by Louise Penny
It was two thirty on Christmas morning and she was exhausted. Putting a hand against a table to steady herself she walked slowly into the living room. Clara, Myrna and the others had cleaned up, quietly doing the dishes while she’d sat with a small glass of Scotch and spoken to Ruth on the sofa.
She’d always liked Ruth. Everyone had seemed stunned more than a decade ago by her first book of poetry, stunned that such an apparently brittle and bitter woman could contain such beauty. But Em knew. Had always known. That was one of the things she shared with Clara, and one of the many reasons Em had taken to Clara, from the first day she’d arrived, young and arrogant and full of piss and talent. Clara saw what others couldn’t. Like that little boy in The Sixth Sense, but instead of seeing ghosts, Clara saw good. Which was itself pretty scary. So much more comforting to see bad in others; gives us all sorts of excuses for our own bad behavior. But good? No, only really remarkable people see the good in others.
Though, as Em well knew, not everyone had good to see.
She walked to the stereo, opened a drawer and delicately lifted out a single woolen mitten. Beneath it she found a record. She put the record on, reaching out to touch the play button, her finger crooked and trembling like a feeble version of Michelangelo’s Creation. Then she walked back to the sofa, delicately holding the mitten as though it still contained a hand.
In the back bedrooms Mother and Kaye slept. For years now the three friends had stayed together on Christmas Eve and celebrated the day in their own quiet way. Em suspected this was her last Christmas. She suspected this was Kaye’s last too, and perhaps Mother’s. Two thirty.
The music began and Émilie Longpré closed her eyes.
In the back bedroom Mother could hear the opening notes of Tchaikovsky’s violin concerto in D Major. Christmas Eve was the only time Mother ever heard it, though it had once been her favorite piece. It had once been special to them all. Em most of all, but that was natural. Now she only played it once a year, in the small hours between Christmas Eve and Christmas Day. It broke Mother’s heart to hear it and to think of her friend alone in the living room. But she respected and loved Em too much to deny her this time alone with her grief and her son.
And this night Mother had her own grief to keep her company. She repeated over and over, be calm, be calm. But the mantra which had comforted her for so many years was suddenly empty, its power to heal stolen by that horrible, twisted grotesque of a woman. Damn that CC de Poitiers.
Kaye creaked over in her bed. Even the act of rolling onto her side was unbearable. Her body was giving up. Giving up the ghost, it was called. But it was really the opposite. She was actually becoming a ghost. She opened her eyes and allowed them to adjust to the darkness. Way far away she heard Tchaikovsky. It was as though it entered her body not through her failing ears, but through her chest and straight into her heart, where the notes lodged. It was almost too much to bear. Kaye took a deep, rattling breath, and nearly cried out for Émilie to stop. Stop that divine music. But she didn’t. She loved her friend too much to deny her this time with David.
The music made her think of another child. Crie. Who called their child Crie? Cry? Names mattered, Kaye knew. Words mattered. That child had sung like an angel tonight and she’d made them all divine, more than human, for a brief time. But with a few well chosen words her mother had made ugly what minutes before had been exquisite. CC was like an alchemist, with the unlikely gift of turning gold into lead.
What had Crie’s mother heard that could have provoked such a reaction? Surely she hadn’t heard the same voice. Or maybe she had and that was the problem. And maybe she heard other voices as well.
She wouldn’t be the first.
Kaye tried to shove that thought away, but it kept intruding. And another thought, another voice, appeared, lyrical and Irish and masculine and kind.
‘You should have helped that child. Why didn’t you do something?’
It was always the same question and always the same answer. She was afraid. Had been afraid all her life.
Here it is then, the dark thing,
the dark thing you have waited for so long.
And after all, it is nothing new.
The lines of Ruth Zardo’s poem floated into her mind. Tonight the dark thing had a name and a face and a pink dress.
The dark thing wasn’t CC, it was the accusation that was Crie.
Kaye shifted her gaze, her fists balled in the flannel sheet under her chin, trying to keep warm. She hadn’t really been warm in years. Her eyes caught the red numbers on her digital clock. Three o’clock. And here she was in her trench. Cold and trembling. She’d had a chance this night to redeem herself for all those moments of cowardice in her life. All she had to do was defend the child.
Kaye knew the signal would soon be given. And soon she’d have to crawl out of her trench and face what was coming. But she wasn’t ready yet. Not yet. Please.
Damn, damn that woman.
Em listened as the notes of the violin visited familiar places. They played around the tree and searched for gifts and laughed at the frosted window looking onto the brightly lit pine trees on the familiar green. The concerto filled the room and for a blessed moment, her eyes closed, Em could pretend it wasn’t Yehudi playing, but someone else.
Each Christmas Eve was the same. But this was worse than most. She’d heard too much. Seen too much.
She knew then what she must do.
Christmas dawned bright and clear, the dusting of snow from the day before balanced finely on the branches of the trees outlining the world in sparkles. Clara opened the mudroom door to let her golden retriever Lucy out and took a deep breath of frigid air.
The day moved along at a leisurely pace. Peter and Clara opened their stockings full of puzzles and magazines and candy and oranges. Cashews spilled out of Peter’s stocking and Gummy Bears didn’t last long from Clara’s. Over coffee and pancakes they opened their larger gifts. Peter loved his Armani watch, putting it on immediately and shoving the sleeve of his terrycloth robe up over his elbow so it would be visible.
He rummaged beneath the tree with great drama, pretending to have misplaced her gift, and finally emerged, face flushed from bending over.
He handed her an orb wrapped in reindeer paper.
‘Before you open it I want to say something.’ He flushed some more. ‘I know how hurt you were by that whole Fortin thing and CC.’ He held up his hand to stop her protests. ‘I know about God too.’ He felt unbelievably stupid saying that. ‘What I mean is, you told me about meeting God on the street even though you knew I wouldn’t believe it. I just want you to know that I appreciate that you told me and trusted I wouldn’t laugh at you.’
‘But you did.’
‘Well, but not much. Anyway, I wanted to say I’ve been thinking about it and you’re right, I don’t believe God’s a vagrant—’
‘What do you believe God is?’
He was just trying to give her a gift and here she was asking him about God.
‘You know what I believe, Clara. I believe in people.’
She was silent. She knew he didn’t believe in God and that was all right. He certainly didn’t have to. But she also knew he didn’t really believe in people. At least, he didn’t think they were good and kind and brilliant. Perhaps once he might have, but not after what happened to Jane.
Jane had been killed, but something inside Peter had died as well.
No, much as she adored her husband she had to admit the only thing he believed in was himself.
‘You’re wrong, you know,’ he said, sitting down beside her on the sofa. ‘I can see what you’re thinking. I believe in you.’
Clara looked at his serious, lovely, Morrow face and kissed it.
‘CC and Fortin are idiots. You know I don’t understand your work, probably never will, but I do know you’re a great artist. I know it here.’
He touched his own breast, and Clara believed him. Maybe she was getting through to him. O
r maybe he was getting better at telling her what she wanted to hear. She’d take either.
‘Open your gift.’
Clara ripped away at the paper, making Peter wince. As tiny pieces flew off the orb he picked them up and smoothed them out.
Inside was a ball. No surprise there. What was surprising was that it was beautiful. It seemed to shine in her hands. On it was painted a very simple image. Three pine trees, covered in snow. Below was the single word, Noël. While the image was simple it wasn’t primitive or naive. It had a style like nothing Clara had ever seen. An easy elegance. A confident beauty.
Clara held it up to the light. How could a painted ball be so luminous? But then she looked closer. And smiled. She looked up at Peter, his anxious face leaning in to hers. ‘There’s no paint on the outside. It’s all glass. The paint is on the inside. Imagine that.’
‘Do you like it?’ he asked softly.
‘I love it. And I love you. Thank you, Peter.’ She hugged him, still holding the sphere. ‘It must be a Christmas decoration. Do you think it’s a picture of Three Pines? I mean, of course it’s three pine trees but they actually look like our pines on the village green. But I guess any three evergreens together are going to look alike. I adore it, Peter. It’s the best gift ever. And I won’t even ask where you found it.’
He was very grateful for that.
By mid-morning the chestnut stuffing was in the turkey and the turkey was in the oven, filling the house with more wonderful Christmas smells. Peter and Clara decided to wander over to the bistro, passing villagers as they went. Most took a moment to recognize since they’d almost all received brand new tuques in their Christmas stockings, the old ones being both familiar and well eaten by dogs and kittens. All winter long the family pet would worry the pompoms until most of the villagers ended up looking like candles, with wicks on the tops of their heads instead of the woolly balls.
At the bistro Clara found Myrna by the fire sipping mulled wine. They struggled out of their coats, which didn’t seem to want to let them go, and put their tuques and mitts on the radiator to keep warm. Cherry-faced villagers and children kept arriving, in from cross-country skiing or snow-shoeing, tobogganing down the hill above the mill or skating on the pond. Some were just heading off for half a day’s downhill skiing at Mont St-Rémy.
‘Who’s that?’ Myrna pointed to a man sitting by himself.
‘Monsieur Molson Canadian. Always orders the same beer. Good tipper,’ said Olivier, placing two Irish coffees on the table for Peter and Clara along with a couple of licorice pipes. ‘Merry Christmas.’ He kissed them both then nodded to the stranger. ‘He showed up a couple of days ago.’
‘Probably a renter,’ said Myrna. It was unusual to find strangers in Three Pines, only because it was hard to find and people rarely stumbled on it by accident.
Saul Petrov sipped his beer and took a bite of his roast beef sandwich on a baguette with melting Stilton cheese and arugula. Beside it on his plate was a diminishing pile of shoestring fries, lightly seasoned.
It was perfect.
For the first time in years Saul felt human. He wasn’t quite up to approaching these friendly people but he knew when he did they’d ask him to join them. They just seemed that sort. Already a few had smiled in his direction and lifted their drinks, mouthing ‘Santé’ and ‘Joyeux Noël’.
They seemed kind.
No wonder CC loathed them.
Saul dipped a fry into his small saucer of mayonnaise and wondered which of the people here was the artist. The one who’d done that amazing melting tree. He didn’t even know if it was a man or a woman.
He wondered if he should ask someone. Three Pines was so small he was sure someone would be able to tell him. He’d like to congratulate the artist, buy him or her a beer, talk about their shared art and craft. Talk about things creative instead of the dark places he went with CC. First, though, he had business in Three Pines. But once that was done he’d find the artist.
‘Excuse me.’ He looked up and a huge black woman was smiling down at him. ‘I’m Myrna. I own the bookstore next door. I just wanted to tell you there’s a community breakfast and curling match tomorrow in Williamsburg. We all go. It’s a fundraiser for the local hospital. You may not know about it, but you’re welcome to attend.’
‘Really?’ He hoped he didn’t sound as thick as he felt. Why was he suddenly afraid? Not of this woman, surely. Was he afraid, perhaps, of her kindness? Afraid she’d mistaken him for someone else? Someone interesting and talented and kind.
‘The breakfast’s at the legion at eight and the curling starts at ten on Lac Brume. Hope you can make it.’
‘Merci.’
‘De rien. Joyeux Noël,’ she said in accented but beautiful French. He paid for his lunch, leaving an even larger tip than usual, and left, getting in his car for the short drive up the hill to the old Hadley house.
He’d tell CC about the event. It was perfect. Just what he was looking for.
And when the event was over he’d have finished what he’d come to do, and then, perhaps, he could sit at the same table as these people.
EIGHT
‘Did you find something?’
Chief Inspector Armand Gamache poured his wife a glass of Perrier and kissed the top of her head as he leaned over to peer at the document in her hand. It was Boxing Day and they were in his office at Sûreté headquarters in Montreal. He was in gray flannels, a shirt and a tie, which he always wore to the office, and an elegant cashmere cardigan, an acknowledgment that he was on holiday, after all. Though he was only in his early fifties there was an old world charm about Gamache, a courtesy and manner that spoke of a time past. He smiled down at his wife, his deep brown eyes taking in the soft wave of her graying hair. From where he stood he could just faintly pick up the subtle fragrance of Joy by Jean Patou, the eau de toilette he gave his wife each Christmas. Then he moved round in front of her and eased himself into the leather chair opposite, finding the familiar curves worn into the seat. His body spoke of meals enjoyed and a life of long walks rather than contact sports.
His wife, Reine-Marie, was sitting in another leather chair, a huge red and white check napkin on her lap, a dossier in one hand and a turkey sandwich in the other. She took a bite then dropped her reading glasses from her face, to dangle on their strings.
‘Thought I’d found something, but no. I thought there was a question the investigating officer hadn’t asked, but I see here he did a little later.’
‘Who was it?’
‘The Labarré case. Man pushed in front of the metro car.’
‘I remember.’ Gamache poured himself some water. Around them on the floor were neat stacks of file folders. ‘I didn’t realize it wasn’t solved. You didn’t find anything?’
‘Sorry, my love. I’m not doing so well this year.’
‘Sometimes there’s just nothing to find.’
The two of them picked up fresh folders and resumed reading in companionable silence. It had become their Boxing Day tradition. They’d take a picnic lunch of turkey sandwiches, fruit and cheese to Gamache’s office in the homicide division and spend the day reading about murder.
She looked across at her husband, head buried in a file, trying to tease from it the truth, trying to find in the dry words, in the facts and figures, a human form. For in each of these manila folders there lived a murderer.
These were the unsolved murders. A few years earlier Chief Inspector Gamache had approached his opposite number in the Montreal Metropolitan Police and over cognac at the Club Saint-Denis had made his proposal.
‘An exchange, Armand?’ Marc Brault had asked. ‘How would that work?’
‘I suggest Boxing Day. It’s quiet at Sûreté headquarters and probably in your office as well.’
Brault had nodded, watching Gamache with interest. He, like most of his colleagues, had immense respect for the quiet man. Only fools underestimated him, but Brault knew the service was full of fools. Fools with power, f
ools with guns.
The Arnot case had proved that beyond doubt. And had almost destroyed the large, thoughtful man in front of him. Brault wondered whether Gamache knew the whole story. Probably not.
Armand Gamache was speaking, his voice deep and pleasant. Brault noted the graying of the dark hair at the temples and the obvious balding head, without attempt to comb it over. His dark moustache was thick, well trimmed and also graying. His face was lined with care, but also laughter, and his deep brown eyes, looking at Brault over his half-moon glasses, were thoughtful.
How does he survive? Brault wondered. Brutal as the world inside the Montreal police could be, he knew the Sûreté du Québec could be even worse. Because the stakes were higher. And yet Gamache had risen to run the largest and most distinguished department in the Sûreté.
He’d go no further, of course. Even Gamache knew that. But unlike Marc Brault, who was ambition itself, Armand Gamache seemed content, even happy with his life. There had been a time, before the Arnot case, when Brault had suspected Gamache was a bit simple, a bit beyond his depth. But he didn’t think that any more. He knew now what was behind the kind eyes and calm face.
He had the strangest feeling just then that Gamache understood everything that was going on, in Brault’s head and in the labyrinthine minds at the Sûreté.
‘I suggest we give each other our unsolved cases and spend a few days reading over them. See if we can find something.’
Brault took a sip of his cognac and leaned back in his chair, thinking. It was a good idea. It was also unconventional and would probably cause a stink if anyone found out. He smiled at Gamache and leaned forward again.
‘Why? Don’t you have enough work through the year? Or maybe you’re desperate to get away from your family at Christmas.’
‘Well, you know if I could I’d move into my office and live off vending machine coffee. I have no life and my family despises me.’
