Brutal Telling

Olivier’s face was red and blotchy. Gabri could see it spread even under his scalp, through the thinning and struggling blond hair.

“What’re you talking about? I don’t care if people come, you know that. We don’t need the money. I just do it for fun.”

Olivier struggled to control himself now. To not take that one step too far. The two men glared so that the space between them throbbed.

“Why?” Olivier finally said.

“Why what?”

“If the dead man wasn’t killed here, why was he put here?”

Gabri felt his anger lift, evaporated by the question.

“I heard from the police today,” said Olivier, his voice almost monotone. “They’re going to speak to my father tomorrow.”

Poor Olivier, thought Gabri, he did have something to worry about after all.

Jean Guy Beauvoir got out of the car and stared across the road at the Poirier home.

It was ramshackle and in need of way more than just a coat of paint. The porch was sloping, the steps looked unsound, pieces of boarding were missing from the side of the house.

Beauvoir had been in dozens of places like this in rural Quebec. Lived in by a generation born there too. Clotilde Poirier probably drank coffee from a chipped mug her mother had used. Slept on a mattress she’d been conceived on. The walls would be covered with dried flowers and spoons sent by relatives who’d escaped to exotic places like Rimouski or Chicoutimi or Gaspé. And there’d be a chair, a rocking chair, by the window, near the woodstove. It would have a slightly soiled afghan on it and crumbs. And after clearing up the breakfast dishes Clotilde Poirier would sit there, and watch.

What would she be watching for? A friend? A familiar car? Another spoon?

Was she watching him now?

Armand Gamache’s Volvo appeared over the hill and came to a stop behind Beauvoir. The two men stood and stared for a moment at the house.

“I found out about the Varathane,” said Beauvoir, thinking this place could use a hundred gallons or so of the stuff. “The Gilberts didn’t use it when they did the renovations. I spoke to Dominique Gilbert. She said they want to be as green as possible. After they had the floors sanded they used tung oil.”

“So the Varathane on the dead man’s clothing didn’t come from the old Hadley house,” said the Chief, disappointed. It had seemed a promising lead.

“Why’re we here?” Beauvoir asked as they turned back to survey the gently subsiding home and the rusting pickup truck in the yard. He’d received a call from the Chief to meet him here, but he didn’t know why.

Gamache explained what Old Mundin had said about Olivier, Madame Poirier and her furniture. Specifically the Chippendale chairs.

“So her kids think Olivier screwed her? And by extension, them?” asked Beauvoir.

“Seems so.” He knocked on the door. After a moment a querulous voice called through it.

“Who is it?”

“Chief Inspector Gamache, madame. Of the Sûreté du Québec.”

“I ain’t done nothing wrong.”

Gamache and Beauvoir exchanged glances.

“We need to speak to you, Madame Poirier. It’s about the body found in the bistro in Three Pines.”

“So?”

It was very difficult conducting an interview through an inch of chipping wood.

“May we come in? We’d like to talk to you about Olivier Brulé.”

An elderly woman, small and slender, opened the door. She glared at them then turned and walked rapidly back into the house. Gamache and Beauvoir followed.

It was decorated as Beauvoir had imagined. Or, really, not decorated. Things were put up on the walls as they’d arrived, over the generations, so that the walls were a horizontal archaeological dig. The farther into the house they went, the more recent the items. Framed flowers, plasticized place mats, crucifixes, paintings of Jesus and the Virgin Mary, and yes, spoons, all marched across the faded floral wallpaper.

But the place was clean, spotless and smelled of cookies. Photos of grandchildren, perhaps even great-grandchildren, sat on shelves and tabletops. A faded striped tablecloth, clean and ironed, was on the kitchen table. And in the center of that table was a vase containing late summer flowers.

“Tea?” She lifted a pot from the stove. Beauvoir declined but Gamache accepted. She returned with cups of tea for them all. “Well, go on.”

“We understand Olivier bought some furniture from you,” said Beauvoir.

“Not just some. He bought the lot. Thank God. Gave me more than anyone else would, despite what my kids mighta told you.”

“We haven’t spoken to them yet,” said Beauvoir.

“Neither have I. Not since selling the stuff.” But she didn’t seem upset. “Greedy, all of them. Waiting for me to die so they can inherit.”

“How did you meet Olivier?” Beauvoir asked.

“He knocked on the door one day. Introduced himself. Asked if I had anything I’d like to sell. Sent him running the first few times.” She smiled at the memory. “But there was something about him. He kept coming back. So I eventually invited him in, just for tea. He’d come about once a month, have tea, then leave.”

“When did you decide to sell to him?” Beauvoir asked.