'If you'd like a seat, I'll get him. Coffee while you wait?'
The woods had been chilly and the thought of a cafe au lait in front of this open fire was too good. And maybe a licorice pipe, or two. Waiting for Mr Brule and the coffee, he tried to figure out what was unusual or unexpected about this lovely bistro. Some small thing was a little off.
'I'm sorry to disturb you,' came a throaty voice slightly above him. He looked up and saw an elderly woman with cropped white hair leaning on a gnarled cane. As he shot to his feet he noticed she was taller than he'd expected. Even leaning she was almost as tall as he, and he had the impression she was not as frail as she appeared.
Armand Gamache gave a subtle bow and indicated the other chair at his small table. The woman hesitated, but finally the ramrod bent and sat down.
'My name is Ruth Zardo,' she spoke loudly and slowly, as though to a dull child. 'Is it true? Is Jane dead?'
'Yes, Madame Zardo. I'm very sorry.'
A great bang, so sudden and violent it made even Gamache jump, filled the Bistro. None of the other patrons, he noticed, even flinched. It took him just an instant to realise that the noise came from Ruth Zardo whacking her cane against the floor, like a caveman might wield a club. He'd never seen anyone do that before. He'd seen people with canes lift them up and rap on the floor in an annoying bid for attention, which generally worked. But Ruth Zardo had picked up her cane in a swift and apparently practiced move, taken hold of the straight end, and swung the cane over her head until the curved handle whacked the floor.
'What are you doing here while Jane is lying dead in the woods? What kind of police are you? Who killed Jane?'
The Bistro grew momentarily silent, then slowly the murmur of conversation started up again. Armand Gamache held her imperious stare with his own thoughtful eyes and leaned slowly across the table until he was sure only she could hear. Ruth, believing he might be about to actually whisper the name of the person who had killed her friend, leaned in as well.
'Ruth Zardo, my job is to find out who killed your friend. And I will do that. I will do it in the manner I see fit. I will not be bullied and I will not be treated with disrespect. This is my investigation. If you have anything you'd like to say, or to ask, please do. But never, ever, swing that cane in my company again. And never speak to me like that again.'
'How dare I! This officer is obviously hard at work.' Both Ruth and her voice rose. 'Mustn't disturb the best the Surete has to offer.'
Gamache wondered whether Ruth Zardo really believed this sarcasm would be fruitful. He also wondered why she would take this attitude at all.
'Mrs Zardo, what can I get you?' the young waitress asked as though none of the dramatics had happened. Or perhaps it was simply intermission.
'A Scotch, please, Marie,' said Ruth, suddenly deflating and sinking back into the chair. 'I'm sorry. Forgive me.'
She sounded to Gamache like someone used to apologising.
'I suppose I could blame Jane's death for my poor behavior, but as you'll discover, I'm just like this. I have no talent for choosing my battles. Life seems, strangely, like a battle to me. The whole thing.'
'So I can expect more where that came from?'
'Oh, I think so. But you'll have plenty of company in your foxhole. And I promise not to whack my cane, at least around you.'
Armand Gamache leaned back in his chair, just as the Scotch and his cafe au lait and candy arrived. He took them and with all the dignity he could muster, turned to Ruth.
'Pipe, Madame?'
Ruth took the largest one and immediately bit the red candy end off.
'How did it happen?' Ruth asked.
'It looks like a hunting accident. But can you think of anyone who would want to deliberately kill your friend?'
Ruth told Gamache about the boys throwing manure. When she'd finished, Gamache asked, 'Why do you think these boys might have killed her? I agree it was a reprehensible thing to do, but she'd already announced their names, so it's not as though killing her would stop that. What's gained?'
'Revenge?' suggested Ruth. 'At that age, humiliation could be considered a capital offense. True, they were the ones who were trying to humiliate Olivier and Gabri, but the tables turned. And bullies don't much like getting some of their own back.'
Gamache nodded. It was possible. But surely, unless you're psychotic, the revenge would take a different form, something short of cold-blooded murder.
'How long did you know Mrs Neal?'
'Miss. She never married,' said Ruth. 'Though she almost did, once. What was his name?' She consulted the yellowing Rolodex in her head. 'Andy. Andy Selchuk. No. Sel ... Sel ... Selinsky. Andreas Selinsky. That was years ago. Fifty or more. Doesn't matter.'
'Please, tell me,' said Gamache.
Ruth nodded and absently stirred her Scotch with the butt end of her licorice pipe.
'Andy Selinsky was a logger. These hills were full of logging operations for a hundred years. Most of them are closed now. Andy worked on Mont Echo at the Thompson operation. The lumberjacks could be violent men. They'd work all week on the mountain, sleeping rough through storms and bear season, and the blackflies must have driven them crazy. They'd smear themselves with bear grease to keep away bugs. They were more afraid of blackflies than black bears. On weekends they'd come out of the woods, like living filth.'
Gamache was listening closely, genuinely interested, though not sure whether it was all pertinent to the investigation.
'Kaye Thompson's operation was different, though. I don't know how she did it, but somehow she kept those huge men in line. Nobody messed with Kaye,' said Ruth, in admiration.
'Andy Selinksy worked his way up to foreman. A natural leader. Jane fell in love with him, though I must admit most of us had a crush on him. Those huge arms and that rugged face ...' Gamache could feel himself receding as she spoke and drifted back in time. 'He was immense but gentle. No, gentle isn't right. Decent. He could be tough, even brutal. But not vicious. And he was clean. Smelled like Ivory soap. He'd come to town with the other lumberjacks from the Thompson mill and they'd stand out because they didn't stink of rancid bear fat. Kaye must have scrubbed them with lye.'
Gamache wondered how low the bar was set when all a man had to do to attract a woman was not smell of decomposing bears.
'At the opening dance of the County Fair Andy chose Jane.' Ruth fell quiet, remembering. 'Still don't understand it,' said Ruth. 'I mean, Jane was nice and all. We all liked her. But, frankly, she was ugly as sin. Looked like a goat.'
Ruth laughed out loud at the image she'd conjured up. It was true. Young Jane's face seemed to stretch out ahead of her, as though reaching for something, her nose elongating and her chin receding. She was also shortsighted, though her parents hated to admit they'd produced anything other than a perfect child, so they ignored her weak eyesight. This only accentuated the peering look, sticking her head out to the limits of her neck, trying to bring the world into focus. She always had a look on her face as though asking, 'Is that edible?' Young Jane was also chubby. She would remain chubby her whole life.
'For some unfathomable reason, Andreas Selinsky chose her. They danced all night. It was quite a sight.' Ruth's voice had hardened.
Gamache tried to imagine the young Jane, short, prim and plump, dancing with this huge muscled mountain man.
'They fell in love but her parents found out and put a stop to it. Caused quite a little stir. Jane was the daughter of the chief accountant for Hadley's Mills. It was inconceivable she'd marry a lumberjack.'
'What happened?' he couldn't help but ask. She looked at him as though surprised he was still there.
'Oh, Andy died.'
Gamache raised an eyebrow.
'No need to get excited, Inspector Clouseau,' said Ruth.
'An accident in the woods. A tree fell on him. Lots of witnesses. Happened all the time. Though there was some romantic notion at the time that he was so heartbroken he became deliberately careless. Bullshit. I knew him too. He liked her, perhaps even loved her, but he wasn't nuts. We all get dumped at sometime or another and don't kill ourselves. No, it was just an accident.'