Still Life (A Three Pines Mystery)

The village stirred and by seven-thirty most homes had come to life. Lucy had been let out of the Morrow home and was wandering around, sniffing. She put her nose in the air, then slowly turned and walked then trotted and finally ran to the trail through the woods that would take her home. Back to her mother. Gamache watched the golden-feathered tail disappear into the maple and cherry forest, and felt his heart break. A few minutes later Clara came out and called Lucy. A single forlorn bark was heard and Gamache watched as Clara went into the woods and returned a moment later, followed slowly by Lucy, her head down and her tail still.

Clara had slept fitfully the night before, waking up every few hours with that sinking feeling that was becoming a companion. Loss. It wasn't the shriek it had been, more a moan in her marrow. She and Peter had spoken again over the dishes while the others sat in the living room, mulling over the possibility Jane had been murdered.

'I'm sorry,' Clara said, a dish towel in her hand, taking the warm, wet plates from Peter's hand. 'I should have told you about my conversation with Gamache.'

'Why didn't you?'

'I don't know.'

'That's not good enough, Clara. Can it be that you don't trust me?'

He searched her face, his icy-blue eyes keen and cold. She knew she should hold him, should tell him how much she loved him and trusted him and needed him. But something held her back. There it was again. A silence between them. Something else unsaid. Is this how it starts? Clara wondered. Those chasms between couples, filled not with comfort and familiarity, but with too much unsaid, and too much said.

Once again her lover closed up. Became stone. Still and cold.

Ben had walked in on them at that moment, and caught them in an act more intimate than sex. Their anger and pain was fully exposed. Ben stammered and stumbled and bumbled and finally left, looking like a child who had walked in on his parents.

That night, after everyone had left, Clara said the things she knew Peter had longed to hear. How much she trusted him and loved him. How sorry she was, and how grateful she was for his patience in the face of her own pain at Jane's death. And she asked for his forgiveness. And he gave it, and they'd held each other until their breathing became deep and even and in sync.

But still, something had been left unsaid.

The next morning Clara rose early, let Lucy out, and made Peter pancakes, maple syrup and bacon. The unexpected smell of cured Canadian bacon, fresh coffee and woodsmoke woke Peter. Lying in bed he resolved to try to move beyond the hard feelings of the day before. Still, it had confirmed for Peter that feelings were too dangerous to expose. He showered, put on clean clothes and his game face, and went downstairs.

'When do you think Yolande'll move in?' Clara asked Peter over breakfast.

'I guess after the will has been read. A few days, maybe a week.'

'I can't believe Jane would leave her home to Yolande, if for no other reason than she knew how much I hate her.'

'Maybe it wasn't about you, Clara.'

Zing. And maybe, thought Clara, he's still pissed off. 'I've been watching Yolande for the last couple of days. She keeps lugging stuff into Jane's place.'

Peter shrugged. He was getting tired of comforting Clara.

'Didn't Jane make a new will?' she tried again.

'I don't remember that.' Peter knew Clara enough to know this was a ruse, an attempt to take his mind off his hurt and to get him on her side. He refused to play.

'No, really,' said Clara. 'I seem to remember when Timmer was diagnosed and knew it was terminal that they both talked about revising their wills. I'm sure Jane and Timmer went off to that notary in Williamsburg. What was her name? You know. The one who just had the baby. She was in my exercise class.'

'If Jane made a new will, the police'll know about it. It's what they do.'

Gamache got up from the bench. He'd seen what he needed to. What he suspected. It was far from conclusive, but it was interesting. Lies always were. Now, before the day swept him up in its imperatives, he wanted to see the blind again. Maybe not climb it, though. He walked across the green, his duck boots leaving prints in the frost-soaked grass. Up the hill he walked, past the old schoolhouse, and then into the woods. Once again he found himself at the foot of the tree. It was pretty obvious from his first, and he hoped only, visit upwards that the blind hadn't been used by the killer. But still ...

'Bang. You're dead.'

Gamache swung around, but had recognised the voice an instant after he'd begun to turn.

'You're a sneak, Jean Guy. I'm going to have to put a cow bell on you.'