Brutal Telling

“I’m sorry,” said Gamache, reaching out to shake her hand. “I don’t know your name.”

“My actual name is Michelle, but everyone calls me The Wife.”

Her hand was rough and calloused, like her husband’s, but her voice was cultured, full of warmth. It reminded him a little of Reine-Marie’s.

“Why?” he asked.

“It started out as a joke between us and then it took. Old and The Wife. It somehow fits.”

And Gamache agreed. It did fit this couple, who seemed to live in their own world, with their own beautiful creations.

“Bye.” Charles gave his mother the new one-fingered wave.

“Old,” she scolded.

“Wasn’t me,” he protested. But he didn’t rat on Ruth, Gamache noticed.

Old strapped his son into the van and they drove out of the fair parking lot.

“Is ‘Old’ your real name?”

“I’ve been called ‘Old’ all my life, but my real name is Patrick.”

“How long have you lived here?”

“In Three Pines? A few years.” He thought for a moment. “My God, it’s been eleven years. Can hardly believe it. Olivier was the first person I met.”

“How do people feel about him?”

“Don’t know about ‘people,’ but I know how I feel. I like Olivier. He’s always fair with me.”

“But not with everyone?” Gamache had noticed the inflection.

“Some people don’t know the value of what they’ve got.” Old Mundin was concentrating on the road, driving carefully. “And lots of people just want to stir up trouble. They don’t like being told their antique chest is really just old. Not valuable at all. Pisses them off. But Olivier knows what he’s doing. Lots of people set up antique businesses here, but not many really know what they’re doing. Olivier does.”

After a moment or two of silence as both men watched the countryside go by, Gamache spoke. “I’ve always wondered where dealers find their antiques.”

“Most have pickers. People who specialize in going to auctions or getting to know people in the area. Mostly elderly people who might be interested in selling. Around here if someone knocks on your door on a Sunday morning it’s more likely to be an antique picker than a Jehovah’s Witness.”

“Does Olivier have a picker?”

“No, he does it himself. He works hard for what he gets. And he knows what’s worth money and what isn’t. He’s good. And fair, for the most part.”

“For the most part?”

“Well, he has to make a profit, and lots of the stuff needs work. He gives the old furniture to me to restore. That can be a lot of work.”

“I bet you don’t charge what it’s worth.”

“Now, worth is a relative concept.” Old shot Gamache a glance as they bumped along the road. “I love what I do and if I charged a reasonable amount per hour nobody’d be able to buy my pieces, and Olivier wouldn’t hire me to repair the great things he finds. So it’s worth it to me to charge less. I have a good life. No complaints here.”

“Has anyone been really angry at Olivier?”

Old drove in silence and Gamache wasn’t sure he’d heard. But finally he spoke.

“Once, about a year ago. Old Madame Poirier, up the Mountain road, had decided to move into a nursing home in Saint-Rémy. Olivier’d been buzzing around her for a few years. When the time came she sold most of her stuff to him. He found some amazing pieces there.”

“Did he pay a fair price?”

“Depends who you talk to. She was happy. Olivier was happy.”

“So who was angry?”

Old Mundin said nothing. Gamache waited.

“Her kids. They said Olivier’d insinuated himself, taken advantage of a lonely old woman.”

Old Mundin pulled into a small farmhouse. Hollyhocks leaned against the wall and the garden was full of black-eyed Susans and old-fashioned roses. A vegetable garden, well tended and orderly, was planted at the side of the house.

The van rolled to a halt and Mundin pointed to a barn. “That’s my workshop.”

Gamache unbuckled Charles from the child seat. The boy was asleep and Gamache carried him as the two men walked to the barn.

“You said Olivier made an unexpected find at Madame Poirier’s place?”

“He paid her a flat fee for all the stuff she no longer needed. She chose what she wanted to keep and he bought the rest.”

Old Mundin stopped at the barn door, turning to Gamache.

“There was a set of six Chippendale chairs. Worth about ten thousand each. I know, because I worked on them, but I don’t think he told anyone else.”

“Did you?”

“No. You’d be surprised how discreet I need to be in my work.”

“Do you know if Olivier gave Madame Poirier any extra money?”

“I don’t.”

“But her kids were angry.”

Mundin nodded curtly and opened the barn door. They stepped into a different world. All the complex aromas of the late summer farm had disappeared. Gone was the slight scent of manure, of cut grass, of hay, of herbs in the sun.

Here there was only one note—wood. Fresh sawn wood. Old barn wood. Wood of every description. Gamache looked at the walls, lined with wood waiting to be turned into furniture. Old Mundin smoothed one fine hand over a rough board.