Still Life

‘Who at headquarters?’



‘I don’t know.’



Gamache was tired of this, it was a waste of time. She was a waste of time. But there was one more thing he might try. He could show her her future, if she wasn’t careful. ‘Come with me.’



Ruth Zardo’s home was tiny and cramped, full of papers and magazines and work books, piled high. Books lined every wall, and camped on the footstools and coffee table and kitchen counter. They were stacked in the closet where she threw their coats.



‘I just had the last cup of coffee and don’t intend to make anymore.’



What a bitch, thought Nichol.



‘We just have a few questions,’ said Gamache.



‘I’m not going to invite you to sit down, so you can hurry up.’



Nichol couldn’t believe the discourtesy. Really, some people.



‘Did Jane Neal know you’d told her parents about Andreas Selinsky?’ Gamache asked, and a stillness settled on the home.



Ruth Zardo might have had a very good reason to want Jane Neal dead. Suppose Ruth thought if her ancient betrayal of Jane came to light her friendships in Three Pines would end. These people who loved her despite herself might suddenly see her for what she really was. They’d hate her if they knew of this horrible thing she’d done, then she’d be alone. An angry, bitter, lonely old lady. She couldn’t risk it, there was too much at stake.



Gamache knew from years of investigating murders there was always a motive, and the motive often made absolutely no sense to anyone other than the murderer. But it made absolute sense to that person.



‘Come in,’ she said, motioning to the kitchen table. It was a garden table surrounded by four metal Canadian Tire garden chairs. Once seated she saw him looking around and volunteered, ‘My husband died a few years ago. Since then I’ve been selling bits and pieces, mostly antiques from the family. Olivier handles them for me. It keeps my head above water, just.’



‘Andreas Selinsky,’ he reminded her.



‘I heard you the first time. That was sixty years ago. Who cares now?’



‘Timmer Hadley cared.’



‘What do you know about that?’



‘She knew what you’d done, she overheard you talking to Jane’s parents.’ As he spoke he studied Ruth’s fortress face. ‘Timmer kept your secret, and regretted it the rest of her life. But maybe Timmer told Jane, in the end. What do you think?’



‘I think you make a lousy psychic. Timmer’s dead, Jane’s dead. Let the past lie.’



‘Can you?



Who hurt you, once, so far beyond repair that you would greet each overture with curling lip?’



Ruth snorted. ‘You really think throwing my own poetry at me’s going to do it? What’d you do, stay up all night cramming like a student for this interview? Hoping to reduce me to tears in the face of my own pain? Crap.’



‘Actually, I know that whole poem by heart:



When were these seeds of anger sown, and on what ground that they should flourish so, watered by tears of rage, or grief?’



‘It was not always so,’ Ruth and Gamache finished the stanza together.



‘Yeah, yeah. Enough. I told Jane’s parents because I thought she was making a mistake. She had potential and it’d be lost on that brute of a man. I did it for her sake. I tried to convince her; when that failed, I went behind her back. In retrospect it was a mistake, but only that. Not the end of the world.’



‘Did Miss Neal know?’



‘Not that I know of, and it wouldn’t have mattered if she did. It was long ago, gone and buried.’



What a horrible, self-involved woman, thought Nichol, looking around for something to eat. Then Nichol awoke to a realisation. She had to pee.



‘May I use your toilet?’ She’d be damned if she’d say please to this woman.



‘You can find it.’



Nichol opened every door on the main floor and found books, and magazines but no toilet. Then she climbed the stairs and found the only washroom in the home. After flushing she ran the water, pretending to wash her hands, and looked into the mirror. A young woman with a short-bob haircut looked back. As did some lettering, probably another God-damned poem. She leaned in closer and saw there was a sticker attached to the mirror. On it was written, ‘You’re looking at the problem.’



Nichol immediately began searching the area behind her, the area reflected in the mirror, because the problem was there.



‘Did Timmer Hadley tell you she knew what you’d done?’



Ruth had wondered whether this question would ever be asked. She hoped not. But here it was.