Still Life (A Three Pines Mystery)

'If one hadn't died with a hole in her heart,' said Nichol. Clara winced.

'May I see you for a moment?' Gamache led Nichol outside. 'Agent, if you ever treat anyone the way you've been treating Mrs Morrow, I'll have your badge and send you home on the bus, is that clear?'

'What's wrong with what I said? It's the truth.'

'And do you think she doesn't know that Jane Neal was killed with an arrow? Do you really not know what you've done wrong?'

'I only spoke the truth.'

'No, you only treated another human being like a fool, and from what I can see deliberately hurt her. You are to take notes and remain silent. We'll talk about this further tonight.'

'But--'

'I've been treating you with courtesy and respect because that's the way I choose to treat everyone. But never, ever mistake kindness for weakness. Never debate with me again. Got it?'

'Yes, sir.' And Nichol pledged to keep her opinions to herself if that was the thanks she got for having the courage to say what everyone was thinking. When asked directly she'd answer in monosyllables. So there.

'So there's Jane's picture,' said Clara, hauling a medium-size canvas out from the storage room and putting it on an easel. 'Not everyone liked it.'

Nichol was on the verge of saying, 'No kidding', but remembered her pledge.

'Did you like it?' Beauvoir asked.

'Not at first, but the longer I looked the more I liked it. Something sort of shimmered into place. It went from looking like a cave drawing to something deeply moving. Just like that.' And Clara snapped her fingers.

Gamache thought he'd have to stare at it for the rest of his life before it looked anything other than ridiculous. And yet, there was something there, a charm. 'There are Nellie and Wayne,' he said pointing, surprised, to two purple people in the stands.

'Here's Peter.' Clara pointed to a pie with eyes and a mouth, but no nose.

'How'd she do it? How could she get these people so accurately with two dots for eyes and a squiggly line for a mouth?'

'I don't know. I'm an artist, have been all my life, and I couldn't do that. But there's more to it than that. There's a depth. Though I've been staring at it for more than an hour now and that shimmering thing hasn't happened again. Maybe I'm too needy. Maybe the magic only works when you're not looking for it.'

'Is it good?' Beauvoir asked.

'That's the question. I don't know. Peter thinks it's brilliant, and the rest of the jury, with one exception, was willing to risk it.'

'What risk?'

'This might surprise you, but artists are temperamental so-and-sos. For Jane's work to be accepted and shown, someone else's had to be rejected. That someone will be angry. As will his relatives and friends.'

'Angry enough to kill?' Beauvoir asked.

Clara laughed. 'I can absolutely guarantee you the thought has crossed and even lodged in all our artistic brains at one time or another. But to kill because your work was rejected at Arts Williamsburg? No. Besides, if you did, it would be the jury you'd murder, not Jane. And, come to think of it, no one except the jury knew this work had been accepted. We'd only done the judging last Friday.' It seems so long ago now, thought Clara.

'Even Miss Neal?'

'Well, I told Jane on Friday.'

'Did anyone else know?'

Now Clara was getting a little embarrassed. 'We talked about it over dinner that night. It was a sort of pre-Thanksgiving dinner with our friends at our place.'

'Who was at the dinner?' Beauvoir asked, his notepad out. He no longer trusted Nichol to take proper notes. Nichol saw this and resented it almost as much as she'd resented it when they'd asked her to take notes. Clara ran down the list of names.

Gamache, meanwhile, was staring at the picture.

'What's it of?'

'The closing parade at the county fair this year. There,' and Clara pointed to a green-faced goat with a shepherd's crook, 'that's Ruth.'

'By God, it is,' said Gamache, to Beauvoir's roar of laughter. It was perfect. He must have been blind to miss it. 'But wait,' Gamache's delight suddenly disappeared, 'this was painted the very day, at the very time, Timmer Hadley was dying.'

'Yes.'

'What does she call it?'

'Fair Day.'

SIX

Even in the rain and wind Gamache could see how beautiful the countryside was. The maples had turned deep reds and oranges, and leaves blown down in the storm were spread along the road and gully like a tapestry. Their drive had taken them out of Williamsburg toward Three Pines, through the mountain range that separated the two. The road, like most sensible ones, followed the valleys and the river and was probably the old stagecoach route, until Beauvoir turned off on to an even smaller dirt road. Huge potholes jarred their car and Gamache could barely read his notes. He'd long since trained his stomach not to lurch with whatever vehicle he was in, but his eyes were proving more recalcitrant.

Beauvoir slowed down at a large metal mailbox painted sunny yellow. Hand printed in white was the number and the name, 'Croft'. He turned in. The huge maples continued up the drive, creating a Tiffany tunnel.

Through the furious windscreen wiper Gamache saw a white clapboard farmhouse. The home had a comfortable, lived-in look. Tall, end-of-season sunflowers and hollyhocks leaned against it. Woodsmoke whispered out of the chimney to be grabbed away by the wind and taken home to the woods beyond.

Homes, Gamache knew, were a self-portrait. A person's choice of color, furnishing, pictures. Every touch revealed the individual. God, or the Devil, was in the details. And so was the human. Was it dirty, messy, obsessively clean? Were the decorations chosen to impress, or were they a hodgepodge of personal history? Was the space cluttered or clear? He felt a thrill every time he entered a home during an investigation. He was desperate to get into Jane Neal's home, but that would have to wait. For now the Crofts were about to reveal themselves.

Gamache turned to look at Nichol. 'Keep your eyes open and take detailed notes of what's being said. And just listen, got it?'

Nichol glared back.

'I asked you a question, Agent.'

'Got it.' Then after a significant pause, she added, 'Sir.'

'Good. Inspector Beauvoir, will you take the lead?'

'Right,' replied Beauvoir, getting out of the car.

Matthew Croft was waiting at the screen door. After taking their sodden coats he led them straight into the kitchen. Bright reds and yellows. Cheery tableware and dishes in the hutch. Clean white curtains with flowers embroidered on the border. Gamache looked across the table at Croft who was straightening the rooster salt and pepper shakers. His clever eyes couldn't seem to rest and he held himself as though waiting. Listening. It was all very subtle, hidden below the friendly exterior. But it was there, Gamache was sure of it.

'I've got the archery set in the screen porch. It's wet out, but if you'd still like a demonstration I could show you how they're fired.' Croft had said this to Gamache but Beauvoir answered, dragging Croft's eyes away from his chief.

'That would be very useful, but I have a few questions first, just some background I'd like to get straight.'

'Sure, anything.'

'Tell me about Jane Neal, your relationship with her.'

'We weren't that close. I'd sometimes go over to her place to visit. It was quiet. Peaceful. She was my teacher, long ago now, up at the old schoolhouse.'

'What was she like as a teacher?'

'Remarkable. She had this really amazing ability to look at you and make you feel you were the only person on earth. You know?'

Beauvoir knew. Armand Gamache had the same ability. Most people when talking are also watching the rest of the room, and nodding to others, waving. Never Gamache. When he looked at you, you were the universe. Though Beauvoir knew the boss was also taking in every detail of what was happening. He just didn't show it.

'What do you do for a living?'