And then Armand put down his notebook and carried Honoré upstairs to bed, where he picked up Winnie-the-Pooh. And Honoré fell asleep listening to the adventures of Tigger and Roo and Piglet and Pooh. And Christopher Robin. In the Hundred Acre Wood.
“It still gives me goose bumps,” said Reine-Marie, looking at the original oil painting in Clara’s studio.
“Almost gave me a heart attack,” said Jean-Guy. “When I saw Ruth in Baumgartner’s home. Hovering above his fireplace.”
“There must be a lot of these out there,” said Reine-Marie. “It was your big success. Your breakout work.”
“Nah, the gallery hardly sold any,” said Clara, contemplating her masterwork. “Though they did print lots. People love looking at it. And then they like leaving. Really, who wants that”—she jerked her spoon, with ice cream on it, toward the easel—“in their home?”
“Apparently Anthony Baumgartner,” said Jean-Guy.
All three looked at the rancid old woman in the painting, then leaned back and looked out the doorway of Clara’s studio, into the kitchen, at the rancid old woman at the table.
Ruth was still arguing with Myrna. This time, it seemed, about how choux pastry should be made.
“And that’s why they call them loafers,” they heard the old woman say.
“Like a loaf of bread? Really?” said Benedict.
“No, not really,” said Myrna. “It’s c-h-o-u-x. Not shoe. Or loafer.”
“Well, that doesn’t make any sense.”
They returned to the painting leaning against the wall of the studio.
“I wonder what it says about the dead man,” said Reine-Marie. “That he was drawn to this particular painting.”
“Besides that he had great taste in art?” asked Clara.
“But he wasn’t drawn to it,” said Jean-Guy. “His mother was. You said that she’s the one who wanted it. Then she gave it to him.”
“But he hung it,” said Reine-Marie. “He didn’t just put it away in the basement.”
“True.” Jean-Guy continued to stare at Ruth on canvas. “Do you think the Baroness understood what the painting’s about? Not bitterness but hope.”
They looked at him in undisguised—and fairly insulting, he felt—surprise. Annie came over and put her arm around his slightly thickening waist.
“We’ll make an art aficionado of you yet,” she said.
“Aficionado,” he said. “That’s a type of Italian ice cream, isn’t it? I think what you meant to say is an art gelato.”
“And I think you’re in the wrong conversation,” said Annie. “I believe the one you want is over there.”
She pointed to the trio of Myrna, Ruth, and Benedict. Who were now discussing the difference between semaphore and petit four.
“No thank you,” said Jean-Guy. “Besides, I already know all I need to about art. Chiaroscuro.” He said the word triumphantly, as though opening the Olympic Games or launching a ship. “That’s it. My one word of artspeak, but it impresses the pants off people.”
“What was that word again?” asked Gabri from the freezer, where he was getting more ice cream.
“Please don’t tell him,” said Olivier.
“Are there any leftovers? I’d like to take some home to Armand,” asked Reine-Marie, walking over to the kitchen.
Olivier pointed to a container on the island, filled with coq au vin and whipped potatoes. “All ready for you.”
“Merci, mon beau.”
“So,” Ruth was saying to Benedict, “if anyone offers you a semaphore, don’t eat it.”
“But a petit four?”
“You give that to me.”
Benedict was nodding, and both Myrna and Rosa were staring, glassy-eyed, at them.
Jean-Guy tapped Benedict on the shoulder. “Come and help me do the dishes.”
While Jean-Guy washed, Benedict dried.
“Why did you lie?” Beauvoir asked quietly.
“About what?” asked Benedict, taking a warm, wet glass.
“About your girlfriend.”
“Oh. That.”
“Tell me the truth,” said Jean-Guy.
“Does it matter?” asked Benedict.
“This is a murder investigation. Everything matters. Especially lies.”
“But the man who died has nothing to do with me.”
“Do you really believe that?” asked Beauvoir. “You’re a liquidator on a will in which he was a major heir. It was read just hours before he was murdered. His body was found in an abandoned home where you were also found. You were there when he was there.”
He let those words sink in.
“But I didn’t know that,” said Benedict.
“And how do I know you’re not lying now? Again?” He watched the young man’s face. “And now you see why lies matter. The actual fib might not matter, but what it shows us is that what you say can’t always be trusted. You can’t always be trusted.”
“But I can,” he said, his cheeks a fluorescent red now. “I don’t lie. Not normally. But I … I hate saying it out loud.”
“What?”
“That she left me. That we broke up. It’s too soon.”
“It’s been a couple of months.”
“How do you know that?”
“I’m the acting head of homicide for the Sûreté du Québec,” said Jean-Guy, handing a soapy plate to Benedict. “Do you really think we wouldn’t ask questions about you?”
“Then you’ve gotta know my relationship has nothing to do with what happened.”
“Doesn’t it? You lied again to Monsieur Gamache when he asked why you went to the farmhouse last night. You said you missed your girlfriend and wanted to go home. But that wasn’t true, was it?”
Benedict concentrated on the glass he was drying.
“It is true, sorta. You wouldn’t know what it’s like, to have your heart broken and then to be around people who’re happy.”
He looked at Jean-Guy.
“You. Your wife. Ray-Ray. Monsieur and Madame Gamache. You have what I want, what I wanted. And lost. I couldn’t take it anymore. It hurt too much. I had to leave.”
Benedict’s eyes were wide. Pleading.
For what? Jean-Guy wondered. Understanding? Forgiveness?
No, he thought. He wants what I wanted, when I was heartbroken. He wants me to stop poking the wound.
“I understand,” he said. “No more lies, right?”
“I promise.”
Beauvoir turned to face the young man and stared him squarely in the eyes.
“Why do you think Madame Baumgartner put you on as a liquidator of her will?”
“I don’t know.”
“You must’ve thought about it. Come on, Benedict. Why would she do that? You must’ve known her.”
“I didn’t. I swear. I never met the woman. The Baroness. You can give me a lie detector. Do they still do lie detectors? I should ask Ruth.”
Beauvoir sighed. “She’s a lie manufacturer. She knows nothing about detecting them.”
“But if you make something, wouldn’t you normally recognize them?” asked Benedict.
It was, Jean-Guy had to admit, insightful. And true. Ruth was an expert in lies. It was the truth that sometimes eluded her. And, perhaps, eluded this pleasant young man.
Across the room, Clara was watching the conversation between Jean-Guy and Benedict.
“What’re you thinking?” Reine-Marie asked her.
“That I’d like to paint that young man.”
“Why?”
“There’s something about him. He’s both transparent and … what’s the word?”
“Dense?” ventured Reine-Marie.
Clara laughed. “Well, yes. And yet…”
And yet, thought Reine-Marie, watching her houseguest. And yet not.
As they left, Ruth handed Jean-Guy a gift.
“A poetry book,” she said. “One you might appreciate. But don’t read it to my godson.”
“Why not?” he asked, his eyes narrowing.
“You’ll see.”
“One of yours?” Annie asked, looking at the gift, wrapped in old newspaper.
“No.”
“One of mine?” asked Myrna.