Brutal Telling

“Well, you told Agent Lacoste you’d seen a stranger disappearing into the woods. But it wasn’t the dead man. Who do you think it was?”

“I musta been wrong.”

“Now, why would you say that? You don’t really believe it, do you?”

For once Beauvoir really looked at the man. He was covered in sweat and dirt, and manure. He was stocky and muscled. But none of that made him stupid. In fact, Beauvoir thought this man was very bright. So why had he just lied?

“I’m tired of people looking at me like I just said I’d been kidnapped by aliens. The guy was there one moment, gone the next. I looked for him, but nothing. And no, I haven’t seen him since.”

“Maybe he’s gone.”

“Maybe.”

They walked in silence. The air was filled with the musky scents of fresh harvested hay and manure.

“I heard the new owners here are very environmentally aware.” Beauvoir managed to make it sound a reproach, something slightly silly. Some new-fangled city-folk nonsense. “Bet they won’t let you use pesticides or fertilizers.”

“I won’t use them. Told them so. Had to teach them to compost and even recycle. Not sure they’d ever heard of it. And they still used plastic bags for their groceries, can you believe it?”

Beauvoir, who did too, shook his head. Parra dumped the manure onto a steaming pile and turned back to Beauvoir, chuckling.

“What?” asked Beauvoir.

“They’re now greener than green. Nothing wrong with that, of course. Wish everyone was.”

“So that means with all those renovations they didn’t use any toxic stuff, like Varathane.”

Again the stocky man laughed. “Wanted to, but I stopped them. Told them about tung oil.”

Beauvoir felt his optimism fade. Leaving Roar Parra to turn over the compost heap he went back to the house and rang the doorbell. It was time to ask them directly. The door was answered by Madame Gilbert, Marc’s mother.

“I’d like to speak to your son again, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course, Inspector. Would you like to come in?”

She was genteel and gracious. Unlike her son. Beneath his cheerful and friendly manner there peeked every now and then a condescension, an awareness that he had a lot and others had less. And somehow that made them less.

“I’ll just wait. It’s a small point.”

After she’d disappeared Beauvoir stood in the entrance admiring the fresh white paint, the polished furniture, the flowers in the hall beyond. The sense of order and calm and welcome. In the old Hadley house. He could hardly believe it. For all Marc Gilbert’s flaws, he’d been able to do all this. Light flooded through the window in the foyer and gleamed off the wooden floors.

Gleamed.

SIXTEEN

By the time Madame Gilbert and Marc returned Inspector Beauvoir had the area rug up and was examining the floor of the small entrance hall.

“What is it?” she asked.

Beauvoir looked up from where he was kneeling and gestured to them to stay where they were. Then he bent back down.

The floor had been Varathaned. It was smooth and hard and clear and glossy. Except for one small smudge. He stood up and brushed off his knees.

“Do you have a cordless phone?”

“I’ll get it,” said Marc.

“Perhaps your mother wouldn’t mind.” Beauvoir looked at Carole Gilbert who nodded and left.

“What is it?” Marc asked, leaning in and staring at the floor.

“You know what it is, Monsieur Gilbert. Yesterday your wife said you never used Varathane, that you were trying to be as eco-friendly as possible. But that wasn’t true.”

Marc laughed. “You’re right. We did use Varathane here. But that was before we knew there was something better to use. So we stopped.”

Beauvoir stared at Marc Gilbert. He could hear Carole returning with the phone, her heels clicking on the wooden floors.

“I use Varathane,” said the Inspector. “I’m not as environmentally aware as you, I guess. I know it takes about a day to set. But it really isn’t completely hard for a week or so. This Varathane isn’t months old. You didn’t start with it, did you? This was just done within the last week.”

Gilbert finally looked flustered. “Look, I Varathaned it one night when everyone else was asleep. It was last Friday. That’s good wood and it’s going to get more wear than any other place in the inn, so I decided to use Varathane. But just there. Nowhere else. I don’t think Dominique or Mama even know.”

“Don’t you use this door all the time? It is the main entrance, after all.”

“We park around the side and use the kitchen door. We never use the front. But our guests will.”

“Here’s the phone.” Carole Gilbert had reappeared. Beauvoir thanked her and called the bistro.

“Is Chief Inspector Gamache there, s’il vous plaît?” he asked Olivier.

“Oui?” He heard the Chief’s deep voice.

“I’ve found something. I think you need to come up. And bring a Scene of Crime kit, please.”

“Scene of Crime? What’s that supposed to mean?” asked Marc, getting irritated now.

But Beauvoir had stopped answering questions.

Within minutes Gamache and Morin arrived and Beauvoir showed them the polished floor. And the little scuff mark marring the perfect shine.