Bury Your Dead (24 page)

“Not for a moment, but he felt they at least had to look, if only to tell reporters that Renaud was wrong, yet again.”

“And never again,” said Gamache.

“Hmm.” Langlois was enjoying his dinner, as was Gamache.

“So you didn’t find anything?”

“Potatoes and some turnips.”

“It was a root cellar, I suppose that makes sense.” Still, while Gamache was relieved for the English, he was a little disappointed. Part of him hoped Renaud had finally, perhaps fatally, gotten it right.

So why had he been killed? And why had he been at the Lit and His?

What did he want to talk to the board about?

But really, thought Gamache, whether Champlain was buried there or not was irrelevant. All that mattered was what Renaud believed. And what he could make others believe, which seemed was just about anything.

After dinner Langlois and Gamache parted ways, the Inspector to go home to his wife and family and the Chief Inspector to return to Renaud’s home and sort through more papers.

An hour later he found them, hidden behind books two rows deep on the bookcase. The diaries of Augustin Renaud.

Jean-Guy Beauvoir got back to Three Pines by mid-afternoon after his visits to Olivier in prison and the antique shop in Montreal. He’d stopped at the Tim Hortons at exit 55 for a sandwich, a chocolate glazed doughnut and a double double coffee.

And now he was tired.

This was way more activity than he’d had since it had all happened, and he knew he needed to rest. At the B and B he had a long, luxurious bath and thought about what to do next.

Olivier had dropped a bombshell. Now he was saying the Hermit’s name wasn’t Jakob, and he wasn’t even Czech. He’d only said that to spread round the guilt, put attention onto the Parras and the other Czech families in the areas.

Not only was that not very neighborly, it wasn’t very effective. They’d still decided Olivier was the murderer and the courts had agreed.

OK. So. Beauvoir slipped deeper into the tub. Soaping himself he barely even noticed the ragged scar on his abdomen anymore. What he did notice was that his muscles were no longer toned. He wasn’t fat, but he was flabby from inactivity. Still, he could feel his strength slowly returning, more slowly than he would have imagined.

He cleared his mind of those thoughts and instead concentrated on what the Chief had asked him to do. Quietly reopen Olivier’s case.

Where do the day’s findings leave us? he wondered.

But nothing came to mind except his large, inviting bed which he could see through the bathroom door, with its crisp white sheets and down duvet and soft pillows.

Ten minutes later the bath was drained, the
Do Not Disturb
sign was outside his door and Jean-Guy was fast asleep, warm and safe under the covers.

He awoke to darkness and rolling over contentedly he looked at the bedside clock. 5:30. He sat up. 5:30?
A.M
. or
P.M
.?

Had he been asleep for two hours or fourteen? He felt rested but it could be either.

Putting on the light he got dressed then stood on the landing outside his door. The B and B was quiet. A couple of lights were on, but they often were. Feeling disoriented, disconcerted, he went downstairs and looking out the bay window of the B and B he had his answer.

Lights were on at the homes around the village green and they glowed bright and cheery at the bistro. Happy that he was in for dinner and not breakfast Jean-Guy threw on his coat and boots and crunched across the green to be greeted inside by Gabri who was, unexpectedly, in his pajamas.

Beauvoir was back to his original question. Was it
A.M
. or
P.M
.? He was damned if he was going to ask.

“Welcome back. I hear you spent last night in the woods with the saint. Was it as much fun as it sounds? You don’t look converted.”

Beauvoir looked at the large man in pajamas and slippers and decided not to tell him what he looked like.

“What can I get you,
patron
?” asked Gabri when Beauvoir didn’t respond.

What did he want? Scrambled eggs or a beer?

“A beer would be great,
merci
.” He took the micro-brewery ale and found a comfortable wing chair by the window. A paper lay on the table and picking it up, he read about the murder of Augustin Renaud in Quebec City. The mad archeologist.

“May I join you?”

He looked at Clara Morrow. She was also in pajamas and a dressing gown and, he glanced down, slippers. Could this be a new, and nightmarish, fashion trend? How long had he slept? While he knew flannel was an aphrodisiac to Anglos, it did nothing for Beauvoir. He’d never, ever worn it and didn’t plan to start.

Glancing around he noticed every third or fourth person was in a
dressing gown. He’d always secretly suspected this was not a village but an out-patient clinic from an asylum, now he had his proof.

“Here for your meds?” he asked as she sat.

Clara laughed and held up her beer. “Always.” She nodded at his Maudite beer. “You too?”

Leaning forward he whispered, “What time is it?”

“Six.” When he still stared she added, “In the evening.”

“Then why . . .” He indicated her get-up.

“After Olivier was arrested it took Gabri a while to really function, so some of us helped out. He didn’t want to open on Sundays, but Myrna and I convinced him to and he finally agreed, on one condition.”

“Pajamas?”

“You are clever,” she smiled. “He didn’t want to have to get dressed. After a while most of us started doing the same thing, showing up in our pajamas. It’s very relaxing. I stay in them all day.”

Beauvoir tried to look disapproving but had to admit, she did look comfortable. She completed the look by having bed-head, though that was nothing new. Her hair always stuck out in all directions, probably where she ran her hands through it. And that would also account for the crumbs in there, and the flecks of paint.

He tried to think of something friendly to say, something that would lead her to believe he was there because he liked their company.

“Do you have your art show soon?”

“A couple of months.” She took a long haul of her beer. “When I’m not practicing my interview for the
New York Times
and
Oprah
I try not to think about it.”

“
Oprah
?”

“Yes. It’ll be a huge tribute show, to me. All the top art critics will be there, weeping of course, overwhelmed by my insight, by the power of my images. Oprah will buy a few pieces for 100 million each. Sometimes it’s 50 million, sometimes 150 million.”

“So she’s getting a bit of a bargain today.”

“I’m feeling generous.”

He laughed, surprising himself. He’d never had an actual conversation with Clara. With any of them. The Chief had. Somehow he’d
managed to become friends with most of them but Beauvoir had never been able to pass through that membrane, to see people as both suspects and human. He’d never wanted to. The idea repulsed him.

He watched her take some mixed nuts and sip on her beer.

“Can I ask you something?” he said.

“Sure.”

“Do you think Olivier killed the Hermit?”

Her hand stopped on its way for more nuts. He’d dropped his voice as he spoke, making sure they weren’t overheard. She lowered her hand and thought for a good minute before answering.

“I don’t know. I wish I could say absolutely he didn’t, but the evidence is so strong. And if he didn’t then someone else did.”

She casually looked around the room, and he followed her gaze.

There was Old Mundin and The Wife. The handsome young couple was dining with the Parras. Old, despite his name, wasn’t yet thirty and was a carpenter. He also restored Olivier’s antiques and had been among the last people in the bistro the night the Hermit was killed. The Wife, Beauvoir knew, had an actual name though he’d forgotten what it was as had, he suspected, most people. What had started as a joke, the young couple mocking their married state, had become reality. She was The Wife. They had a young son, Charlie, who had Down syndrome.

Glancing at the child Beauvoir remembered that had been one of the reasons people considered Dr. Vincent Gilbert a saint. His decision to abandon a lucrative career to live in a community of people with Down syndrome, to care for them. From that experience he’d written the book
Being.
It was by most accounts a book of staggering honesty and humility. Staggering because it had been written by such an asshole.

Well, as Clara often told them, great works of creation often were.

Sitting with Old and The Wife were Roar and Hanna Parra. They’d been among the main suspects. Roar was cutting the paths through the woods and could have found the cabin with its priceless contents and shabby old occupant.

But why take the life and leave the treasure?

The same question held true for their son, Havoc Parra. Clara and
Beauvoir glanced over at him, waiting a table by the other fireplace. He’d worked late in the bistro the night the Hermit had been killed and had closed up.

Had he followed Olivier through the woods and found the cabin?

Had he looked inside, seen the treasures, and realized what it meant? It meant no more tips, no more tables, no more smiling at rude customers. No wondering what the future held.

It meant freedom. And all he’d have to do was knock a solitary old man on the head. But, again, why were most of the priceless treasures still in the cabin?

Across the room were Marc and Dominique Gilbert. The owners of the inn and spa. In their mid-forties they’d escaped high-paying, high-pressure jobs in Montreal, to come to Three Pines. They’d bought the wreck on the hill and turned it into a magnificent hotel.

Olivier despised Marc and it was mutual.

Had the Gilberts bought the run-down old home because the Hermit and the cabin came with it? Buried in their woods?

And finally there was the asshole saint Dr. Vincent Gilbert, Marc’s estranged father who’d appeared at exactly the same time as the body. How could that have been a coincidence?

Clara’s gaze returned to Beauvoir just as the bistro door slammed shut.

“Goddamned snow.”

Beauvoir didn’t have to look round to know who it was. “Ruth,” he whispered to Clara, who nodded. “Still crazy?”

“After all these years,” Clara confirmed.

“Jeez,” Ruth appeared at Beauvoir’s chair, a scowl on her deeply wrinkled face. Her cropped white hair lay flat on her head, looking like exposed skull. She was tall and stooped and walked with a cane. The only good news was that she wasn’t in her nightgown.

“Welcome to the bistro,” she snarled, giving Clara the once over. “Where dignity goes to die.”

“And not just dignity,” said Beauvoir.

She gave a barking laugh. “You find another body?”

“I don’t follow bodies, you know. I have a life outside of work.”

“God, I’m bored already,” said the old poet. “Say something smart.”

Beauvoir was silent, looking at her with disdain.

“Thought so.” She took a swig of his beer. “Blech, this is crap. Can’t you drink something decent? Havoc! Get him a Scotch.”

“You old hag,” Beauvoir murmured.

“Oh, banter. Very clever.”

She intercepted his Scotch and stomped away. When she’d gotten far enough Beauvoir leaned across the table to Clara, who also leaned forward. The bistro was noisy with laughter and conversation, perfect for a quiet talk.

“If not Olivier,” said Beauvoir, keeping his voice down and a sharp eye on the room, “who?”

“I don’t know. What makes you think it wasn’t Olivier?”

Beauvoir hesitated. Should he cross the Rubicon? But he knew he already had.

“This must go no further. Olivier knows we’re looking into it, but I’ve told him to keep quiet. And you too.”

“Don’t worry, but why’re you telling me this?”

Why indeed? Because she was the best of a bad lot.