Still Life (A Three Pines Mystery)

She heard it before she saw it. The prayer stick, its brightly colored ribbons catching the wind, sending their gifts into the air, knocking against each other. Like true friends. Bumping, and sometimes hurting, though never meaning to. Ruth took hold of the old photograph, the image almost worn off by the rain and snow. She hadn't looked at this picture in sixty years, since the day she'd taken it at the fair. Jane and Andreas, so joyous. And Timmer behind, looking straight at the camera, at Ruth holding the camera, and scowling. Ruth had known then, years ago, that Timmer knew. Young Ruth had just betrayed Jane. And now Timmer was dead. And Andreas was dead, and Jane was dead. And Ruth felt, maybe, it was time to let go. She released the old photograph and it quickly joined the other objects, dancing and playing together.

Ruth reached into her pocket and took out the book she'd chosen as her gift from Jane. With it she withdrew the envelope Jane had left her. Inside was a card, hand-drawn by Jane, a near duplicate of the image on the wall of Jane's living room. Except, instead of two young girls embracing, they were now old and frail. Two elderly women. Holding each other. Ruth slipped it into the book. The worn little book that smelled of Floris.

In a tremulous voice Ruth started to read out loud, the words taken by the wind to play among the snowflakes and bright ribbons. Daisy looked at her with adoration.

Gamache sat in the Bistro, having come in to say goodbye, and maybe buy a licorice pipe, or two, before heading back to Montreal. Olivier and Gabri were having a heated discussion about where to put the magnificent Welsh dresser Olivier had chosen. Olivier had tried not to choose it. Had spoken with himself quite sternly about not being greedy and taking the best thing in Jane's home.

Just this once, he begged himself, take something symbolic. Something small to remember her by. A nice bit of famille rose, or a little silver tray. Not the Welsh dresser. Not the Welsh dresser.

'Why can't we ever put the nice things in the B. & B.?' Gabri was complaining, as he and Olivier walked around the Bistro, looking for a place for the Welsh dresser. Spotting Gamache, they went over to him. Gabri had a question.

'Did you ever suspect us?'

Gamache looked at the two men, one huge and buoyant, the other slim and self-contained. 'No. I think you've both been hurt too much in your lives by the cruelty of others to ever be cruel yourselves. In my experience people who have been hurt either pass it on and become abusive themselves or they develop a great kindness. You're not the types to do murder. I wish I could say the same for everyone here.'

'What do you mean?' asked Olivier.

'Who do you mean?' asked Gabri.

'Now, you don't expect me to tell you, do you? Besides, this person may never act.' To Gabri's observant eye Gamache looked unconvinced, even slightly fearful.

Just then Myrna arrived for a hot chocolate.

'I have a question for you.' Myrna turned to Gamache, after she'd ordered. 'What's with Philippe? Why'd he turn on his father like that?'

Gamache wondered how much to say. Isabelle Lacoste had sent the item she'd found taped behind a framed poster in Bernard's room to the lab and the results had come back. Philippe's fingerprints were all over it. Gamache hadn't been surprised. Bernard Malenfant had been blackmailing the young man.

But Gamache knew Philippe's behavior had changed before that. He'd gone from being a happy, kind boy to a cruel, sullen, deeply unhappy adolescent. Gamache had guessed the reason but the magazine had confirmed it. Philippe didn't hate his father. No. Philippe hated himself, and took it out on his father.

'I'm sorry,' said Gamache. 'I can't tell you.'

As Gamache put on his coat Olivier and Gabri came over.

'We think we know why Philippe's been acting this way,' said Gabri. 'We wrote it on this piece of paper. If we're right, could you just nod?'

Gamache opened the note and read. Then he folded it back up and put it in his pocket. As he went out the door he looked back at the two men, standing shoulder to shoulder, just touching. Against his better judgment, he nodded. He never regretted it.

They watched Armand Gamache limp to his car and drive away. Gabri felt a deep sadness. He'd known about Philippe for a while. The manure incident, perversely, had confirmed it. That's why they'd decided to invite Philippe to work off his debt at the Bistro. Where they could watch him, but more importantly, where he could watch them. And see it was all right.

'Well,' Olivier's hand brushed against Gabri's, 'at least you'll have another munchkin if you ever decide to stage The Wizard of Oz.'

'Just what this village needs, another friend of Dorothy.'