“Where did you find that?” Olivier asked.
“In the cabin.” Gamache was watching him closely. Olivier seemed stunned by the carving. Almost frightened. “Have you seen it before?”
“Never.”
“Or others like it?”
“No.”
Gamache handed it to Olivier. “It’s a strange subject matter, don’t you think?”
“How so?”
“Well, everyone’s so happy, joyful even. Except him.” Gamache placed his forefinger on the head of the crouching figure. Olivier looked closer and frowned.
“I know nothing about art. You’ll have to ask someone else.”
“What did the Hermit whittle?”
“Nothing much. Just pieces of wood. Tried to teach me once but I kept cutting myself. Not good with my hands.”
“That’s not what Gabri says. He tells me you used to make your own clothes.”
“As a kid.” Olivier reddened. “And they were crap.”
Gamache took the carving from Olivier. “We found whittling tools in the cabin. The lab’s working on them and we’ll know soon enough if they were used to make this. But we both know the answer to that, don’t we?”
The two men stared at each other.
“You’re right,” said Olivier with a laugh. “I’d forgotten. He used to whittle these strange carvings, but he never showed me that one.”
“What did he show you?”
“I can’t remember.”
Gamache rarely showed impatience, but Inspector Beauvoir did. He slammed his notebook shut. It made a not very satisfactory sound. Certainly not nearly enough to convey his frustration at a witness who was behaving like his six-year-old nephew accused of stealing cookies. Denying everything. Lying about everything however trivial, as though he couldn’t help himself.
“Try,” said Gamache.
Olivier sighed. “I feel badly about this. He loved carving, and he asked me to get him the wood. He was very specific. Red cedar, from British Columbia. I got it from Old Mundin. But when the Hermit started handing me these I was pretty disappointed. Especially since he wasn’t giving me as many antiques from his cabin. Just those.” He flicked his hand at the carving.
“What did you do with them?”
“I threw them away.”
“Where?”
“Into the woods. When I walked home I tossed them into the forest. Didn’t want them.”
“But he didn’t give you this one, or even show it to you?”
Olivier shook his head.
Gamache paused. Why did the Hermit hide this one, and the other? What was different about them? Maybe he suspected Olivier had thrown the others away. Maybe he realized his visitor couldn’t be trusted with his creations.
“What does this mean?” The Chief Inspector pointed to the letters carved under the ship.
OWSVI
“I don’t know.” Olivier seemed perplexed. “The others didn’t have that.”
“Tell me about woo,” said Gamache so quietly Olivier thought he’d misheard.
Clara sat in the deep, comfortable armchair and watched Myrna serve Monsieur Béliveau. The old grocer had come in for something to read, but he wasn’t sure what. He and Myrna talked about it and she made some suggestions. Myrna knew everyone’s tastes, both the ones they declared and their actual ones.
Finally Monsieur Béliveau left with his biographies of Sartre and Wayne Gretzky. He bowed slightly to Clara, who bowed back from her chair, never sure what to do when the courtly old man did that.
Myrna handed Clara a cool lemonade and sat in the chair opposite. The afternoon sun poured through the bookshop window. Here and there they saw a dog chase a ball for a villager, or vice versa.
“Didn’t you have your meeting this morning with Monsieur Fortin?”
Clara nodded.
“How’d it go?”
“Not bad.”
“Do you smell smoke?” asked Myrna, sniffing. Clara, alarmed, looked around. “Oh, there it is,” Myrna pointed to her companion. “Your pants are on fire.”
“Very funny.” But that was all the encouragement Clara needed. She tried to keep her voice light as she described the meeting. When Clara listed the people who would almost certainly be at the opening night at Fortin’s gallery Myrna exclaimed and hugged her friend.
“Can you believe it?”
“Fucking queer.”
“Stupid whore. Is this a new game?” laughed Myrna.
“You’re not offended by what I said?”
“Calling me a fucking queer? No.”
“Why not?”
“Well, I know you don’t mean it. Did you?”
“Suppose I did?”
“Then I’d be worried for you,” smiled Myrna. “What’s this about?”
“When we were sitting in the bistro Gabri served us and as he left Fortin called him a fucking queer.”
Myna took a deep breath. “And what did you say?”
“Nothing.”
Myna nodded. Now it was her turn to say nothing.