Still Life

‘Not an obvious one.’



Gamache made to get up. ‘We need what we call an Incident Room. A private place we can make our temporary headquarters here in Three Pines. Can you think of a suitable spot?’



‘The railway station. It’s not used for that anymore. The volunteer fire department has its headquarters there. I’m sure they wouldn’t mind sharing it.’



‘We need something more private, I’m afraid.’



‘There’s the old schoolhouse,’ Clara suggested.



‘The one where Miss Neal worked?’



‘That’s it,’ said Peter. ‘We passed it walking down this morning. It’s owned by the Hadleys, but the archery club uses it these days.’



‘Archery club?’ Beauvoir asked, hardly able to believe his ears.



‘We’ve had one here for years. Ben and I started it years ago.’



‘Is it locked? Do you have a key?’



‘I have a key somewhere, I guess. Ben has one too, I think. But it’s never locked. Maybe it should have been.’ He looked at Clara, seeking her thoughts or comfort. He only found a blank face. Gamache nodded to Beauvoir who picked up his cell phone and placed a call while the others spoke.



‘I’d like to call a community meeting in the morning,’ said Gamache, ‘at St Thomas’s at eleven-thirty. But we need to get the word out.’



‘That’s easy. Tell Olivier. They’ll have the whole province there, and the cast of Cats. And his partner Gabri’s the choir director.’



‘I don’t think we’ll need music,’ said Gamache.



‘Neither do I, but you do need to get in. He has a set of keys.’



‘The archery club is open but the church is locked?’



‘The minister’s from Montreal,’ explained Peter.



Gamache said his goodbyes and the three of them walked across the now familiar village green. Instinctively, they kicked their feet slightly as they walked through the fallen leaves, sending up a slight flutter and a musky autumn scent.



The bed and breakfast was kitty-corner to the row of commercial buildings, at the comer of the Old Stage Road, another route out of Three Pines. It had once served as a stagecoach stop on the well-traveled route between Williamsburg and St Rémy. Long since unnecessary, it had, with the arrival of Olivier and Gabri, rediscovered its vocation of housing weary travelers. Gamache told Beauvoir he intended to get both information and reservations.



‘For how long?’ Beauvoir asked.



‘Until this is solved, or we’re taken off the case.’



‘That must have been one hell of a good baguette.’



‘I’ll tell you, Jean Guy, had he put mushrooms on it I would have bought the damned bistro and moved right in. This’ll be a whole lot more comfortable than some places we’ve found ourselves.’



It was true. Their investigations had taken them far from home, to Kuujjuaq and Gaspé and Shefferville and James Bay. They had had to leave home for weeks on end. Beauvoir had hoped this would be different, being so close to Montreal. Apparently not.



‘Book me in.’



‘Nichol?’ he called over his shoulder. ‘Want to stay too?’



Yvette Nichol felt she’d just won the lottery.



‘Great. I don’t have any clothes but that’s not a problem, I could borrow some and wash these in the tub tonight—’



Gamache held up his hand.



‘You weren’t listening. We’re going home tonight and starting here tomorrow.’



Damn. Every time she showed enthusiasm it kicked her in the ass. Would she never learn?



Carved pumpkins squatted on each step up to the sweeping veranda of the B. & B. Inside, worn oriental rugs and overstuffed chairs, lights with tassels and a collection of oil lamps gave Gamache the impression of walking into his grandparents’ home. To add to the impression, the place smelled of baking. Just then a large man in a frilly apron that said, ‘Never Trust a Skinny Cook’ made his entrance through a swinging door. Gamache was startled to see more than a passing resemblance to his grandmother.



Gabri sighed hugely and put a wan hand up to his forehead in a gesture not often seen this side of Gloria Swanson.



‘Muffins?’



The question was so unexpected even Gamache was thrown off guard.



‘Pardon, Monsieur?’



‘I have carrot, date, banana and a special tribute to Jane called “Charles de Mills”.’ And with that Gabri disappeared and reappeared a moment later with a platter holding rings of muffins marvelously decorated with fruit and roses.