A Rule Against Murder
“Oh, please. Don’t,” said Peter, trying to recover himself.
“Oh, no,” said Gamache, clasping Peter by the arm. “Your turn, old son.”
“OK.” Peter relented and took a swig of Drambuie. “When I first went away to school and was unpacking all my little socks and shoes and slacks, I found a note pinned to my blazer in my father’s handwriting. It said, Never use the first stall in a public washroom.”
Peter, grown up and graying, stood in the room, but what Gamache saw was a serious little boy with spots on his hands holding the note. And memorizing it, as one might memorize a passage from the Bible. Or a poem.
Breathes there the man with soul so dead?
What kind of man was Charles Morrow that he’d write that to his son? Gamache was longing to ask Peter about the statue, but hadn’t yet had the chance.
“Good advice,” said Reine-Marie and they all looked at her. “If you’re in a hurry, where do you go? To the first stall.”
She didn’t need to say more.
Peter, who’d never decoded what his father had meant but knew in his heart it must be vital, wondered.
Was it that mundane? Was it really just practical advice after all? As a child, even as a teen, and even, dare he admit it, as an adult, he’d fantasized that it was a secret code. Given only to him. Entrusted to him. By his father. A code that would lead to treasure.
Never use the first stall in a public washroom.
And he hadn’t.
Gamache was just about to ask Peter’s opinion of the statue when Thomas strolled in.
“You were talking about public washrooms?” he said.
“Toilets?” asked Marianna, breezing into the room with Sandra. “Bean’ll be sorry to be in bed. It’s the sort of conversation a ten-year-old is good at.”
“Hello.” Julia walked through the screen doors from the terrasse carrying a demi-tasse of espresso. “There’s lightning and thunder out there. I think a storm’s coming.”
“No,” said Thomas sarcastically. “Peter’s been talking about toilets, Julia.”
“Not really,” said Peter quickly.
Julia stared at him.
“Men’s or women’s?” asked Marianna, with exaggerated interest.
“Probably men’s,” said Thomas.
“That’s it, that’s enough,” Julia threw her coffee cup to the carpet, where it shattered. The action was so unexpected, so violent, everyone in the room jumped.
“Stop it,” she rasped. “I’ve had enough.”
“Calm down,” Thomas said.
“Like you? You think I don’t know?” She started to smile, or at least to show her teeth. “Thomas the success, the talented one,” she hissed at him.
“And you.” She turned to Marianna. “Magilla, the gorilla. The screw-up with the screwed-up child. Bean. Bean? What kind of a name is that? What kind of kid is that? You think you’re so smart? Well I know. I know it all.
“And you. You’re the worst.” She closed in on Peter. “Gimme, gimme, gimme. You’d destroy anything and everything to get what you want, wouldn’t you?”
“Julia.” Peter could barely breathe.
“You haven’t changed. Cruel and greedy. Empty. A coward and a hypocrite. You all came here to suck up to Mother. You hated Father. And he knew it. But I know something none of you does.” Now she was up against Peter, tilting her face up to his. He didn’t move, kept his eyes fixed on the painting above the fireplace. The Krieghoff. Lines and color he understood. His sister’s hysterics were unfathomable, terrifying.
“I know Daddy’s secret,” Julia was hissing. “I had to spend my life as far from you as I could get to figure it out, but I finally did. And now I’m back. And I know.”
She grinned malevolently and stared around the room. Her eyes finally came to rest on the Gamaches. For a moment she seemed confused, surprised to see them.
“I’m sorry,” she stammered, the spell broken, the rage gone. She looked down at the mess she’d made. “I’m sorry.” She bent to pick it up.
“No, don’t,” Reine-Marie said, stepping forward.
Julia stood up, holding a piece of the cup, a slight trickle of blood on her finger. “I’m sorry.”
Her eyes filled with tears and her chin dimpled. All her rage dissolved. Turning, she ran out of the screen door leaving behind her family, who might have had their heads mounted on the old log walls. They’d been hunted, slaughtered, and put on display.