FIFTEEN
The three investigators left the Incident Room together, but parted ways at the village green. Beauvoir left the Chief and Agent Morin to interview Olivier and Gabri once again, while he headed to the old Hadley house.
The Inspector was feeling pretty cocky. They’d caught the Gilberts in a lie. Dominique had told him yesterday they never used Varathane. Was quite pleased to tell him how “green” they were. But now there was proof they’d at least bought a demi-liter of the stuff.
But the extra spring in his step was because he was curious, anxious even, to see what the Gilberts had done to the old Hadley house.
Gamache tried the door to the bistro and was surprised to find it open. Earlier that morning, over breakfast of pain doré, sliced strawberries and bananas, maple syrup and back bacon, Gabri had admitted he didn’t know when Olivier might reopen the bistro.
“Maybe never,” he said, “then where would we be? I’d have to start taking in paying guests.”
“Good thing then that you’re a B and B,” said Gamache.
“You’d think that would be an advantage, wouldn’t you? But I’m handicapped by extreme laziness.”
And yet, when Gamache and Agent Morin walked into the bistro there was Gabri behind the bar, polishing it. And from the kitchen came the aroma of fine cooking.
“Olivier,” Gabri called, coming around from behind the bar. “Our first customers since the murder are here,” he sang out.
“Oh, for God’s sake, Gabri,” they heard from the kitchen and a pot clanked down. A moment later Olivier punched through the swinging door. “Oh, it’s you.”
“Just us, I’m afraid. We have a few questions. Do you have a moment?”
Olivier looked as though he was about to say no, but changed his mind and indicated a seat by the hearth. Once again a fire was burning there. And the pokers had been returned.
Gamache looked at Agent Morin. Morin’s eyes widened. Surely the Chief Inspector wasn’t expecting him to conduct the interview? But the moments dragged by and no one else said anything. Morin searched his mind. Don’t be too forceful, though he didn’t think that would be a problem. Get the suspect to drop his guard. Gabri was smiling at him, wiping his hands on an apron and waiting. So far so good, thought Morin. Seems the idiot agent act is working. Now if only it wasn’t an act.
He smiled back at the two men and racked his brain. Up until now the only questioning he’d done was of speeders along Autoroute 10. It didn’t seem necessary to ask Gabri whether he had a driver’s license.
“Is it about the murder?” asked Gabri, trying to be helpful.
“Yes, it is,” said Morin, finding his voice. “Not really so much about the murder as a small issue that’s come up.”
“Please,” said Olivier, indicating a chair, “have a seat.”
“This is really nothing,” said Morin, sitting along with everyone else. “Just a loose end. We were wondering why you bought Varathane from Monsieur Béliveau in July.”
“Did we?” Olivier looked over at Gabri.
“Well, I did. We needed to redo the bar, remember?”
“Will you stop with that? I like the bar the way it is,” said Olivier. “Distressed.”
“I’m distressed, it’s a disgrace. Remember when we bought it? It was all gleaming?”
They looked over at the long wooden bar with the till and jars of allsorts, jelly beans and licorice pipes. Behind were liquor bottles on shelves.
“It’s about atmosphere,” said Olivier. “Everything in here should either be old or look old. Don’t say it.” He held up his hand to ward off Gabri’s response to that, then turned to the officers. “We always disagree about this. When we moved here this place was a hardware store. All the original features had been ripped out or covered over.”
“The beams were hidden under that sound insulation stuff for ceilings,” said Gabri. “Even the fireplaces were ripped out and turned into storage. We had to find a stone mason to rebuild them.”
“Really?” said Gamache, impressed. The fireplace looked original. “But what about the Varathane?”
“Yes, Gabri. What about the Varathane?” Olivier demanded.
“Well, I was going to strip the bar and resand and coat it, but . . .”
“But?”
“I was hoping maybe Old Mundin could do it instead. He knows how. He’d love to do it.”
“Forget it. No one’s going to touch that bar.”
“Where’s the tin you bought from Monsieur Béliveau?” Agent Morin asked.
“It’s in our basement at home.”
“Can I see it?”
“If you’d like.” Gabri looked at Morin as though he was mad.