The Brutal Telling

Beauvoir was chatting to his neighbors about the Brume County Fair, and visitors. Across the table from Beauvoir sat Ruth, glaring at him. Gamache wondered why, though with Ruth that was pretty much her only form of expression.



Gamache turned to Peter, who was serving arugula, frizzy lettuce and fresh ripe tomatoes.



“I hear the old Hadley house has been sold. Have you met the new owners?”



Peter passed him the salad bowl of deep-burled wood.



“We have. The Gilberts. Marc and Dominique. His mother lives with them too. Came from Quebec City. I think she was a nurse or something. Long retired. Dominique was in advertising in Montreal and Marc was an investment dealer. Made a fortune then retired early before the market went sour.”



“Lucky man.”



“Smart man,” said Peter.



Gamache helped himself to the salad. He could smell the delicate dressing of garlic, olive oil and fresh tarragon. Peter poured them another glass of red wine and handed the bottle down the long table. Gamache watched to see if Peter’s comment held a sting, a subtext. By “smart” did Peter mean “shrewd,” “cunning,” “sly”? But no, Gamache felt Peter meant what he said. It was a compliment. While Peter Morrow rarely insulted anyone, he rarely complimented them either. But he seemed impressed by this Marc Gilbert.



“Do you know them well?”



“Had them around for dinner a few times. Nice couple.” For Peter that was an almost effusive comment.



“Interesting that with all that money they’d buy the old Hadley house,” said Gamache. “It’s been abandoned for a year or more. Presumably they could’ve bought just about any place around here.”



“We were a little surprised as well, but they said they wanted a clean canvas, some place they could make their own. Practically gutted the house, you know. It also has loads of land and Dominique wants horses.”



“Roar Parra’s been clearing the trails, I hear.”



“Slow job.”



As he was talking Peter’s voice had dropped to a whisper, so that the two men were leaning toward each other like co-conspirators. Gamache wondered what they were conspiring about.



“It’s a lot of house for three people. Do they have children?”



“Well, no.”



Peter’s eyes shifted down the table, then back to Gamache. Whom had he just looked at? Clara? Gabri? It was impossible to say.



“Have they made friends in the community?” Gamache leaned back and spoke in a normal tone, taking a forkful of salad.



Peter looked down the table again and lowered his voice even more. “Not exactly.”



Before Gamache could pursue it Peter got up and began clearing the table. At the sink he looked back at his friends, chatting. They were close. So close they could reach out and touch each other, which they occasionally did.



And Peter couldn’t. He stood apart, and watched. He missed Ben, who’d once lived in the old Hadley house. Peter had played there as a child. He knew its nooks and crannies. All the scary places where ghosts and spiders lived. But now someone else lived there and had turned it into something else.



Thinking of the Gilberts, Peter could feel his own heart lift a little.



“What’re you thinking about?”



Peter started as he realized Armand Gamache was right beside him.



“Nothing much.”



Gamache took the mixer from Peter’s hand and poured whipping cream and a drop of vanilla into the chilled bowl. He turned it on and leaned toward Peter, his voice drowned out by the whirring machine, lost to all but his companion.



“Tell me about the old Hadley house, and the people there.”



Peter hesitated but knew Gamache wasn’t going to let it go. And this was as discreet as it was going to get. Peter talked, his words whipped and mixed and unintelligible to anyone more than six inches away.



“Marc and Dominique plan to open a luxury inn and spa.”



“At the old Hadley house?”



Gamache’s astonishment was so complete it almost made Peter laugh. “It’s not the same place you remember. You should see it now. It’s fantastic.”



The Chief Inspector wondered whether a coat of paint and new appliances could exorcise demons, and whether the Catholic Church knew about that.



“But not everyone’s happy about it,” Peter continued. “They’ve interviewed a few of Olivier’s workers and offered them jobs at higher wages. Olivier’s managed to keep most of his staff, but he’s had to pay more. The two barely speak.”



“Marc and Olivier?” Gamache asked.