by Louise Penny
“Quiet night?” he asked as the young man put down the Scotch and a plate of Quebec cheese.
“Dead,” Havoc said and reddened a little. “But it’ll probably pick up.”
They both knew that wasn’t true. It was six thirty. The height of what should be the cocktail and predinner rush. Two other customers sat in the large room while a small squadron of waiters waited. For a rush that would never come. Not that night. Perhaps not ever again.
Three Pines had forgiven Olivier a lot. The body had been dismissed as bad luck. Even Olivier knowing about the Hermit and the cabin had been shrugged off. Not easily, granted. But Olivier was loved and with love there was leeway. They’d even managed to forgive Olivier’s moving the body. It was seen as a kind of grand mal on his part.
But that had ended when they’d found out that Olivier had secretly made millions of dollars off a recluse who was probably demented. Over the course of years. And then had quietly bought up most of Three Pines. He was Myrna’s, Sarah’s and Monsieur Béliveau’s landlord.
This was Olivierville, and the natives were restless. The man they had thought they knew was a stranger after all.
“Is Olivier here?”
“In the kitchen. He let the chef off and decided to do the cooking himself tonight. He’s a terrific cook, you know.”
Gamache did know, having enjoyed his private meals a number of times. But he also knew this decision to cook allowed Olivier to hide. In the kitchen. Where he didn’t have to see the accusing, unhappy faces of people who were his friends. Or worse still, see the empty chairs where friends once sat.
“I wonder if you could ask him to join me?”
“I’ll do my best.”
“Please.”
In that one word Chief Inspector Gamache conveyed that while it might sound like a polite request, it wasn’t. A couple of minutes later Olivier lowered himself into the chair across from Gamache. They needn’t worry about keeping their voices down. The bistro was now empty.
Gamache leaned forward, took a sip of Scotch, and watched Olivier closely.
“What does the name Charlotte mean to you?”
Olivier’s brows went up in surprise. “Charlotte?” He thought for a few moments. “I’ve never known a Charlotte. I knew a girl named Charlie once.”
“Did the Hermit ever mention the name?”
“He never mentioned any name.”
“What did you talk about?”
Olivier heard again the dead man’s voice, not deep but somehow calming. “We talked about vegetable gardens and building and plumbing. He learned from the Romans, the Greeks, the early settlers. It was fascinating.”
Not for the first time Gamache wished there’d been a third chair in that cabin, for him. “Did he ever mention Caesar’s Shift?”
Once again Olivier looked perplexed, then shook his head.
“How about the Queen Charlotte Islands?” Gamache asked.
“In British Columbia? Why would he talk about them?”
“Is anyone in Three Pines from BC that you know?”
“People’re from all over, but I can’t remember anyone from British Columbia. Why?”
Gamache brought out the sculptures and placed them on the table so that the ship looked to be running from the cheese, and the cheese, runny, seemed to be chasing it.
“Because these are. Or at least, the wood is. It’s red cedar from the Queen Charlottes. Let’s start again,” Gamache said quietly. “Tell me what you know about these sculptures.”
Olivier’s face was impassive. Gamache knew that look. It was the look of a liar, caught. Trying to find the last way out, the back door, the crack. Gamache waited. He sipped his Scotch and smoothed a bit of cheese on the very excellent nut bread. He placed a slice in front of Olivier then prepared one for himself. He ate and waited.
“The Hermit carved them,” said Olivier, his voice even, flat.
“You’ve told us that already. You also told us he gave you some and you threw them into the forest.”
Gamache waited, knowing the rest would come out now. He looked through the window and noticed Ruth walking Rosa. The duck, for some reason, was wearing a tiny, red raincoat.
“I didn’t throw them away. I kept them,” Olivier whispered, and the world beyond the circle of light from the fireplace seemed to disappear. It felt as though the two men were in their own little cabin. “I’d been visiting the Hermit for about a year when he gave me the first.”
“Can you remember what it was?”
“A hill, with trees. More like a mountain really. And a boy lying on it.”
“This one?” Gamache brought out the photo Thérèse Brunel had given him.
Olivier nodded. “I remember it clearly because I didn’t know the Hermit did stuff like this. His cabin was packed with wonderful things, but things other people made.”
“What did you do with it?”
“I kept it for a while, but had to hide it so Gabri wouldn’t start asking questions. Then I figured it was just easier to sell it. So I put it up on eBay. It went for a thousand dollars. Then a dealer got in touch. Said he had buyers, if there were any more. I thought he was joking, but when the Hermit gave me another one eight months later I remembered the guy and contacted him.”
“Was it Denis Fortin?”
“Clara’s gallery owner? No. It was someone in Europe. I can give you his coordinates.”
“That would be helpful. What did the second carving look like?”
“Plain. Simple. On the surface. I was kind of disappointed. It was a forest, but if you looked closely beneath the canopy of trees you could see people walking in a line.”
“Was the boy one of them?”
“Which boy?”
“The one from the mountain.”
“Well, no. This was a different piece.”
“I realize that,” said Gamache, wondering if he was making himself clear. “But it seems possible the Hermit carved the same figures into each of his sculptures.”
“The boy?”
“And the people. Anything else?”
Olivier thought. There was something else. The shadow over the trees. Something loomed just behind them. Something was rising up. And Olivier knew what it was.
“No, nothing. Just a forest and the people inside. The dealer was pretty excited.”
“What did it sell for?”
“Fifteen thousand.” He watched for the shock on Gamache’s face.
But Gamache’s gaze didn’t waver, and Olivier congratulated himself on telling the truth. It was clear the Chief Inspector already knew the answer to that question. Telling the truth was always a crapshoot. As was the telling of lies. It was best, Olivier had found, to mingle the two.
“How many carvings did he make?”
“I thought eight, but now that you’ve found those, I guess he did ten.”
“And you sold all the ones he gave you?”
Olivier nodded.
“You’d told us he started out giving you other things from his cabin, as payment for food. Where did those go?”
“I took them to the antique stores on rue Notre Dame in Montreal. But then once I realized the stuff was valuable I found private dealers.”
“Who?”
“I haven’t used them in years. I’ll have to look it up. People in Toronto and New York.” He leaned back and looked around the empty room. “I suppose I should let Havoc and the others off for the night.”
Gamache remained quiet.
“Do you think people’ll come back?”
The Chief Inspector nodded. “They’re hurt by what you did.”
“Me? Marc Gilbert’s way worse. Be careful with him. He’s not what he seems.”
“And neither are you, Olivier. You’ve lied all along. You may be lying now. I’m going to ask you a question and I need you to think carefully about the answer.”
Olivier nodded and straightened up.
“Was the Hermit Czech?”
Olivier i
mmediately opened his mouth but Gamache quickly brought up a hand to stop him. “I asked you to think about your answer. Consider it. Could you have been wrong? Maybe there was no accent,” Gamache watched his companion closely. “Maybe he spoke with an accent but it wasn’t necessarily Czech. Maybe you just assumed. Be careful what you say.”
Olivier stared at Gamache’s large, steady hand and as it lowered he switched his gaze to the large, steady man.
“There was no mistake. I’ve heard enough Czech over the years from friends and neighbors. He was Czech.”
It was said with more certainty than anything Olivier had said to Gamache since the investigation began. Still, Gamache stared at the slight man across from him. He examined his mouth, his eyes, the lines on his forehead, his coloring. Then the Chief Inspector nodded.
“Chilly night,” said Ruth, plopping onto the seat beside Gamache and managing to knock his knee quite hard with her muddy cane. “Sorry,” she said, then did it again.
She was completely oblivious of the conversation she was interrupting and the tension between the two men. She looked from Olivier to Gamache.
“Well, enough of this gay banter. Can you believe what Olivier did with that body? His idiocy eclipses even your own. Gives me a sense of the infinite. It’s almost a spiritual experience. Cheese?”
She took the last bite of Gamache’s Saint-André and reached for his Scotch, but he got there first. Myrna arrived, then Clara and Peter dropped by and told everyone about Denis Fortin. There was general commiserating and all agreed Clara had done the right thing. Then they agreed she should call in the morning and beg his forgiveness. Then they agreed she shouldn’t.
“I saw Rosa outside,” said Clara, anxious to change the subject. “She’s looking very smart in her rain jacket.” It had occurred to her to wonder why a duck might need a raincoat, but she supposed Ruth was just training Rosa to get used to wearing coats.
Eventually the conversation came back to Olivier, and the Hermit, dead, and the Hermit alive. Ruth leaned over and took Olivier’s hand. “It’s all right, dear, we all know you’re greedy.” Then she looked at Clara. “And we all know you’re needy, and Peter’s petty and Clouseau here,” she turned to Gamache, “is arrogant. And you’re . . .” She looked at Myrna, then turned back to Olivier, whispering loudly, “Who is that anyway? She’s always hanging around.”
“You’re a nasty, demented, drunken old fart,” said Myrna.
“I’m not drunk, yet.”
They finished their drinks and left, but not before Ruth handed Gamache a piece of paper, carefully, precisely folded, the edges sharpened. “Give this to that little fellow who follows you around.”
Olivier kept looking out into the village where Rosa was sitting quietly on the village green, waiting for Ruth. There was no sign of the one not there, the one Olivier longed to see.
Gabri was mostly curious to meet the saint. Vincent Gilbert. Myrna was in awe of him, and she wasn’t in awe of many people. Old Mundin and The Wife said he’d changed their lives with his book Being, and his work at LaPorte. And by extension, he’d changed little Charlie’s life.
“Bonsoir,” said Gabri, nervously. He looked over to Vincent Gilbert. Growing up in the Catholic Church he’d spent endless hours staring at the gleaming windows showing the wretched lives and glorious deaths of the saints. When Gabri had wandered from the Church he’d taken one thing with him. The certainty that saints were good.
“What do you want?” Marc Gilbert asked. He stood with his wife and mother by the sofa. Forming a semicircle. His father a satellite off to the side. Gabri waited for Vincent Gilbert to calm his son, to tell him to greet their guest nicely. To invite Marc to be reasonable.
Gilbert said nothing.
“Well?” said Marc.
“I’m sorry I haven’t been up sooner to welcome you.”
Marc snorted. “The Welcome Wagon’s already left us our package.”
“Marc, please,” said Dominique. “He’s our neighbor.”
“Not by choice. If he had his way we’d be long gone.”
And Gabri didn’t deny it. It was true. Their troubles arrived with the Gilberts. But here they were and something had to be said.
“I came to apologize,” he said, standing to his full six foot one. “I’m sorry I haven’t made you feel more welcome. And I’m very sorry about the body.”
Yes, that definitely sounded as lame as he’d feared. But he hoped it at least sounded genuine.
“Why isn’t Olivier here?” Marc demanded. “You didn’t do it. It’s not up to you to apologize.”
“Marc, really,” said Dominique. “Can’t you see how difficult this is for him?”
“No, I can’t. Olivier probably sent him hoping we won’t sue. Or won’t tell everyone what a psycho he is.”
“Olivier’s not a psycho,” said Gabri, feeling a kind of trill inside as his patience unraveled. “He’s a wonderful man. You don’t know him.”
“You’re the one who doesn’t know him if you think he’s wonderful. Does a wonderful man dump a body at a neighbor’s home?”
“You tell me.”
The two men advanced on each other.
“I didn’t take the body into a private home to scare the occupants half to death. That was a terrible thing to do.”
“Olivier was pushed to it. He tried to make friends when you first arrived but then you tried to steal our staff and open this huge hotel and spa.”
“Ten guest rooms isn’t huge,” said Dominique.
“Not in Montreal, but out here it is. This’s a small village. We’ve been here for a long time living quietly. You come here and change all that. Made no effort to fit in.”
“By ‘fit in’ you mean tug our forelocks and be grateful you’ve allowed us to live here?” Marc demanded.
“No, I mean being respectful of what’s here already. What people’ve worked hard to establish.”
“You want to raise the drawbridge, don’t you?” said Marc in disgust. “You’re in and you want to keep everyone else out.”
“That’s not true. Most of the people in Three Pines have come from somewhere else.”
“But you only accept people who follow your rules. Who do as you say. We came here to live our dream and you won’t let us. Why? Because it clashes with yours. You’re threatened by us and so you need to run us out of town. You’re nothing but bullies, with big smiles.”
Marc was almost spitting.
Gabri stared at him, amazed. “But you didn’t really expect us to be happy about it, did you? Why would you come here and deliberately upset people who were going to be your neighbors? Didn’t you want us as friends? You must’ve known how Olivier would react.”
“What? That he’d put a body in our home?”
“That was wrong. I’ve already said that. But you provoked him. All of us. We wanted to be your friends but you made it too difficult.”
“So, you’ll be friends with us as long as what? We’re just a modest success? Have a few guests, a couple of treatments a day? Maybe a small dining room, if we’re lucky? But nothing to compete with you and Olivier?”
“That’s right,” said Gabri.
That shut Marc up.
“Listen, why do you think we don’t make croissants?” Gabri continued. “Or pies? Or any baking? We could. It’s what I love to do. But Sarah’s Boulangerie was already here. She’d lived in the village all her life. The bakery belonged to her grandmother. So we opened a bistro instead. All our croissants, and pies, and breads are baked by Sarah. We adjusted our dreams to fit the dreams already here. It’d be cheaper and more fun to bake ourselves but that’s not the point.”
“What is the point?” asked Vincent Gilbert, speaking for the first time.
“The point isn’t to make a fortune,” said Gabri, turning to him gratefully. “The point is to know what’s enough. To be happy.”
There was a pause and Gabri silently thanked the saint for creating that space for reason to retu
rn.
“Maybe you should remind your partner of that,” said Vincent Gilbert. “You talk a good line but you don’t live it. It suits you to blame my son. You dress up your behavior as moral and kindly and loving, but you know what it is?”
Vincent Gilbert was advancing, closing in on Gabri. As he neared he seemed to grow and Gabri felt himself shrink.
“It’s selfish,” Gilbert hissed. “My son has been patient. He’s hired local workers, created jobs. This is a place of healing, and you not only try to ruin it, you try to make him out to be at fault.”
Vincent stepped next to his son, having finally found the price of belonging.
There was nothing more to say, so Gabri left.
Lights glowed at windows as he made his way back into the village. Overhead ducks flew south in their V formation, away from the killing cold that was gathering and preparing to descend. Gabri sat on a tree stump by the side of the road and watched the sun set over Three Pines and thought about les temps perdus and felt very alone, without even the certainty of saints for comfort.
A beer was placed on the table for Beauvoir and Gamache nursed his Scotch. They settled into their comfortable chairs and examined the dinner menu. The bistro was deserted. Peter, Clara, Myrna and Ruth had all gone and Olivier had retreated to his kitchen. Havoc, the last of the waiters, took their order then left them to talk.
Gamache broke up a small baguette and told his second in command about his conversation with Olivier.
“So, he still says the Hermit was Czech. Do you believe him?”
“I do,” said Gamache. “At least, I believe Olivier is convinced of it. Any luck with the Caesar’s Shift?”
“None.” They’d given up when they started putting their own names in. Both slightly relieved it didn’t work.
“What’s wrong?” Gamache asked. Beauvoir had leaned back in his seat and tossed his linen napkin onto the table.
“I’m just frustrated. It seems every time we make progress it gets all muddied. We still don’t even know who the dead man was.”
Gamache smiled. It was their regular predicament. The further into a case they went the more clues they gathered. There came a time when it seemed a howl, as though they had hold of something wild that screamed clues at them. It was, Gamache knew, the shriek of something cornered and frightened. They were entering the last stages of this investigation. Soon the clues, the pieces, would stop fighting, and start betraying the murderer. They were close.
