Gamache tried the door to the bistro and was surprised to find it open. Earlier that morning, over breakfast of pain doré, sliced strawberries and bananas, maple syrup and back bacon, Gabri had admitted he didn’t know when Olivier might reopen the bistro.
“Maybe never,” he said, “then where would we be? I’d have to start taking in paying guests.”
“Good thing then that you’re a B and B,” said Gamache.
“You’d think that would be an advantage, wouldn’t you? But I’m handicapped by extreme laziness.”
And yet, when Gamache and Agent Morin walked into the bistro there was Gabri behind the bar, polishing it. And from the kitchen came the aroma of fine cooking.
“Olivier,” Gabri called, coming around from behind the bar. “Our first customers since the murder are here,” he sang out.
“Oh, for God’s sake, Gabri,” they heard from the kitchen and a pot clanked down. A moment later Olivier punched through the swinging door. “Oh, it’s you.”
“Just us, I’m afraid. We have a few questions. Do you have a moment?”
Olivier looked as though he was about to say no, but changed his mind and indicated a seat by the hearth. Once again a fire was burning there. And the pokers had been returned.
Gamache looked at Agent Morin. Morin’s eyes widened. Surely the Chief Inspector wasn’t expecting him to conduct the interview? But the moments dragged by and no one else said anything. Morin searched his mind. Don’t be too forceful, though he didn’t think that would be a problem. Get the suspect to drop his guard. Gabri was smiling at him, wiping his hands on an apron and waiting. So far so good, thought Morin. Seems the idiot agent act is working. Now if only it wasn’t an act.
He smiled back at the two men and racked his brain. Up until now the only questioning he’d done was of speeders along Autoroute 10. It didn’t seem necessary to ask Gabri whether he had a driver’s license.
“Is it about the murder?” asked Gabri, trying to be helpful.
“Yes, it is,” said Morin, finding his voice. “Not really so much about the murder as a small issue that’s come up.”
“Please,” said Olivier, indicating a chair, “have a seat.”
“This is really nothing,” said Morin, sitting along with everyone else. “Just a loose end. We were wondering why you bought Varathane from Monsieur Béliveau in July.”
“Did we?” Olivier looked over at Gabri.
“Well, I did. We needed to redo the bar, remember?”
“Will you stop with that? I like the bar the way it is,” said Olivier. “Distressed.”
“I’m distressed, it’s a disgrace. Remember when we bought it? It was all gleaming?”
They looked over at the long wooden bar with the till and jars of allsorts, jelly beans and licorice pipes. Behind were liquor bottles on shelves.
“It’s about atmosphere,” said Olivier. “Everything in here should either be old or look old. Don’t say it.” He held up his hand to ward off Gabri’s response to that, then turned to the officers. “We always disagree about this. When we moved here this place was a hardware store. All the original features had been ripped out or covered over.”
“The beams were hidden under that sound insulation stuff for ceilings,” said Gabri. “Even the fireplaces were ripped out and turned into storage. We had to find a stone mason to rebuild them.”
“Really?” said Gamache, impressed. The fireplace looked original. “But what about the Varathane?”
“Yes, Gabri. What about the Varathane?” Olivier demanded.
“Well, I was going to strip the bar and resand and coat it, but . . .”
“But?”
“I was hoping maybe Old Mundin could do it instead. He knows how. He’d love to do it.”
“Forget it. No one’s going to touch that bar.”
“Where’s the tin you bought from Monsieur Béliveau?” Agent Morin asked.
“It’s in our basement at home.”
“Can I see it?”
“If you’d like.” Gabri looked at Morin as though he was mad.
Jean Guy Beauvoir couldn’t quite believe his eyes. But more than that he couldn’t believe something less tangible. He was enjoying this tour of the old Hadley house. So far Marc and Dominique Gilbert had shown him all the magnificent bedrooms, with fireplaces and flat-screen TVs, with spa baths and steam showers. The gleaming mosaic-glass tiles. The espresso maker in each room.
Waiting for the first guests.
And now they were in the spa area, the lower floor, with its muted lighting and soothing colors and calming aromas, even now. Products were being unpacked and waiting to be displayed on shelves not yet built. This area, while clearly as spectacular as the rest of the place, was less finished.
“A month more, we figure,” Marc was saying. “We’re hoping to have our first guests on the Thanksgiving long weekend. We’re just discussing putting an ad in the papers.”
“I think it’s too soon, but Marc thinks we can get it done. We’ve hired most of the staff. Four massage therapists, a yoga instructor, a personal trainer and a receptionist. And that’s just for the spa.”
The two prattled on excitedly. Enid would love it here, Beauvoir thought.
“How much would you charge for a couple?”
“A night at the inn and one healing spa treatment each would start at three hundred and twenty-five dollars,” said Marc. “That’s for a standard room midweek, but includes breakfast and dinner.”
None of the rooms seemed standard to Beauvoir. But neither did the price. How much could creams really cost? Still, for their anniversary, maybe. Olivier and Gabri would kill him, but maybe they didn’t need to know. He and Enid could just stay here. At the inn. Not go into Three Pines. Who’d really want to leave?
“That would be each,” said Marc, as he turned off the lights and they walked back up the stairs.
“I’m sorry?”
“Three hundred and twenty-five dollars per person. Before tax,” said Marc.
Beauvoir was glad he was behind them and no one saw his face. Seemed only the wealthy got healed.
So far, though, he hadn’t seen any signs of Varathane. He’d looked at floors, counters, doors, exclaiming over the craftsmanship, to the Gilberts’ delight. But he’d also been looking for the telltale gleam. The unnatural shine.
Nothing.
At the front door he debated asking them outright, but he didn’t want to show his hand just yet. He wandered around the yard, noticing the now groomed lawns, the newly planted gardens, the trees staked and sturdy.
It all appealed to his sense of order. This was what the country should be. Civilized.
Roar Parra appeared round the corner of the house pushing a wheelbarrow. He stopped when he saw Beauvoir.
“Can I help you?”
Beauvoir introduced himself and looked at the horse manure in the barrow. “More work for you, I suppose.” He fell into step with Parra.
“I like horses. Nice to see them back. Old Mrs. Hadley used to keep them. Barns fallen down now and the trails have grown over.”
“I hear the new owners have you cutting them again.”
Parra grunted. “Big job. Still, my son helps when he can, and I like it. Quiet in the woods.”
“Except for the strangers wandering around.” Beauvoir saw the wary look on Parra’s face.
“What d’you mean?”
“Well, you told Agent Lacoste you’d seen a stranger disappearing into the woods. But it wasn’t the dead man. Who do you think it was?”
“I musta been wrong.”
“Now, why would you say that? You don’t really believe it, do you?”
For once Beauvoir really looked at the man. He was covered in sweat and dirt, and manure. He was stocky and muscled. But none of that made him stupid. In fact, Beauvoir thought this man was very bright. So why had he just lied?