She stood staring, unable to grasp what he was saying.
“No, I didn’t think so,” he said. “I tell the truth, and I say it in a way that might shock, but is at least real. You’d prefer something just pretty. And nice.”
“You insulted a lovely man, behind his back,” she said. But she could feel the tears now. Of rage, but she knew how it must look. It must look like weakness.
“I’m going to have to reconsider the show,” he said. “I’m very disappointed. I thought you were the real deal, but obviously you were just pretending. Superficial. Trite. I can’t risk my gallery’s reputation on someone not willing to take artistic risks.”
There was a rare break in traffic and Denis Fortin darted across Saint-Urbain. On the other side he looked back and shook his head again. Then he walked briskly to his car.
Inspector Jean Guy Beauvoir and Agent Morin approached the Parra home. Beauvoir had expected something traditional. Something a Czech woodsman might live in. A Swiss chalet perhaps. To Beauvoir there was Québécois and then “other.” Foreign. The Chinese were all alike, as were Africans. The South Americans, if he thought of them at all, looked the same, ate the same foods and lived in exactly the same homes. A place somewhat less attractive than his own. The English he knew to be all the same. Nuts.
Swiss, Czech, German, Norwegian, Swedish all blended nicely together. They were tall, blond, good athletes if slightly thick and lived in A-frame homes with lots of paneling and milk.
He slowed the car and it meandered to a stop in front of the Parra place. All he saw was glass, some gleaming in the sun, some reflecting the sky and clouds and birds and woods, the mountains beyond and a small white steeple. The church at Three Pines, in the distance, brought forward by this beautiful house that was a reflection of all life around it.
“You just caught me. I was heading back to work,” said Roar, opening the door.
He led Beauvoir and Morin into the house. It was filled with light. The floors were polished concrete. Firm, solid. It made the house feel very secure while allowing it to soar. And soar it did.
“Merde,” Beauvoir whispered, walking into the great room. The combination kitchen, dining area and living room. With walls of glass on three sides it felt as though there was no division between this world and the next. Between in and out. Between forest and home.
Where else would a Czech woodsman live but in the woods. In a home made of light.
Hanna Parra was at the sink, drying her hands, and Havoc was just putting away the lunch dishes. The place smelled of soup.
“Not working at the bistro?” Beauvoir asked Havoc.
“Split shift today. Olivier asked if I’d mind.”
“And do you?”
“Mind?” They walked over to the long dining table and sat. “No. I think he’s pretty stressed.”
“What’s he like to work for?” Beauvoir noticed Morin take out his notebook and a pen. He’d told the young agent to do that when they arrived. It rattled suspects and Beauvoir liked them rattled.
“He’s great, but I only have my dad to compare him to.”
“And what’s that supposed to mean?” asked Roar. Beauvoir studied the small, powerful man for signs of aggression, but it seemed a running joke in the family.
“At least Olivier doesn’t make me work with saws and axes and machetes.”
“Olivier’s chocolate torte and ice cream are far more dangerous. At least you know to be careful with an axe.”
Beauvoir realized he’d cut to the quick of the case. What appeared threatening wasn’t. And what appeared wonderful, wasn’t.
“I’d like to show you a picture of the dead man.”
“We’ve already seen it. Agent Lacoste showed it to us,” said Hanna.
“I’d like you to look again.”
“What’s this about, Inspector?” asked Hanna.
“You’re Czech.”
“What of it?”
“Been here for a while, I know,” Beauvoir continued, ignoring her. “Lots came after the Russian invasion.”
“There’s a healthy Czech community here,” Hanna agreed.
“In fact, it’s so big there’s even a Czech Association. You meet once a month and have pot-luck dinners.”
All this and more he’d learned from Agent Morin’s research.
“That’s right,” said Roar, watching Beauvoir carefully, wondering where this was leading.
“And you’ve been the president of the association a few times,” Beauvoir said to Roar, then turned to Hanna. “You both have.”
“That’s not much of an honor, Inspector,” smiled Hanna. “We take turns. It’s on a rotation basis.”
“Is it fair to say you know everyone in the local Czech community?”
They looked at each other, guarded now, and nodded.
“So you should know our victim. He was Czech.” Beauvoir took the photograph out of his pocket and placed it on the table. But they didn’t look. All three were staring at him. Surprised. That he knew? Or that the man was Czech?
Beauvoir had to admit it could have been either.
Then Roar picked up the photo and stared at it. Shaking his head he handed it to his wife. “We’ve already seen it, and told Agent Lacoste the same thing. We don’t know him. If he was Czech he didn’t come to any dinners. He made no contact with us at all. You’ll have to ask the others, of course.”
“We are.” Beauvoir tucked the picture into his pocket. “Agents are talking to other members of your community right now.”
“Is that profiling?” asked Hanna Parra. She wasn’t smiling.
“No, it’s investigating. If the victim was Czech it’s reasonable to ask around that community, don’t you think?”
The phone rang. Hanna went to it and looked down. “It’s Eva.” She picked it up and spoke in French, saying a Sûreté officer was with her now, and no she didn’t recognize the photograph either. And yes, she was also surprised the man had been Czech.
Clever, thought Beauvoir. Hanna put down the receiver and it immediately rang again.
“It’s Yanna,” she said, this time leaving it. The phone, they realized, would ring all afternoon. As the agents arrived, interviewed and left. And the Czech community called each other.
It seemed vaguely sinister, until Beauvoir reluctantly admitted to himself he’d do the same thing.
“Do you know Bohuslav Martinù?”
“Who?”
Beauvoir repeated it, then showed them the printout.
“Oh, Bohuslav Martinù,” Roar said, pronouncing it in a way that was unintelligible to Beauvoir. “He’s a Czech composer. Don’t tell me you suspect him?”
Roar laughed, but Hanna didn’t and neither did Havoc.
“Does anyone here have ties to him?”
“No, no one,” said Hanna, with certainty.
Morin’s research of the Parras had turned up very little. Their relations in the Czech Republic seemed limited to an aunt and a few cousins. They’d escaped in their early twenties and claimed refugee status in Canada, which had been granted. They were now citizens.
Nothing remarkable. No ties to Martinù. No ties to anyone famous or infamous. No woo, no Charlotte, no treasure. Nothing.
And yet Beauvoir was convinced they knew more than they were telling. More than Morin had managed to find.
As they drove away, their retreating reflection in the glass house, Beauvoir wondered if the Parras were quite as transparent as their home.
“I have a question for you,” said Gamache as they wandered back into the Brunel living room. Jerome looked up briefly then went back to trying to tease some sense from the cryptic letters.