistro.
‘My aunt and I were extremely close, as you know,’ Yolande said straight into Clara’s face, appearing to believe every word she said. ‘I know you won’t be upset if I mention that we all think you took her away from her real family. All the people I talk to agree with me. Still, you probably didn’t realise what you were doing.’ Yolande smiled indulgently.
‘Oh my God,’ Ruth whispered to Gabri, ‘here it comes.’
Peter was gripping the arms of his chair, wanting with all his being to leap up and scream at Yolande. But he knew Clara had to do that herself, had to finally stand up for herself. He waited for Clara’s response. The whole room waited.
Clara took a deep breath and said nothing.
‘I’ll be organising my aunt’s funeral,’ Yolande plowed on. ‘Probably have it in the Catholic church in St Rémy. That’s André’s church.’ Yolande reached out a hand to take her husband’s, but both his hands were taken up clutching a huge sandwich, gushing mayo and meat. Her son Bernard yawned, revealing a mouth full of half-chewed sandwich and strings of mayo glopping down from the roof of his mouth.
‘I’ll probably put a notice in the paper which I’m sure you’ll see. But maybe you can think of something for her headstone. But nothing weird, my aunt wouldn’t have liked that. Anyway, think about it and let me know.’
‘Again, I’m so sorry about Jane.’
When she’d gone over to speak with Yolande, Clara had known this would happen. Known that Yolande, for some unfathomable reason, could always get to her. Could hurt her where most others couldn’t reach. It was one of life’s little mysteries that this woman she had absolutely no respect for, could lay her flat. She thought she’d been ready for it. She’d even dared to harbour a hope that maybe this time would be different. But of course it wasn’t.
For many years Clara would remember how it felt standing there. Feeling again like the ugly little girl in the schoolyard. The unloved and unlovable child. Flatfooted and maladroit, slow and mocked. The one who laughed in the wrong places and believed tall stories, and was desperate for someone, anyone, to like her. Stupid, stupid, stupid. The polite attention and the balled up fist under the school desk. She wanted to run to Jane, who’d make it better. Take her in those full, kindly arms and say the magic words, ‘There, there.’
Ruth Zardo would also remember this moment and turn it into poetry. It would be published in her next volume called, ‘I’m FINE’:
You were a moth brushing against my cheek in the dark.
I killed you, not knowing you were only a moth, with no sting.
But more than anything, Clara would remember André’s toxic laugh ringing in her ears as she silently made her way back to her table, so far away. A laugh such as a maladjusted child might make on seeing a creature hurt and suffering. It was a familiar sound.
‘Who was on the phone?’ Beauvoir asked when Gamache slipped back into his seat. Beauvoir was unaware the boss had gone anywhere other than the washroom.
‘Dr Harris. I didn’t know she lives close to here, in a village called Cleghorn Halt. She said she’d bring her report by on her way home, at about five.’
‘I’ve assigned a team to set up the Incident Room and I’ve sent a team back to the woods to do another search. I figure the arrow is in one of three places, stuck into the ground in the woods, picked up by the killer and probably destroyed by now, or, with any luck, it’s among the arrows Lacoste found in the clubhouse.’
‘Agreed.’
Beauvoir handed out the assignments, and sent a couple of agents to interview Gus Hennessey and Claude LaPierre about the manure incident. He would interview Philippe Croft himself. Then he joined Gamache outside and the two strolled around the village green, head to head under their umbrellas.
‘Miserable weather,’ said Beauvoir, lifting the collar of his jacket and shrugging his shoulders against the driving rain.
‘More rain on the way and turning colder,’ Gamache said automatically, and suddenly realised the villagers were getting into his head, or at least their incessant forecasts were.
‘What do you think of Agent Nichol, Jean Guy?’
‘I can’t figure out how she got into the S?reté, with an attitude like that, not to mention recommended for a promotion to homicide. No skill as a team member, almost no people skills, no ability to listen. It’s amazing. I have to think it backs up what you’ve been saying for years, that the wrong people are promoted.’
‘Do you think she can learn? She’s young, right? About twenty-five?’
‘That’s not so young. Lacoste isn’t much older. I’m far from convinced it’s an issue of age and not personality. I think she’s going to be like this, and worse, at fifty if she isn’t careful. Can she learn? Undoubtedly. But the real question is can she unlearn? Can she get rid of her bad attitudes?’ He noticed the rain dripping from the chief inspector’s face. He wanted to wipe it away, but resisted the impulse.
Even as he spoke, Beauvoir knew he’d made a mistake. It was like honey to a bear. He could see the chief’s face change, from the somber problem-solving mode into mentor mode. He’d try to fix her. God, here it comes, thought Beauvoir. He respected Gamache more than any other human being, but saw his flaw, perhaps a fatal flaw, as a desire to help people, instead of just firing them. He was far too compassionate. A gift Beauvoir sometimes envied, but mostly watched with suspicion.
‘Well, maybe her need to be right will be tempered by her curiosity.’
And maybe the scorpion will lose its sting, thought Beauvoir.
‘Chief Inspector?’ The two men looked up and saw Clara Morrow running through the rain, her husband Peter fighting with their umbrella and struggling to keep up. ‘I’ve thought of something odd.’
‘Ahh, sustenance.’ Gamache smiled.
‘Well this is a pretty small nugget, but who knows. It just struck me as a strange coincidence and I thought you should know. It’s about Jane’s art.’
‘I don’t think it’s that big a deal,’ said Peter, soaked and sullen. Clara shot him a surprised look which wasn’t lost on Gamache.
‘It’s just that Jane painted all her life but never let anyone see her work.’
‘That’s not so strange, is it?’ said Beauvoir. ‘Lots of artists and writers keep their work secret. You read about it all the time. Then after their deaths their stuff is discovered and makes a fortune.’
‘True, but that’s not what happened. Last week Jane decided to show her work at Arts Williamsburg. She just decided Friday morning, and the judging was Friday afternoon. Her painting was accepted.’
‘Got accepted and got murdered,’ murmured Beauvoir. ‘That is odd.’
‘Speaking of odd,’ said Gamache, ‘is it true Miss Neal never invited anyone into her living room?’
‘It’s true,’ said Peter. ‘We’ve gotten so used to it it doesn’t seem strange. It’s like a limp or a chronic cough, I guess. A small abnormality that becomes normal.’
‘But why not?’
‘Don’t know,’ admitted Clara, herself baffled. ‘Like Peter said I’ve gotten so used to it it doesn’t seem strange.’
‘Didn’t you ever ask?’
‘Jane? I suppose we did, when we first arrived. Or maybe we asked Timmer and Ruth, but I know for sure we never got an answer. No one seems to know. Gabri thinks she has orange shag carpet and pornography.’
Gamache laughed. ‘And what do you think?’
‘I just don’t know.’
Silence greeted this. Gamache wondered about this woman who had chosen to live with so many secrets for so long, then chosen to let them all out. And died because of it? That was the question.