Still Life

‘My name is Ruth Zardo,’ she spoke loudly and slowly, as though to a dull child. ‘Is it true? Is Jane dead?’



‘Yes, Madame Zardo. I’m very sorry.’



A great bang, so sudden and violent it made even Gamache jump, filled the Bistro. None of the other patrons, he noticed, even flinched. It took him just an instant to realise that the noise came from Ruth Zardo whacking her cane against the floor, like a caveman might wield a club. He’d never seen anyone do that before. He’d seen people with canes lift them up and rap on the floor in an annoying bid for attention, which generally worked. But Ruth Zardo had picked up her cane in a swift and apparently practiced move, taken hold of the straight end, and swung the cane over her head until the curved handle whacked the floor.



‘What are you doing here while Jane is lying dead in the woods? What kind of police are you? Who killed Jane?’



The Bistro grew momentarily silent, then slowly the murmur of conversation started up again. Armand Gamache held her imperious stare with his own thoughtful eyes and leaned slowly across the table until he was sure only she could hear. Ruth, believing he might be about to actually whisper the name of the person who had killed her friend, leaned in as well.



‘Ruth Zardo, my job is to find out who killed your friend. And I will do that. I will do it in the manner I see fit. I will not be bullied and I will not be treated with disrespect. This is my investigation. If you have anything you’d like to say, or to ask, please do. But never, ever, swing that cane in my company again. And never speak to me like that again.’



‘How dare I! This officer is obviously hard at work.’ Both Ruth and her voice rose. ‘Mustn’t disturb the best the Sûreté has to offer.’



Gamache wondered whether Ruth Zardo really believed this sarcasm would be fruitful. He also wondered why she would take this attitude at all.



‘Mrs Zardo, what can I get you?’ the young waitress asked as though none of the dramatics had happened. Or perhaps it was simply intermission.



‘A Scotch, please, Marie,’ said Ruth, suddenly deflating and sinking back into the chair. ‘I’m sorry. Forgive me.’



She sounded to Gamache like someone used to apologising.



‘I suppose I could blame Jane’s death for my poor behavior, but as you’ll discover, I’m just like this. I have no talent for choosing my battles. Life seems, strangely, like a battle to me. The whole thing.’



‘So I can expect more where that came from?’



‘Oh, I think so. But you’ll have plenty of company in your foxhole. And I promise not to whack my cane, at least around you.’



Armand Gamache leaned back in his chair, just as the Scotch and his café au lait and candy arrived. He took them and with all the dignity he could muster, turned to Ruth.



‘Pipe, Madame?’



Ruth took the largest one and immediately bit the red candy end off.



‘How did it happen?’ Ruth asked.



‘It looks like a hunting accident. But can you think of anyone who would want to deliberately kill your friend?’



Ruth told Gamache about the boys throwing manure. When she’d finished, Gamache asked, ‘Why do you think these boys might have killed her? I agree it was a reprehensible thing to do, but she’d already announced their names, so it’s not as though killing her would stop that. What’s gained?’



‘Revenge?’ suggested Ruth. ‘At that age, humiliation could be considered a capital offense. True, they were the ones who were trying to humiliate Olivier and Gabri, but the tables turned. And bullies don’t much like getting some of their own back.’



Gamache nodded. It was possible. But surely, unless you’re psychotic, the revenge would take a different form, something short of cold-blooded murder.



‘How long did you know Mrs Neal?’



‘Miss. She never married,’ said Ruth. ‘Though she almost did, once. What was his name?’ She consulted the yellowing Rolodex in her head. ‘Andy. Andy Selchuk. No. Sel ... Sel ... Selinsky. Andreas Selinsky. That was years ago. Fifty or more. Doesn’t matter.’



‘Please, tell me,’ said Gamache.



Ruth nodded and absently stirred her Scotch with the butt end of her licorice pipe.



‘Andy Selinsky was a logger. These hills were full of logging operations for a hundred years. Most of them are closed now. Andy worked on Mont Echo at the Thompson operation. The lumberjacks could be violent men. They’d work all week on the mountain, sleeping rough through storms and bear season, and the blackflies must have driven them crazy. They’d smear themselves with bear grease to keep away bugs. They were more afraid of blackflies than black bears. On weekends they’d come out of the woods, like living filth.’