Still Life

‘For God’s sake, Ben, is that all you’ve done?’ A disheartened Clara couldn’t help herself. Upstairs Peter had managed to get a couple of feet done, but Ben had hardly done anything, though, granted, what he had done was brilliant. Crystal clear and beautiful. But not enough. If they were going to solve the murder they needed to uncover all the walls. Quickly. Clara could feel her anxiety rising and knew she was becoming obsessed.



‘I’m sorry,’ they both said at once then Ben stood up and looked down at her, hang-dog. ‘I’m sorry, Clara. I’m slow, I know, but I’ll get better. Practice.’



‘Never mind.’ She put her arm around his slim waist. ‘It’s Miller time. We can get back to work soon enough.’ Ben perked up and put his arm around her shoulder. The two of them walked by Peter, leaving him to watch their retreating backs and walk down the stairs alone.



By that night a fair amount of the living-room walls had been exposed. They called Gamache, who brought beer and pizza and Beauvoir.



‘The answer’s here,’ said Gamache, simply, reaching for another beer. They ate in front of the fireplace in the living room, the aroma of three extra large ‘All Dressed’ from Pizza Pizza just masking the mineral spirits they’d used to remove the paint. ‘In this room, with this art. The answer’s here, I can feel it. It’s too much of a coincidence that Jane would invite you all here on the same night her art’s being shown, then be murdered within hours of telling everyone this.’



‘We have something to show you,’ said Clara, brushing off her jeans and standing up. ‘We’ve uncovered more of the walls. Shall we start upstairs?’



Grabbing pieces of pizza they trooped upstairs. In Peter’s room the lighting was too dark to really appreciate what Jane had done, but Ben’s work was different. Though tiny, the area he’d uncovered was astonishing. Brilliant, bold strokes leapt from the walls as people and animals came alive. And, in some cases, people as animals.



‘Is that Nellie and Wayne?’ Gamache was looking at a patch of wall. There, clear as day, was a stick-figure woman leading a cow. It was a very thick stick, and a skinny, happy cow, with a beard.



‘Wonderful,’ Gamache murmured.



They went back into the darkness downstairs. Peter had turned off the industrial floodlights he’d hooked up earlier in the day to allow them to work. Through dinner they’d eaten by firelight and the warm glow of a couple of table lamps. The walls had been in darkness. Now Peter went to the switch and flooded the room with light.



Gamache screwed his eyes tight shut. After a few moments he opened them.



It was like being in a cave, one of those wondrous caves explorers sometimes found filled with ancient symbols and depictions. Running caribou and swimming people. Gamache had read all about them in National Geographic, now he felt as though he’d been magically transported into one, here in the heart of Quebec, in a settled and even staid old village. As with cave drawings, Gamache knew the history of Three Pines and its people was depicted here. Slowly, hands clasped behind his back, Gamache walked around the walls. They were covered floor to ceiling with village scenes and rural scenes and classrooms and children and animals and adults singing and playing and working. A few of the scenes were of accidents, and there was at least one funeral.



He no longer felt he’d walked into a cave. Now he felt surrounded by life. He took a couple of steps back and could feel tears stinging his eyes. He screwed them shut again, hoping they’d think him bothered by the strong light. And in a way he was. He was overwhelmed by emotion. Sadness and melancholia. And delight. Joy. He was lifted right out of himself. It transcended the literal. This was Jane’s long house. Her home had become her long house, where every one, every event, every thing, every emotion was present. And Gamache knew then the murderer was there as well. Somewhere on those walls.



The next day Clara took the envelope to Yolande at home. Ringing the gleaming faux-brass bell and hearing the Beethoven chimes, Clara steeled herself. Just this one thing for Jane, just this one thing for Jane.



‘Bitch,’ a furious Yolande screamed. There followed a stream of insults and accusations, ending with a promise to sue Clara for everything she had.



Just this one thing for Jane, just this one thing for Jane. ‘You’re a goddamned thief, tête carrée. That home belongs to me. To my family. How can you sleep at night, you bitch?’



Just this one thing.



Clara held up the envelope until it caught Yolande’s attention, and like a child presented with something shiny and new, Yolande stopped screaming and stared, mesmerised by the slim white paper.