Still Life (A Three Pines Mystery)

'I think the key to Jane's murder is here,' said Gamache, watching the elderly woman limp around the room. 'I think she was killed because she was about to let everyone see it. I don't know why but there you have it. You knew her all her life, I want you to tell me what you see here. What strikes you, what patterns you see, what you don't see

'Most of the upstairs, for starters,' said Clara, and watched Ben flinch.

'Well, spend as much time as you can here.'

'I don't know,' said Ruth. 'I'm supposed to address the United Nations and Clara, aren't you accepting the Nobel prize?'

'That's right, for art.'

'I canceled both engagements,' said Gamache, thinking little Ruthie Zardo was a bad influence on Clara. They smiled and nodded. Ben and Clara went back upstairs while Ruth inched along the walls, examining the images, occasionally hooting when one struck her as particularly apt. Gamache sat in the big leather chair by the fire and let the room come to him.

Suzanne picked Matthew up late in the day at his sister's in Cowansville where he'd stayed until the Provincial Guardians Office had finished its investigation. Even though Philippe had recanted his accusation of abuse, the Office was obligated to investigate. It found nothing. In his heart Matthew was disappointed. Not, of course, at being exonerated. But so much damage had been done he wished they'd made a public statement that he was, in reality, a wonderful father. A kind, compassionate, firm parent. A loving father.

He'd long since forgiven Philippe, he didn't even need to know why Philippe had done it. But standing now in the kitchen that had held so many birthday parties, and excited Christmas mornings, and had been the scene of so many batches of 's'mores' and 'yes yes' cookies, standing here, he knew life would never be the same. Too much had been said and done. He also knew, with work, it could actually be better. The question was, was Philippe willing to put the work in? A week and a half ago, in anger, he'd waited for his son to come to him. That had been a mistake. Now he was going to his son.

'Yeah?' came the sullen answer to his tentative knock.

'May I come in? I'd like to talk with you. No yelling. Just clear the air, OK?'

'Whatever.'

'Philippe,' Matthew sat on the chair by the desk and turned to face the boy, who was lying on his crumpled bed. 'I've done something that's hurt you. My problem is I don't know what it is. I've racked my brains. Is it the basement? Are you angry about having to clean up the basement?'

'No.'

'Did I yell at you, or say something to hurt your feelings? If I did please tell me. I won't be angry. I just need to know and then we can talk about it.'

'No.'

'Philippe, I'm not angry about what you did. I never have been. I was hurt and confused. But not angry at you. I love you. Can you talk to me? Whatever it is, you can tell me.'

Matthew looked at his son and for the first time in almost a year he saw his sensitive, thoughtful, kind boy. Philippe looked at his father and longed to tell him. And he almost did. Almost. He stood at the cliff, his toes over the edge, and he looked into oblivion. His father was inviting him to step over and trust that it would be all right. He would catch him, wouldn't let him fall. And to give Philippe credit, he considered it. Philippe yearned to close his eyes, take that step and fall into his father's arms.

But in the end he couldn't. Instead he turned his face to the wall, put his headphones back on, and retreated.

Matthew dropped his head and looked down at his dirty old work boots and saw in excruciating detail the mud and bits of leaves stuck there.

Gamache was sitting in Olivier's Bistro, by the fireplace, waiting to be served. He'd just arrived, and the people who'd been in the choice location had just left, their tip still on the table. Gamache had the momentary desire to pocket the money himself. Another bit of weirdness from the long house.

'Hi, may I join you?'

Gamache rose and bowed slightly to Myrna, then indicated the sofa facing the fireplace. 'Please.'

'Quite a lot of excitement,' said Myrna. 'I hear Jane's home is wonderful.'

'You haven't seen it?'

'No. I wanted to wait until Thursday.'

'Thursday? What's happening Thursday?'

'Clara hasn't asked you?'

'Are my feelings going to be hurt? Surete homicide officers are notoriously sensitive. What's happening on Thursday?'

'Thursday? Are you going too?' Gabri asked, standing over them wearing a little apron and channeling Julia Child.

'Not yet.'

'Oh well, never mind. I hear Hurricane Kyla's hit land in Florida. Saw it on Meteo Media.'

'I saw that, too,' said Myrna. 'When's it supposed to get here?'

'Oh, a few days. 'Course it'll be a tropical storm by then, or whatever they call it by the time it hits Quebec. Should be quite a storm.' He looked out the window as though he expected to see it looming over the nearby mountain. He looked worried. Storms were never good.

Gamache toyed with the price tag dangling from the coffee table.