“No, he does it himself. He works hard for what he gets. And he knows what’s worth money and what isn’t. He’s good. And fair, for the most part.”
“For the most part?”
“Well, he has to make a profit, and lots of the stuff needs work. He gives the old furniture to me to restore. That can be a lot of work.”
“I bet you don’t charge what it’s worth.”
“Now, worth is a relative concept.” Old shot Gamache a glance as they bumped along the road. “I love what I do and if I charged a reasonable amount per hour nobody’d be able to buy my pieces, and Olivier wouldn’t hire me to repair the great things he finds. So it’s worth it to me to charge less. I have a good life. No complaints here.”
“Has anyone been really angry at Olivier?”
Old drove in silence and Gamache wasn’t sure he’d heard. But finally he spoke.
“Once, about a year ago. Old Madame Poirier, up the Mountain road, had decided to move into a nursing home in Saint-Rémy. Olivier’d been buzzing around her for a few years. When the time came she sold most of her stuff to him. He found some amazing pieces there.”
“Did he pay a fair price?”
“Depends who you talk to. She was happy. Olivier was happy.”
“So who was angry?”
Old Mundin said nothing. Gamache waited.
“Her kids. They said Olivier’d insinuated himself, taken advantage of a lonely old woman.”
Old Mundin pulled into a small farmhouse. Hollyhocks leaned against the wall and the garden was full of black-eyed Susans and old-fashioned roses. A vegetable garden, well tended and orderly, was planted at the side of the house.
The van rolled to a halt and Mundin pointed to a barn. “That’s my workshop.”
Gamache unbuckled Charles from the child seat. The boy was asleep and Gamache carried him as the two men walked to the barn.
“You said Olivier made an unexpected find at Madame Poirier’s place?”
“He paid her a flat fee for all the stuff she no longer needed. She chose what she wanted to keep and he bought the rest.”
Old Mundin stopped at the barn door, turning to Gamache.
“There was a set of six Chippendale chairs. Worth about ten thousand each. I know, because I worked on them, but I don’t think he told anyone else.”
“Did you?”
“No. You’d be surprised how discreet I need to be in my work.”
“Do you know if Olivier gave Madame Poirier any extra money?”
“I don’t.”
“But her kids were angry.”
Mundin nodded curtly and opened the barn door. They stepped into a different world. All the complex aromas of the late summer farm had disappeared. Gone was the slight scent of manure, of cut grass, of hay, of herbs in the sun.
Here there was only one note—wood. Fresh sawn wood. Old barn wood. Wood of every description. Gamache looked at the walls, lined with wood waiting to be turned into furniture. Old Mundin smoothed one fine hand over a rough board.
“You wouldn’t know it, but there’s burled wood under there. You have to know what to look for. The tiny imperfections. Funny how imperfections on the outside mean something splendid beneath.”
He looked into Gamache’s eyes. Charles stirred slightly and the Chief Inspector brought a large hand up to the boy’s back, to reassure him.
“I’m afraid I don’t know much about wood but you seem to have different sorts. Why’s that?”
“Different needs. I use maple and cherry and pine for inside work. Cedar for outside. This here’s red cedar. My favorite. Doesn’t look like much now, but carved and polished . . .” Mundin made an eloquent gesture.
Gamache noticed two chairs on a platform. One was upside down. “From the bistro?” He walked over to them. Sure enough one had a loose arm and the leg of the other was wobbly.
“I picked those up Saturday night.”
“Is it all right to talk about what happened at the bistro in front of Charles?”
“I’m sure it is. He’ll understand, or not. Either way, it’s okay. He knows it’s not about him.”
Gamache wished more people could make that distinction. “You were there the night of the murder.”
“True. I go every Saturday to pick up the damaged furniture and drop off the stuff I’ve restored. It was the same as always. I got there just after midnight. The last of the customers was leaving and the kids were beginning to clean up.”
Kids, thought Gamache. And yet they weren’t really that much younger than this man. But somehow Old seemed very, well, old.
“But I didn’t see a body.”
“Too bad, that would’ve helped. Did anything strike you as unusual at all?”
Old Mundin thought. Charles woke up and squirmed. Gamache lowered him to the barn floor where he picked up a piece of wood and turned it around and around.
“I’m sorry. I wish I could help, but it seemed like any other Saturday night.”
Gamache also picked up a chunk of wood and smoothed the sawdust off it.
“How’d you start repairing Olivier’s furniture?”
“Oh, that was years ago. Gave me a chair to work on. It’d been kept in a barn for years and he’d just moved it into the bistro. Now, you must understand . . .”
What followed was a passionate monologue on old Quebec pine furniture. Milk paint, the horrors of stripping, the dangers of ruining a fine piece by restoring it. That difficult line between making a piece usable and making it valueless.
Gamache listened, fascinated. He had a passion for Quebec history, and by extension Quebec antiques, the remarkable furniture made by pioneers in the long winter months hundreds of years ago. They’d made the pine furniture both practical and beautiful, pouring themselves into it. Each time Gamache touched an old table or armoire he imagined the habitant shaping and smoothing the wood, going over it and over it with hardened hands. And making something lovely.
Lovely and lasting, thanks to people like Old Mundin.
“What brought you to Three Pines? Why not a larger city? There’d be more work, surely, in Montreal or even Sherbrooke.”
“I was born in Quebec City, and you’d think there’d be lots of work there for an antique restorer, but it’s hard for a young guy starting out. I moved to Montreal, to an antique shop on Notre Dame, but I’m afraid I wasn’t cut out for the big city. So I decided to go to Sherbrooke. Got in the car, headed south, and got lost. I drove into Three Pines to ask directions at the bistro, ordered café au lait, sat down and the chair collapsed.” He laughed, as did Gamache. “I offered to repair it and that was that.”
“You said you’d been here for eleven years. You must’ve been young when you left Quebec City.”
“Sixteen. I left after my father died. Spent three years in Montreal, then down here. Met The Wife, had Charles. Started a small business.”
This young man had done a lot with his eleven years, thought Gamache. “How did Olivier seem on Saturday night?”
“As usual. Labor Day’s always busy but he seemed relaxed. As relaxed as he ever gets, I suppose.” Mundin smiled. It was clear there was affection there. “Did I hear you say the man wasn’t murdered at the bistro after all?”
Gamache nodded. “We’re trying to find out where he was killed. In fact, while you were at the fair I had my people searching the whole area, including your place.”
“Really?” They were at the barn door and Mundin turned to stare into the gloom. “They’re either very good, or they didn’t actually do anything. You can’t tell.”
“That’s the point.” But the Chief noticed that, unlike Peter, Old Mundin didn’t seem at all concerned.
“Now, why would you kill someone one place, then move them to another?” asked Mundin, almost to himself. “I can see wanting to get rid of a body, especially if you killed him in your own home, but why take him to Olivier’s? Seems a strange thing to do, but I guess the bistro’s a fairly central location. Maybe it was just convenient.”
Gamache let that statement be. They both knew it wasn’t true. Indeed, the bistro was a very inconvenient place to drop a body. And it worried Gamache. The murder wasn’t an accident, and the placement of the body wasn’t either.
There was someone very dangerous walking among them. Someone who looked happy, thoughtful, gentle even. But it was a deceit. A mask. Gamache knew that when he found the murderer and ripped the mask off, the skin would come too. The mask had become the man. The deceit was total.