Still Life (A Three Pines Mystery)

'Not again.' It wasn't often he could get the drop on the chief. But Beauvoir had begun to worry. Suppose he snuck up on Gamache sometime and he had a heart attack? It would certainly take the fun out of it. But he worried about the Chief Inspector. His rational mind, which normally had the upper hand, knew it was stupid. The Chief Inspector was slightly overweight and he had crested fifty, but that described many people, and most did just fine without Beauvoir's help. But. But the Chief Inspector's job was stressful enough to fell an elephant. And he worked hard. But mostly Jean Guy Beauvoir's feelings couldn't be explained. He just didn't want to lose the Chief Inspector. Gamache clapped him on the shoulder and offered him the last of the cafe au lait from the thermos, but Beauvoir had had breakfast at the B. & B.

'Brunch, you mean.'

'Humm. Eggs Benedict, croissants, homemade jams.' Beauvoir looked at the crumpled paper bag in Gamache's fist. 'It was awful. You're lucky to have missed it. Nichol is still there. She came down after me and sat at a different table. Odd girl.'

'Woman, Jean Guy.'

Beauvoir harrumphed. He hated Gamache's political correctness. Gamache smiled. 'It's not that.' He'd divined the reason for the harrumph. 'Don't you see? She wants us all to see her as a girl, as a child, someone who needs to be treated delicately.'

'If so she's a spoiled child. She gives me the willies.'

'Don't let her get under your skin. She's manipulative and angry. Just treat her like any other agent. That'll drive her nuts.'

'Why's she even with us? She brings nothing.'

'She came up with some very good analysis yesterday that helped convince us Philippe Croft is our killer.'

'True, but she's a dangerous character.'

'Dangerous, Jean Guy?'

'Not physically. She won't take her gun and shoot us all. Probably.'

'Not all. One of us would get her before she finished us all off, I hope.' Gamache smiled.

'I hope it's me. She's dangerous because she's divisive.'

'Yes. That makes sense. I've been thinking about it. When she picked me up at home Sunday morning I was impressed. She was respectful, thoughtful, answered thoroughly when asked a question but didn't impose or need to impress. I really thought we had a winner.'

'She brought you coffee and donuts, didn't she.'

'Brioche, actually. Almost promoted her to Sergeant on the spot.'

'That's how I made Inspector. That eclair put me over the top. But something happened to Nichol between the time she arrived and now,' agreed Beauvoir.

'All I can think is that as she met more team members she began to unravel. Some people do. They're great one on one. The individual sports types. Brilliant. But put them on a team and they're awful. I think that's Nichol, competitive when she should be collaborative.'

'I think she's desperate to prove herself and wants your approval. At the same time she sees any advice as criticism and any criticism as catastrophic.'

'Well she had a catastrophic night, then.' Gamache filled him in on his conversation with Nichol.

'Let her go, sir. You've done your best. You coming up?' Beauvoir began climbing the ladder to the blind. 'This is great. Like a tree house.' Gamache had rarely seen Beauvoir so animated. Still, he felt no need to see the animation close up.

'Already been. Do you see the deer trail?' The night before he'd told Beauvoir about the blind and advised him to take samples. But he hadn't expected to see the Inspector so early.

'Mais oui. From up here it's easy. Still, something occurred to me last night.' Beauvoir was staring down at him. Oh God, I have to go up, don't I, thought Gamache. Reaching for the slimy wooden slats he started climbing. Hauling himself on to the platform, he pressed his back against the rough trunk and gripped the railing.

'Dope.'

'I beg your pardon?' For an instant Gamache thought Beauvoir had guessed his secret and was calling him ...

'Mary Jane. Marijuana. Not just pumpkins get harvested right now. It's dope season in the townships. I think it's possible Jane Neal was killed by growers after she found their crop. She used to walk all over, right? God knows it's a multi-million dollar industry, and people are sometimes murdered.'

'True,' Gamache was intrigued by the suggestion, except for one thing, 'but most of the growing is done by the Hells Angels and the Rock Machine, the biker gangs.'

'Right. This is Hells Angels turf. Wouldn't want to mess with them. They're killers. Do you think we can transfer Nichol to narcotics?'

'Focus, Beauvoir. Jane Neal was killed by a forty-year-old arrow. When was the last time you saw a biker with a bow and arrow?'