Still Life (A Three Pines Mystery)

'No. No one saw any need. Why are you interested in Timmer's death?'

'Just being thorough,' said Beauvoir. 'Two elderly women dying within a few weeks of each other in a very small village, well, it begs some questions. That's all.'

'But as you said, they were elderly. It's what you'd expect.'

'If one hadn't died with a hole in her heart,' said Nichol. Clara winced.

'May I see you for a moment?' Gamache led Nichol outside. 'Agent, if you ever treat anyone the way you've been treating Mrs Morrow, I'll have your badge and send you home on the bus, is that clear?'

'What's wrong with what I said? It's the truth.'

'And do you think she doesn't know that Jane Neal was killed with an arrow? Do you really not know what you've done wrong?'

'I only spoke the truth.'

'No, you only treated another human being like a fool, and from what I can see deliberately hurt her. You are to take notes and remain silent. We'll talk about this further tonight.'

'But--'

'I've been treating you with courtesy and respect because that's the way I choose to treat everyone. But never, ever mistake kindness for weakness. Never debate with me again. Got it?'

'Yes, sir.' And Nichol pledged to keep her opinions to herself if that was the thanks she got for having the courage to say what everyone was thinking. When asked directly she'd answer in monosyllables. So there.

'So there's Jane's picture,' said Clara, hauling a medium-size canvas out from the storage room and putting it on an easel. 'Not everyone liked it.'

Nichol was on the verge of saying, 'No kidding', but remembered her pledge.

'Did you like it?' Beauvoir asked.

'Not at first, but the longer I looked the more I liked it. Something sort of shimmered into place. It went from looking like a cave drawing to something deeply moving. Just like that.' And Clara snapped her fingers.

Gamache thought he'd have to stare at it for the rest of his life before it looked anything other than ridiculous. And yet, there was something there, a charm. 'There are Nellie and Wayne,' he said pointing, surprised, to two purple people in the stands.

'Here's Peter.' Clara pointed to a pie with eyes and a mouth, but no nose.

'How'd she do it? How could she get these people so accurately with two dots for eyes and a squiggly line for a mouth?'

'I don't know. I'm an artist, have been all my life, and I couldn't do that. But there's more to it than that. There's a depth. Though I've been staring at it for more than an hour now and that shimmering thing hasn't happened again. Maybe I'm too needy. Maybe the magic only works when you're not looking for it.'

'Is it good?' Beauvoir asked.

'That's the question. I don't know. Peter thinks it's brilliant, and the rest of the jury, with one exception, was willing to risk it.'

'What risk?'

'This might surprise you, but artists are temperamental so-and-sos. For Jane's work to be accepted and shown, someone else's had to be rejected. That someone will be angry. As will his relatives and friends.'

'Angry enough to kill?' Beauvoir asked.

Clara laughed. 'I can absolutely guarantee you the thought has crossed and even lodged in all our artistic brains at one time or another. But to kill because your work was rejected at Arts Williamsburg? No. Besides, if you did, it would be the jury you'd murder, not Jane. And, come to think of it, no one except the jury knew this work had been accepted. We'd only done the judging last Friday.' It seems so long ago now, thought Clara.

'Even Miss Neal?'

'Well, I told Jane on Friday.'

'Did anyone else know?'

Now Clara was getting a little embarrassed. 'We talked about it over dinner that night. It was a sort of pre-Thanksgiving dinner with our friends at our place.'

'Who was at the dinner?' Beauvoir asked, his notepad out. He no longer trusted Nichol to take proper notes. Nichol saw this and resented it almost as much as she'd resented it when they'd asked her to take notes. Clara ran down the list of names.

Gamache, meanwhile, was staring at the picture.

'What's it of?'

'The closing parade at the county fair this year. There,' and Clara pointed to a green-faced goat with a shepherd's crook, 'that's Ruth.'

'By God, it is,' said Gamache, to Beauvoir's roar of laughter. It was perfect. He must have been blind to miss it. 'But wait,' Gamache's delight suddenly disappeared, 'this was painted the very day, at the very time, Timmer Hadley was dying.'

'Yes.'

'What does she call it?'

'Fair Day.'

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