“You’d think so, wouldn’t you?” said Gamache, and wondered if anyone had told them the history of their own home. Probably wasn’t in the real estate agent’s description.
“Well, to begin with, have you seen any strangers around?”
“Everyone’s a stranger,” said Carole. “We know most of the villagers by now, at least to nod to, but this weekend the place is filled with people we’ve never seen.”
“This man would be hard to miss; he’d have looked like a tramp, a vagrant.”
“No, I haven’t seen anyone like that,” said Marc. “Mama, have you?”
“Nobody.”
“Where were you all on Saturday night and early Sunday morning?”
“Marc, I think you went to bed first. He usually does. Dominique and I watched the Téléjournal on Radio-Canada then went up.”
“About eleven, wouldn’t you think?” Dominique asked.
“Did any of you get up in the night?”
“I did,” said Carole. “Briefly. To use the washroom.”
“Why’re you asking us this?” Dominique asked. “The murder happened down in the bistro. It has nothing to do with us.”
Gamache turned around and pointed out the window. “That’s why I’m asking.”
They looked. Down in the village a few cars were being packed up. People were hugging, reluctant children were being called off the village green. A young woman was walking briskly up rue du Moulin, in their direction.
“You’re the only place in Three Pines with a view over the whole village, and the only place with a direct view into the bistro. If the murderer turned on the lights, you’d have seen.”
“Our bedrooms are at the back,” Dominique pointed out. Gamache had already noted this in the tour.
“True. But I was hoping one of you might suffer from insomnia.”
“Sorry, Chief Inspector. We sleep like the dead here.”
Gamache didn’t mention that the dead in the old Hadley house had never rested well.
The doorbell rang just then and the Gilberts started slightly, not expecting anyone. But Gamache was. He’d noted Agent Lacoste’s progress round the village green and up rue du Moulin.
Something had happened.
“May I see you in private?” Isabelle Lacoste asked the Chief after she’d been introduced. The Gilberts took the cue. After watching them disappear Agent Lacoste turned to Gamache.
“The coroner called. The victim wasn’t killed in the bistro.”
ELEVEN
Myrna knocked softly on the bistro door, then opened it.
“You okay?” she asked softly into the dim light. It was the first time since she’d lived in Three Pines she’d seen the bistro dark during the day. Even at Christmas Olivier opened.
Olivier was sitting in an armchair, staring. He looked over at her and smiled.
“I’m fine.”
“Ruth’s FINE? Fucked up, Insecure, Neurotic and Egotistical?”
“That’s about right.”
Myrna sat across from him and offered a mug of tea she’d brought from her bookshop. Strong, hot, with milk and sugar. Red Rose. Nothing fancy.
“Like to talk?”
She sat quietly, watching her friend. She knew his face, had seen the tiny changes over the years. The crow’s-feet appear at his eyes, the fine blond hair thin. What hadn’t changed, from what she could tell, was what was invisible, but even more obvious. His kind heart, his thoughtfulness. He was the first to bring soup to anyone ill. To visit in the hospital. To read out loud to someone too weak and tired and near the end to do it for themselves. Gabri, Myrna, Clara, they all organized villagers to help, and when they arrived they’d find Olivier already there.
And now it was their turn to help him.
“I don’t know if I want to open again.”
Myrna sipped her tea and nodded. “That’s understandable. You’ve been hurt. It must’ve been a terrible shock to see him here. I know it was for me, and it’s not my place.”
You have no idea, thought Olivier. He didn’t say anything, but stared out the window. He saw Chief Inspector Gamache and Agent Lacoste walking down rue du Moulin from the old Hadley house. He prayed they kept going. Didn’t come in here. With their keen eyes and sharp questions.
“I wonder if I should just sell. Move on.”
This surprised Myrna, but she didn’t show it. “Why?” she asked, softly.
He shook his head and dropped his eyes to his hands, resting in his lap.
“Everything’s changing. Everything’s changed. Why can’t it be like it always was? They took my fireplace pokers, you know. I think Gamache thinks I did it.”
“I’m sure he doesn’t. Olivier, look at me.” She spoke forcefully to him. “It doesn’t matter what he thinks. We know the truth about you. And you need to know something about us. We love you. Do you think we come here every day for the food?”
He nodded and smiled slightly. “You mean it wasn’t for the croissants? The red wine? Not even the chocolate torte?”
“Well, yes, okay. Maybe the torte. Listen, we come here because of you. You’re the attraction. We love you, Olivier.”
Olivier raised his eyes to hers. He hadn’t realized, until that moment, that he’d always been afraid their affection was conditional. He was the owner of the bistro, the only one in town. They liked him for the atmosphere and welcome. The food and drink. That was the boundary of their feelings for him. They liked him for what he gave to them. Sold to them.
Without the bistro, he was nothing to them.
How’d Myrna know something he hadn’t even admitted to himself? As he looked at her she smiled. She was wearing her usual flamboyant caftan. For her birthday coming up Gabri had made her a winter caftan, out of flannel. Olivier imagined her in it in her store. A big, warm ball of flannel.
The world, which had been closing in on him for days, released a bit of its grip.
“We’re going to the Brume County Fair. Last day. What do you say? Can we interest you in cotton candy, cream soda, and a bison burger? I hear Wayne’s showing his litter of suckling pigs this afternoon. I know how you love a good piglet.”
Once, just once, at the annual county fair he’d hurried them over to the pig stalls to look at the babies. And now he was the piglet guy. Still, he quite liked being thought of as that. And it was true, he loved pigs. He had a lot in common with them, he suspected. But he shook his head.
“Not up to it, I’m afraid. But you go along. Bring me back a stuffed animal.”
“Would you like company here? I can stay.”
And he knew she meant it. But he needed to be alone.
“Thanks, but I really am Fucked up, Insecure, Neurotic and Egotistical.”
“Well, as long as you’re fine,” said Myrna, getting up. After years as a psychologist she knew how to listen to people. And how to leave them alone.
He watched through the window as Myrna, Peter, Clara, Ruth and the duck Rosa got in the Morrows’ car. They waved at him and he waved merrily back. Myrna didn’t wave. She just nodded. He dropped his hand, caught her eye, and nodded.
He believed her when she’d said they loved him. But he also knew they loved a man who didn’t exist. He was a fiction. If they knew the real Olivier they’d kick him out, of their lives and probably the village.
As their car chugged up the hill toward the Brume County Fair he heard the words again. From the cabin hidden in the woods. He could smell the wood smoke, the dried herbs. And he could see the Hermit. Whole. Alive. Afraid.
And he heard again the story. That wasn’t, Olivier knew, just a story.
Once upon a time a Mountain King watched over a treasure. He buried it deep and it kept him company for millennia. The other gods were jealous and angry, and warned him if he didn’t share his treasure with them they’d do something terrible.