Brutal Telling

“You wouldn’t know it, but there’s burled wood under there. You have to know what to look for. The tiny imperfections. Funny how imperfections on the outside mean something splendid beneath.”

He looked into Gamache’s eyes. Charles stirred slightly and the Chief Inspector brought a large hand up to the boy’s back, to reassure him.

“I’m afraid I don’t know much about wood but you seem to have different sorts. Why’s that?”

“Different needs. I use maple and cherry and pine for inside work. Cedar for outside. This here’s red cedar. My favorite. Doesn’t look like much now, but carved and polished . . .” Mundin made an eloquent gesture.

Gamache noticed two chairs on a platform. One was upside down. “From the bistro?” He walked over to them. Sure enough one had a loose arm and the leg of the other was wobbly.

“I picked those up Saturday night.”

“Is it all right to talk about what happened at the bistro in front of Charles?”

“I’m sure it is. He’ll understand, or not. Either way, it’s okay. He knows it’s not about him.”

Gamache wished more people could make that distinction. “You were there the night of the murder.”

“True. I go every Saturday to pick up the damaged furniture and drop off the stuff I’ve restored. It was the same as always. I got there just after midnight. The last of the customers was leaving and the kids were beginning to clean up.”

Kids, thought Gamache. And yet they weren’t really that much younger than this man. But somehow Old seemed very, well, old.

“But I didn’t see a body.”

“Too bad, that would’ve helped. Did anything strike you as unusual at all?”

Old Mundin thought. Charles woke up and squirmed. Gamache lowered him to the barn floor where he picked up a piece of wood and turned it around and around.

“I’m sorry. I wish I could help, but it seemed like any other Saturday night.”

Gamache also picked up a chunk of wood and smoothed the sawdust off it.

“How’d you start repairing Olivier’s furniture?”

“Oh, that was years ago. Gave me a chair to work on. It’d been kept in a barn for years and he’d just moved it into the bistro. Now, you must understand . . .”

What followed was a passionate monologue on old Quebec pine furniture. Milk paint, the horrors of stripping, the dangers of ruining a fine piece by restoring it. That difficult line between making a piece usable and making it valueless.

Gamache listened, fascinated. He had a passion for Quebec history, and by extension Quebec antiques, the remarkable furniture made by pioneers in the long winter months hundreds of years ago. They’d made the pine furniture both practical and beautiful, pouring themselves into it. Each time Gamache touched an old table or armoire he imagined the habitant shaping and smoothing the wood, going over it and over it with hardened hands. And making something lovely.

Lovely and lasting, thanks to people like Old Mundin.

“What brought you to Three Pines? Why not a larger city? There’d be more work, surely, in Montreal or even Sherbrooke.”

“I was born in Quebec City, and you’d think there’d be lots of work there for an antique restorer, but it’s hard for a young guy starting out. I moved to Montreal, to an antique shop on Notre Dame, but I’m afraid I wasn’t cut out for the big city. So I decided to go to Sherbrooke. Got in the car, headed south, and got lost. I drove into Three Pines to ask directions at the bistro, ordered café au lait, sat down and the chair collapsed.” He laughed, as did Gamache. “I offered to repair it and that was that.”

“You said you’d been here for eleven years. You must’ve been young when you left Quebec City.”

“Sixteen. I left after my father died. Spent three years in Montreal, then down here. Met The Wife, had Charles. Started a small business.”

This young man had done a lot with his eleven years, thought Gamache. “How did Olivier seem on Saturday night?”

“As usual. Labor Day’s always busy but he seemed relaxed. As relaxed as he ever gets, I suppose.” Mundin smiled. It was clear there was affection there. “Did I hear you say the man wasn’t murdered at the bistro after all?”

Gamache nodded. “We’re trying to find out where he was killed. In fact, while you were at the fair I had my people searching the whole area, including your place.”

“Really?” They were at the barn door and Mundin turned to stare into the gloom. “They’re either very good, or they didn’t actually do anything. You can’t tell.”

“That’s the point.” But the Chief noticed that, unlike Peter, Old Mundin didn’t seem at all concerned.

“Now, why would you kill someone one place, then move them to another?” asked Mundin, almost to himself. “I can see wanting to get rid of a body, especially if you killed him in your own home, but why take him to Olivier’s? Seems a strange thing to do, but I guess the bistro’s a fairly central location. Maybe it was just convenient.”