Jean Guy Beauvoir couldn’t quite believe his eyes. But more than that he couldn’t believe something less tangible. He was enjoying this tour of the old Hadley house. So far Marc and Dominique Gilbert had shown him all the magnificent bedrooms, with fireplaces and flat-screen TVs, with spa baths and steam showers. The gleaming mosaic-glass tiles. The espresso maker in each room.
Waiting for the first guests.
And now they were in the spa area, the lower floor, with its muted lighting and soothing colors and calming aromas, even now. Products were being unpacked and waiting to be displayed on shelves not yet built. This area, while clearly as spectacular as the rest of the place, was less finished.
“A month more, we figure,” Marc was saying. “We’re hoping to have our first guests on the Thanksgiving long weekend. We’re just discussing putting an ad in the papers.”
“I think it’s too soon, but Marc thinks we can get it done. We’ve hired most of the staff. Four massage therapists, a yoga instructor, a personal trainer and a receptionist. And that’s just for the spa.”
The two prattled on excitedly. Enid would love it here, Beauvoir thought.
“How much would you charge for a couple?”
“A night at the inn and one healing spa treatment each would start at three hundred and twenty-five dollars,” said Marc. “That’s for a standard room midweek, but includes breakfast and dinner.”
None of the rooms seemed standard to Beauvoir. But neither did the price. How much could creams really cost? Still, for their anniversary, maybe. Olivier and Gabri would kill him, but maybe they didn’t need to know. He and Enid could just stay here. At the inn. Not go into Three Pines. Who’d really want to leave?
“That would be each,” said Marc, as he turned off the lights and they walked back up the stairs.
“I’m sorry?”
“Three hundred and twenty-five dollars per person. Before tax,” said Marc.
Beauvoir was glad he was behind them and no one saw his face. Seemed only the wealthy got healed.
So far, though, he hadn’t seen any signs of Varathane. He’d looked at floors, counters, doors, exclaiming over the craftsmanship, to the Gilberts’ delight. But he’d also been looking for the telltale gleam. The unnatural shine.
Nothing.
At the front door he debated asking them outright, but he didn’t want to show his hand just yet. He wandered around the yard, noticing the now groomed lawns, the newly planted gardens, the trees staked and sturdy.
It all appealed to his sense of order. This was what the country should be. Civilized.
Roar Parra appeared round the corner of the house pushing a wheelbarrow. He stopped when he saw Beauvoir.
“Can I help you?”
Beauvoir introduced himself and looked at the horse manure in the barrow. “More work for you, I suppose.” He fell into step with Parra.
“I like horses. Nice to see them back. Old Mrs. Hadley used to keep them. Barns fallen down now and the trails have grown over.”
“I hear the new owners have you cutting them again.”
Parra grunted. “Big job. Still, my son helps when he can, and I like it. Quiet in the woods.”
“Except for the strangers wandering around.” Beauvoir saw the wary look on Parra’s face.
“What d’you mean?”
“Well, you told Agent Lacoste you’d seen a stranger disappearing into the woods. But it wasn’t the dead man. Who do you think it was?”
“I musta been wrong.”
“Now, why would you say that? You don’t really believe it, do you?”
For once Beauvoir really looked at the man. He was covered in sweat and dirt, and manure. He was stocky and muscled. But none of that made him stupid. In fact, Beauvoir thought this man was very bright. So why had he just lied?
“I’m tired of people looking at me like I just said I’d been kidnapped by aliens. The guy was there one moment, gone the next. I looked for him, but nothing. And no, I haven’t seen him since.”
“Maybe he’s gone.”
“Maybe.”
They walked in silence. The air was filled with the musky scents of fresh harvested hay and manure.
“I heard the new owners here are very environmentally aware.” Beauvoir managed to make it sound a reproach, something slightly silly. Some new-fangled city-folk nonsense. “Bet they won’t let you use pesticides or fertilizers.”
“I won’t use them. Told them so. Had to teach them to compost and even recycle. Not sure they’d ever heard of it. And they still used plastic bags for their groceries, can you believe it?”
Beauvoir, who did too, shook his head. Parra dumped the manure onto a steaming pile and turned back to Beauvoir, chuckling.
“What?” asked Beauvoir.
“They’re now greener than green. Nothing wrong with that, of course. Wish everyone was.”
“So that means with all those renovations they didn’t use any toxic stuff, like Varathane.”
Again the stocky man laughed. “Wanted to, but I stopped them. Told them about tung oil.”
Beauvoir felt his optimism fade. Leaving Roar Parra to turn over the compost heap he went back to the house and rang the doorbell. It was time to ask them directly. The door was answered by Madame Gilbert, Marc’s mother.
“I’d like to speak to your son again, if you don’t mind.”
“Of course, Inspector. Would you like to come in?”
She was genteel and gracious. Unlike her son. Beneath his cheerful and friendly manner there peeked every now and then a condescension, an awareness that he had a lot and others had less. And somehow that made them less.
“I’ll just wait. It’s a small point.”
After she’d disappeared Beauvoir stood in the entrance admiring the fresh white paint, the polished furniture, the flowers in the hall beyond. The sense of order and calm and welcome. In the old Hadley house. He could hardly believe it. For all Marc Gilbert’s flaws, he’d been able to do all this. Light flooded through the window in the foyer and gleamed off the wooden floors.
Gleamed.