by Louise Penny
“I think it’s possible,” said the Chief, his voice neutral.
“We’ll have them checked,” said Beauvoir. “But if one turns out to be the weapon it doesn’t mean Olivier used it. Anyone could’ve picked it up and smashed the guy.”
“True. But only Olivier lit the fires this morning, and used the poker.”
It was clear as Chief Inspector he had to consider everyone a suspect. But it was also clear he wasn’t happy about it.
Beauvoir waved to some large men at the door to come in. The Incident Room equipment had arrived. Lacoste showed up and joined them by the stove.
“I’ve booked us into the B and B. By the way, I ran into Clara Morrow. We’re invited to dinner tonight.”
Gamache nodded. This was good. They could find out more at a social event than they ever could in an interrogation.
“Olivier gave me the names of the people who worked in the bistro last night. I’m off to interview them,” she reported. “And there are teams searching the village and the surrounding area for the murder weapon, with a special interest in fireplace pokers or anything like that.”
Inspector Beauvoir finished his lunch and went to direct the setup of the Incident Room. Agent Lacoste left to conduct interviews. A part of Gamache always hated to see his team members go off. He warned them time and again not to forget what they were doing, and who they were looking for. A killer.
The Chief Inspector had lost one agent, years ago, to a murderer. He was damned if he was going to lose another. But he couldn’t protect them all, all the time. Like Annie, he finally had to let them go.
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 Sûreté 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.
She introduced herself.
“I know you,” he said, his gaze keen and penetrating. His eyes were disconcertingly blue and hard. “You’ve been in Three Pines before.”
He had a good memory for faces, Lacoste realized. Most people remembered Chief Inspector Gamache. Maybe Inspector Beauvoir. But few remembered her, or the other agents.
This man did.
He poured himself tea then sat down. He also seemed slightly out of place in this pristine modern room. And yet he was completely comfortable. He looked a man who’d be comfortable most places.
“You didn’t know about the body?”
Roar Parra took a bite of his cookie and shook his head. “I’ve been working all day in the woods.”
“In the rain?”
He snorted. “What? A little rain won’t kill you.”
“But a blow to the head would.”
“Is that how he died?” When Lacoste nodded Parra went on. “Who was he?”
“No one knows,” said Hanna.
“But perhaps you do,” said Lacoste. She brought a photograph out of her pocket and placed it face down on the hard, cold table.
“Me?” said Roar with a snort. “I didn’t even know there was a dead man.”
“But I hear you saw a stranger hanging around the village this summer.”
“Who told you that?”
“Doesn’t matter. You were heard talking about it. Was it a secret?”
Parra hesitated. “Not really. It was just the once. Maybe twice. Not important. It was stupid, just some guy I thought I saw.”
“Stupid?”
He gave a smile suddenly, the first one she’d seen from him, and it transformed his stern face. It was as though a crust had broken. Lines creased his cheeks and his eyes lit momentarily.
“Trust me, this is stupid. And I know stupid, having raised a teenage son. I’ll tell you, but it can’t mean anything. There’re new owners at the old Hadley house. A couple bought it a few months ago. They’re doing renovations and hired me to build a barn and clear some trails. They also wanted the garden cleaned up. Big job.”
The old Hadley house, she knew, was a rambling old Victorian wreck on the hill overlooking Three Pines.
“I think I saw someone in the woods. A man. I’d felt someone looking at me when I worked there, but I thought I was imagining things. It’s easy with that place. Sometimes I’d look around fast, to see if someone really was there, but there never was anyone. Except once.”
“What happened?”
“He disappeared. I called out and even ran into the woods a little way after him, but he’d gone.” Parra paused. “Maybe he was never there at all.”
“But you don’t believe that, do you? You believe there really was someone there.”
Parra looked at her and nodded.
“Would you recognize him?” Lacoste asked.
“I might.”
“I have a photograph of the dead man, taken this morning. It might be upsetting,” she warned. Parra nodded and she turned the photograph face up. All three looked at it, staring intently, then shook their heads. She left it on the table, beside the cookies.
“Everything was normal last night? Nothing unusual?” she asked Havoc.
What followed was the same description as the other waiters had provided. Busy, lots of tips, no time to think.
Strangers?
Havoc thought about it and shook his head. No. Some summer people, and weekenders, but he knew everyone.
“And what did you do after Olivier and Old Mundin left?”
“Put away the dishes, did a quick look round, turned off the lights and locked up.”
“Are you sure you locked up? The door was found unlocked this morning.”
“I’m sure. I always lock up.”
A note of fear had crept into the handsome young man’s voice. But Lacoste knew that was normal. Most people, even innocent ones, grew fearful when examined by homicide detectives. But she’d noticed something else.
His father had looked at him, then quickly looked away. And Lacoste wondered who Roar Parra really was. He worked in the woods now. He cut grass and planted gardens. But what had he done before that? Many men were drawn to the tranquility of a garden only after they’d known the brutality of life.
Had Roar Parra known horrors? Had he created some?
SIX
“Chief Inspector? It’s Sharon Harris.”
“Oui, Dr. Harris,” said Gamache into the receiver.
“I haven’t done the complete autopsy but I have a couple of pieces of information from my preliminary work.”
“Go on.” Gamache leaned on the desk and brought his notebook closer.
“There were no identifying marks on the body, no tattoos, no operation scars. I’ve sent his dental work out.”
“What shape were his teeth in?”
“Now that’s an interesting point. They weren’t as bad as I expected. I bet he didn’t go to the dentist very often, and he’d lost a couple of molars to some gum disease, but overall, not bad.”
“Did he brush?”
There was a small laugh. “Unbelievably, he did. He also flossed. There’s some receding, some plaque and disease, but he took care of his teeth. There’s even evidence he once had quite a bit of work done. Cavities filled, root canal.”
“Expensive stuff.”
“Exactly. This man had money at one time.”
He wasn’t born a tramp, thought Gamache. But then no one was.
“Can you tell how long ago the work was done?”
“I’d say twenty years at least, judging by the wear and the materials used, but I’ve sent a sample along to the forensic dentist. Should hear by tomorrow.”
“Twenty years ago,” mused Gamache, doing the math, jotting figures in his notebook. “The man was in his seventies. That would mean he had the work done sometime in his fifties. Then something happened. He lost his job, drank, had a breakdown; something happened that pushed him over the edge.”
“Something happened,” agreed Dr. Harris, “but not in his fifties. Something happened in his late thirties or early forties.”
“That long ago?” Gamache looked down at his notes. He’d written 20 ans and circled it. He was confused.
“That’s what I wanted to tell you, Chief,” the coroner continued. “There’s something wrong about this body.”
Gamache sat up straighter and took his half-moon reading glasses off. Across the room Beauvoir saw this and walked over to the Chief’s desk.
“Go on,” said Gamache, nodding to Beauvoir to sit. Then he punched a button on the phone. “I’ve put you on the speaker. Inspector Beauvoir’s here.”
“Good. Well, it struck me as strange that this man who seemed a derelict should brush his tee
th and even floss. But homeless people can do odd things. They’re often mentally unwell, as you know, and can be obsessive about certain things.”
“Though not often hygiene,” said Gamache.
“True. It was strange. Then when I undressed him I found he was clean. He’d had a bath or a shower recently. And his hair, while wild, was also clean.”
“There’re halfway homes,” said Gamache. “Maybe he was in one of those. Though an agent called all the local social services and he’s not known to them.”
“How d’you know?” The coroner rarely questioned Chief Inspector Gamache, but she was curious. “We don’t know his name and surely his description would sound like any number of homeless men.”
“That’s true,” admitted Gamache. “She described him as a slim, older man in his seventies with white hair, blue eyes and weathered skin. None of the men who match that description and use shelters in this area is missing. But we’re having someone take his photo around.”
There was a pause on the line.
“What is it?”
“Your description is wrong.”
“What do you mean?” Surely Gamache had seen him as clearly as everyone else.
“He wasn’t an elderly man. That’s what I called to tell you. His teeth were a clue; then I went looking. His arteries and blood vessels have very little plaque, and almost no atherosclerosis. His prostate isn’t particularly enlarged and there’s no sign of arthritis. I’d say he was in his mid-fifties.”
My age, thought Gamache. Was it possible that wreck on the floor was the same age?
“And I don’t think he was homeless.”
“Why not?”
“Too clean for one thing. He took care of himself. Not GQ material, it’s true, but not all of us can look like Inspector Beauvoir.”
Beauvoir preened slightly.
“On the outside he looked seventy but on the inside he was in good physical condition. Then I looked at his clothes. They were clean too. And mended. They were old and worn, but propres.”
She used the Québécois word that was rarely used anymore, except by elderly parents. But it seemed to fit here. Propre. Nothing fancy. Nothing fashionable. But sturdy and clean and presentable. There was a worn dignity about the word.
