Still Life

‘We artistic types never take a straight line, unless you’re Peter. He starts at A and paints and paints and ends up at B. Without even a hesitation. Enough to drive you to drink.’ She flagged down Gabri and ordered a beer and some nuts.



‘How’s the restoration?’ asked Gamache.



‘Fine, I think. I left Ben and Ruth there. Ruth has found Jane’s liquor cabinet and is writing verse while staring at the walls. God knows what Ben’s doing. Probably applying paint. I swear to God he seems to be going backwards. Still, it’s great to have him there and actually the work he does do is fantastic, brilliant.’



‘Peter isn’t helping anymore?’ asked Myrna.



‘Oh yes, but we’re taking turns now. Well, mostly he’s taking turns. I spend most of the day there. It’s kind of addictive. Peter loves the work, don’t get me wrong, but he needs to do his own work.’



Gabri appeared with her beer. ‘That’ll be a hundred thousand dollars.’



‘Well, you can kiss your tip goodbye.’



‘If I could kiss my tip I wouldn’t need Olivier.’



‘We were talking about Thursday,’ said Gamache. ‘I hear there’s a party.’



‘Do you mind? I’d like to hold it just as Jane had planned.’



‘Hope the Hurricane doesn’t ruin it,’ said Gabri, pleased to find melodrama.



Gamache wished he’d thought of it. Clara was doing it as a tribute to her friend, he knew, but it could have another very practical purpose. It could rattle the murderer.



‘As long as I’m invited.’



Isabelle Lacoste looked up from her computer where she’d been writing her reports on the Fontaine/Malenfant search and her visit to Timmer’s doctor. He’d brought up Timmer’s file on his computer and finally, with extreme caution, admitted it: was a remote possibility someone had helped her into the next life.



‘With morphine; that would be the only way. Wouldn’t really take much at that stage, she was already on it, just a little more could have put her over the top.’



‘You didn’t check?’



‘Saw no need.’ Then he’d hesitated again. Lacoste was a good enough investigator to wait. And wait. Eventually he spoke again. ‘It happens a lot in cases like this. A friend, or more often a family member, gives the person a fatal dose. Mercy. Happens more often than we know or want to know. There’s a kind of unwritten agreement that in terminal cases, at the end of life, we don’t look too closely.’



Lacoste could certainly sympathise and privately thought this was probably a good thing, but this was business, and in this case they weren’t talking about mercy.



‘Is there any way to check now?’



‘She was cremated. Her own wishes.’ He closed his computer.



And now, two hours later, she was closing hers. It was 6.30 and pitch black outside. She needed to speak with Gamache about what she’d found in Bernard’s room before heading home. It was a cold night and Lacoste buttoned her field coat before setting out across the bridge that spanned the Rivière Bella Bella and headed into the heart of Three Pines.



‘Give it to me.’



‘Bonjour, Bernard.’ She’d recognised the surly voice even before she saw him.



‘Gimme.’ Bernard Malenfant was leaning against her.



‘Do you want to tell me about it?’



‘Fuck off. Give it here.’ He brought his fist to her face, but didn’t strike.



Isabelle Lacoste had faced down serial killers, snipers, and abusive, drunken husbands, and she was under no illusion. A furious, out-of-control 14-year-old was as dangerous as any of them.



‘Drop that fist. I’m not going to give it to you, so it’s no use threatening.’



Bernard grabbed her satchel, trying to yank it away but she’d expected this. She’d found that most boys, and even some not very bright men, underestimated women. She was strong and determined and smart. She kept her cool and twisted the satchel out of his grip.



‘Bitch. It’s not even mine. Do you really think I’d have shit like that?’ The last word was screamed into her face so she could feel his spittle on her chin and the stench of his warm breath.



‘Then whose is it?’ she said evenly, trying to control her gag response.



Bernard gave her a malevolent leer. ‘Are you kidding? I’m not going to tell.’



‘Hey, are you all right?’ A woman and her dog were walking quickly toward them from the direction of the bridge.



Bernard swung around and saw them. He yanked up his bike and rode away, swerving so that he headed toward the dog, but just missed it.