Still Life (A Three Pines Mystery)

They went back into the darkness downstairs. Peter had turned off the industrial floodlights he'd hooked up earlier in the day to allow them to work. Through dinner they'd eaten by firelight and the warm glow of a couple of table lamps. The walls had been in darkness. Now Peter went to the switch and flooded the room with light.

Gamache screwed his eyes tight shut. After a few moments he opened them.

It was like being in a cave, one of those wondrous caves explorers sometimes found filled with ancient symbols and depictions. Running caribou and swimming people. Gamache had read all about them in National Geographic, now he felt as though he'd been magically transported into one, here in the heart of Quebec, in a settled and even staid old village. As with cave drawings, Gamache knew the history of Three Pines and its people was depicted here. Slowly, hands clasped behind his back, Gamache walked around the walls. They were covered floor to ceiling with village scenes and rural scenes and classrooms and children and animals and adults singing and playing and working. A few of the scenes were of accidents, and there was at least one funeral.

He no longer felt he'd walked into a cave. Now he felt surrounded by life. He took a couple of steps back and could feel tears stinging his eyes. He screwed them shut again, hoping they'd think him bothered by the strong light. And in a way he was. He was overwhelmed by emotion. Sadness and melancholia. And delight. Joy. He was lifted right out of himself. It transcended the literal. This was Jane's long house. Her home had become her long house, where every one, every event, every thing, every emotion was present. And Gamache knew then the murderer was there as well. Somewhere on those walls.

The next day Clara took the envelope to Yolande at home. Ringing the gleaming faux-brass bell and hearing the Beethoven chimes, Clara steeled herself. Just this one thing for Jane, just this one thing for Jane.

'Bitch,' a furious Yolande screamed. There followed a stream of insults and accusations, ending with a promise to sue Clara for everything she had.

Just this one thing for Jane, just this one thing for Jane. 'You're a goddamned thief, tete carree. That home belongs to me. To my family. How can you sleep at night, you bitch?'

Just this one thing.

Clara held up the envelope until it caught Yolande's attention, and like a child presented with something shiny and new, Yolande stopped screaming and stared, mesmerised by the slim white paper.

'Is that for me? Is that mine? That's Aunt Jane's writing, isn't it?'

'I have a question for you.' Clara waved it back and forth.

'Give it to me.' Yolande lunged, but Clara flicked it out of her reach.

'Why did you cover up her drawings?'

'So you found them,' Yolande spat. 'Filthy, insane things. Everyone thought she was so wonderful but her family knew she was nuts. My grandparents knew she was crazy since she was a teenager and doing those hideous drawings. They were ashamed of her. All her art looked retarded. My mother said she actually wanted to study art but my grandparents put an end to that. Told her the truth. Told her it wasn't art. It was an embarrassment. They told her never to ever show anyone her scrawls. We told her the truth. It was our duty. We didn't want her to get hurt, did we? It was for her own good. And what did we get for it? Thrown out of the family home. She actually had the nerve to say I'd be allowed back the moment I apologised. The only thing I was sorry about, I told her, was that she ruined our home. Crazy old lady.'

Clara saw again Jane sitting in the Bistro, crying. Tears of joy that someone, finally, accepted her art. And Clara knew then what it had taken for Jane to expose one of her works.

'She fooled you, didn't she? You didn't know your friend was a freak. Well, now you know what we've had to put up with.'

'You have no idea, have you? No idea what you've thrown away? You're a stupid, stupid woman, Yolande.' Clara's mind went blank, as it always did in confrontations. She was vibrating and on the verge of losing it completely. She paid for her outburst by being forced to listen to a string of accusations and threats. Oddly enough, Yolande's rage was so deeply unattractive Clara could feel her own anger ease.

'Why that particular wallpaper?' she asked into Yolande's purple face.

'Hideous, wasn't it? It seemed fitting to cover one monstrosity with another. Besides, it was cheap.'