Bury Your Dead

Glancing around he noticed every third or fourth person was in a dressing gown. He’d always secretly suspected this was not a village but an out-patient clinic from an asylum, now he had his proof.

“Here for your meds?” he asked as she sat.

Clara laughed and held up her beer. “Always.” She nodded at his Maudite beer. “You too?”

Leaning forward he whispered, “What time is it?”

“Six.” When he still stared she added, “In the evening.”

“Then why . . .” He indicated her get-up.

“After Olivier was arrested it took Gabri a while to really function, so some of us helped out. He didn’t want to open on Sundays, but Myrna and I convinced him to and he finally agreed, on one condition.”

“Pajamas?”

“You are clever,” she smiled. “He didn’t want to have to get dressed. After a while most of us started doing the same thing, showing up in our pajamas. It’s very relaxing. I stay in them all day.”

Beauvoir tried to look disapproving but had to admit, she did look comfortable. She completed the look by having bed-head, though that was nothing new. Her hair always stuck out in all directions, probably where she ran her hands through it. And that would also account for the crumbs in there, and the flecks of paint.

He tried to think of something friendly to say, something that would lead her to believe he was there because he liked their company.

“Do you have your art show soon?”

“A couple of months.” She took a long haul of her beer. “When I’m not practicing my interview for the New York Times and Oprah I try not to think about it.”

“Oprah?”

“Yes. It’ll be a huge tribute show, to me. All the top art critics will be there, weeping of course, overwhelmed by my insight, by the power of my images. Oprah will buy a few pieces for 100 million each. Sometimes it’s 50 million, sometimes 150 million.”

“So she’s getting a bit of a bargain today.”

“I’m feeling generous.”

He laughed, surprising himself. He’d never had an actual conversation with Clara. With any of them. The Chief had. Somehow he’d managed to become friends with most of them but Beauvoir had never been able to pass through that membrane, to see people as both suspects and human. He’d never wanted to. The idea repulsed him.

He watched her take some mixed nuts and sip on her beer.

“Can I ask you something?” he said.

“Sure.”

“Do you think Olivier killed the Hermit?”

Her hand stopped on its way for more nuts. He’d dropped his voice as he spoke, making sure they weren’t overheard. She lowered her hand and thought for a good minute before answering.

“I don’t know. I wish I could say absolutely he didn’t, but the evidence is so strong. And if he didn’t then someone else did.”

She casually looked around the room, and he followed her gaze.

There was Old Mundin and The Wife. The handsome young couple was dining with the Parras. Old, despite his name, wasn’t yet thirty and was a carpenter. He also restored Olivier’s antiques and had been among the last people in the bistro the night the Hermit was killed. The Wife, Beauvoir knew, had an actual name though he’d forgotten what it was as had, he suspected, most people. What had started as a joke, the young couple mocking their married state, had become reality. She was The Wife. They had a young son, Charlie, who had Down syndrome.

Glancing at the child Beauvoir remembered that had been one of the reasons people considered Dr. Vincent Gilbert a saint. His decision to abandon a lucrative career to live in a community of people with Down syndrome, to care for them. From that experience he’d written the book Being. It was by most accounts a book of staggering honesty and humility. Staggering because it had been written by such an asshole.

Well, as Clara often told them, great works of creation often were.

Sitting with Old and The Wife were Roar and Hanna Parra. They’d been among the main suspects. Roar was cutting the paths through the woods and could have found the cabin with its priceless contents and shabby old occupant.

But why take the life and leave the treasure?

The same question held true for their son, Havoc Parra. Clara and Beauvoir glanced over at him, waiting a table by the other fireplace. He’d worked late in the bistro the night the Hermit had been killed and had closed up.

Had he followed Olivier through the woods and found the cabin?

Had he looked inside, seen the treasures, and realized what it meant? It meant no more tips, no more tables, no more smiling at rude customers. No wondering what the future held.

It meant freedom. And all he’d have to do was knock a solitary old man on the head. But, again, why were most of the priceless treasures still in the cabin?

Across the room were Marc and Dominique Gilbert. The owners of the inn and spa. In their mid-forties they’d escaped high-paying, high-pressure jobs in Montreal, to come to Three Pines. They’d bought the wreck on the hill and turned it into a magnificent hotel.

Olivier despised Marc and it was mutual.