It was the last interview of the day. So far Agent Lacoste had spoken to five people who’d worked at the bistro the night before, and gotten the same answers. No, nothing unusual happened. The place was full all evening, it being both a Saturday night and the long Labor Day weekend. School was back on Tuesday and anybody down for the summer would be heading back to Montreal on Monday. Tomorrow.
Four of the waiters were returning to university after the summer break the next day. They really weren’t much help since all they seemed to have noticed was a table of attractive girls.
The fifth waiter was more helpful, since she hadn’t simply seen a roomful of breasts. But it was, by all accounts, a normal though hectic evening. No dead body that anyone mentioned, and Lacoste thought even the breast boys would have noticed that.
She drove up to the home of the final waiter, the young man nominally in charge once Olivier had left. The one who’d done the final check of the place and locked up.
The house was set back from the main road down a long dirt driveway. Maples lined the drive and while they hadn’t yet turned their brilliant autumn colors, a few were just beginning to show oranges and reds. In a few weeks this approach, Lacoste knew, would be spectacular.
Lacoste got out of the car and stared, amazed. Facing her was a block of concrete and glass. It seemed so out of place, like finding a tent pitched on Fifth Avenue. It didn’t belong. As she walked toward it she realized something else. The house intimidated her and she wondered why. Her own tastes ran to traditional but not stuffy. She loved exposed brick and beams, but hated clutter, though she’d given up all semblance of being house-proud after the kids came. These days it was a triumph if she walked across a room and didn’t step on something that squeaked.
This place was certainly a triumph. But was it a home?
The door was opened by a robust middle-aged woman who spoke very good, though perhaps slightly precise, French. Lacoste was surprised and realized she’d been expecting angular people to live in this angular house.
“Madame Parra?” Agent Lacoste held up her identification. The woman nodded, smiled warmly and stepped back for them to enter.
“Entrez. It’s about what happened at Olivier’s,” said Hanna Parra.
“Oui.” Lacoste bent to take off her muddy boots. It always seemed so awkward and undignified. The world famous homicide team of the S?reté du Québec interviewing suspects in their stockinged feet.
Madame Parra didn’t tell her not to. But she did give her slippers from a wooden box by the door, jumbled full of old footwear. Again, this surprised Lacoste, who’d expected everything to be neat and tidy. And rigid.
“We’re here to speak to your son.”
“Havoc.”
Havoc. The name had amused Inspector Beauvoir, but Agent Lacoste found nothing funny about it. And, strangely, it seemed to fit with this cold, brittle place. What else could contain Havoc?
Before driving out she’d done some research on the Parras. Just a thumbnail sketch, but it helped. The woman leading her out of the mudroom was a councillor for the township of Saint-Rémy, and her husband, Roar, was a caretaker, working on the large properties in the area. They’d escaped Czechoslovakia in the mid-80s, come to Quebec and settled just outside Three Pines. There was, in fact, a large and influential Czech community in the area, composed of escapees, people running until they found what they were looking for. Freedom and safety. Hanna and Roar Parra had stopped when they found Three Pines.
And once there, they’d created Havoc.
“Havoc!” his mother cried, letting the dogs slip out as she called into the woods.
After a few more yells a short, stocky young man appeared. His face was flushed from hard work and his curly dark hair was tousled. He smiled and Lacoste knew the other waiters at the bistro hadn’t stood a chance with the girls. This boy would take them all. He also stole a sliver of her heart, and she quickly did the figures. She was twenty-eight, he was twenty-one. In twenty-five years that wouldn’t matter so much, although her husband and children might disagree.
“What can I do for you?” He bent and took off his green Wellington boots. “Of course, it is that man they found in the bistro this morning. I’m sorry. I should have known.”
As he talked they walked into a quite splendid kitchen, unlike any Lacoste had seen in real life. Instead of the classic, and mandatory as far as Lacoste knew, triangle of fitments, the entire kitchen was ranged along one wall at the back of the bright room. There was one very long concrete counter, stainless steel appliances, open floating shelves with pure white dishes in a regimented line. The lower cabinets were dark laminate. It felt at once very retro and very modern.
There was no kitchen island but instead a frosted glass dining table, and what looked like vintage teak chairs stood in front of the counter. As Lacoste sat in one, and found it surprisingly comfortable, she wondered if these were antiques brought from Prague. Then she wondered if people really slipped across borders with teak chairs.
At the other end of the room was a wall of windows, floor to ceiling, that wrapped around the sides giving a spectacular view of fields and forest and a mountain beyond. She could just see a white church spire and a plume of smoke in the distance. The village of Three Pines.
In the living area by the huge windows two sofas lined up perfectly to face each other, with a low coffee table between them.
“Tea?” Hanna asked and Lacoste nodded.
These two Parras seemed at odds in the almost sterile environment and as they waited for the tea to brew Lacoste found herself wondering about the missing Parra. The father, Roar. Perhaps it was his angular, hard stamp on this house. Was he the one who yearned for cool certainty, straight lines, near empty rooms, and uncluttered shelves?
“Do you know who the dead man was?” asked Hanna as she placed a cup of tea in front of Agent Lacoste. A white plate piled with cookies was also put on the spotless table.
Lacoste thanked her and took one. It was soft and warm and tasted of raisin and oatmeal, with a hint of brown sugar and cinnamon. It tasted of home. She noticed the teacup had a smiling and waving snowman in a red suit. Bonhomme Carnaval. A character from the annual Quebec City winter carnival. She took a sip. It was strong and sweet.
Like Hanna herself, Lacoste suspected.
“No, we don’t know who he was yet,” she said.
“We’ve heard,” Hanna hesitated, “that it wasn’t natural. Is that right?”
Lacoste remembered the man’s skull. “No, it wasn’t natural. He was murdered.”
“Dear God,” said Hanna. “How awful. And you have no idea who did it?”
“We will, soon. For now I want to hear about last night.” She turned to the young man sitting across from her.
Just then a voice called from the back door in a language Lacoste couldn’t understand, but took to be Czech. A man, short and square, walked into the kitchen, whacking his knit hat against his coat.
“Roar, can’t you do that in the mudroom?” Hanna spoke in French, and despite the slight reprimand she was clearly pleased to see him. “The police are here. About the body.”
“What body?” Roar also switched to French, lightly accented. He sounded concerned. “Where? Here?”
“Not here, Dad. They found a body in the bistro this morning. He was killed.”
“You mean murdered? Someone was murdered in the bistro last night?”
His disbelief was clear. Like his son he was stocky and muscular. His hair was curly and dark, but unlike his son’s it was graying. He’d be in his late forties, Lacoste reckoned.