“Can I ask you something?” he said.

“Sure.”

“Do you think Olivier killed the Hermit?”

Her hand stopped on its way for more nuts. He’d dropped his voice as he spoke, making sure they weren’t overheard. She lowered her hand and thought for a good minute before answering.

“I don’t know. I wish I could say absolutely he didn’t, but the evidence is so strong. And if he didn’t then someone else did.”

She casually looked around the room, and he followed her gaze.

There was Old Mundin and The Wife. The handsome young couple was dining with the Parras. Old, despite his name, wasn’t yet thirty and was a carpenter. He also restored Olivier’s antiques and had been among the last people in the bistro the night the Hermit was killed. The Wife, Beauvoir knew, had an actual name though he’d forgotten what it was as had, he suspected, most people. What had started as a joke, the young couple mocking their married state, had become reality. She was The Wife. They had a young son, Charlie, who had Down syndrome.

Glancing at the child Beauvoir remembered that had been one of the reasons people considered Dr. Vincent Gilbert a saint. His decision to abandon a lucrative career to live in a community of people with Down syndrome, to care for them. From that experience he’d written the book Being. It was by most accounts a book of staggering honesty and humility. Staggering because it had been written by such an asshole.

Well, as Clara often told them, great works of creation often were.

Sitting with Old and The Wife were Roar and Hanna Parra. They’d been among the main suspects. Roar was cutting the paths through the woods and could have found the cabin with its priceless contents and shabby old occupant.

But why take the life and leave the treasure?

The same question held true for their son, Havoc Parra. Clara and Beauvoir glanced over at him, waiting a table by the other fireplace. He’d worked late in the bistro the night the Hermit had been killed and had closed up.

Had he followed Olivier through the woods and found the cabin?

Had he looked inside, seen the treasures, and realized what it meant? It meant no more tips, no more tables, no more smiling at rude customers. No wondering what the future held.

It meant freedom. And all he’d have to do was knock a solitary old man on the head. But, again, why were most of the priceless treasures still in the cabin?

Across the room were Marc and Dominique Gilbert. The owners of the inn and spa. In their mid-forties they’d escaped high-paying, high-pressure jobs in Montreal, to come to Three Pines. They’d bought the wreck on the hill and turned it into a magnificent hotel.

Olivier despised Marc and it was mutual.

Had the Gilberts bought the run-down old home because the Hermit and the cabin came with it? Buried in their woods?

And finally there was the asshole saint Dr. Vincent Gilbert, Marc’s estranged father who’d appeared at exactly the same time as the body. How could that have been a coincidence?

Clara’s gaze returned to Beauvoir just as the bistro door slammed shut.

“Goddamned snow.”

Beauvoir didn’t have to look round to know who it was. “Ruth,” he whispered to Clara, who nodded. “Still crazy?”

“After all these years,” Clara confirmed.

“Jeez,” Ruth appeared at Beauvoir’s chair, a scowl on her deeply wrinkled face. Her cropped white hair lay flat on her head, looking like exposed skull. She was tall and stooped and walked with a cane. The only good news was that she wasn’t in her nightgown.

“Welcome to the bistro,” she snarled, giving Clara the once over. “Where dignity goes to die.”

“And not just dignity,” said Beauvoir.

She gave a barking laugh. “You find another body?”

“I don’t follow bodies, you know. I have a life outside of work.”

“God, I’m bored already,” said the old poet. “Say something smart.”

Beauvoir was silent, looking at her with disdain.

“Thought so.” She took a swig of his beer. “Blech, this is crap. Can’t you drink something decent? Havoc! Get him a Scotch.”

“You old hag,” Beauvoir murmured.

“Oh, banter. Very clever.”

She intercepted his Scotch and stomped away. When she’d gotten far enough Beauvoir leaned across the table to Clara, who also leaned forward. The bistro was noisy with laughter and conversation, perfect for a quiet talk.

“If not Olivier,” said Beauvoir, keeping his voice down and a sharp eye on the room, “who?”