The Brutal Telling

“Great. I’ll put that in the ads.”



“Well, at least you don’t discriminate. Dead, predead. They’re all welcome here. That might be a better slogan.”



Gabri saw a quiver at the ends of Olivier’s lips.



“Voyons, it was great news that the police say the man wasn’t killed here. That makes a difference.”



“You think?” Olivier looked at him hopefully.



“Do you know what I really think?” Now Gabri was dead serious. “I think it wouldn’t matter. Peter, Clara, Myrna? Do you think they’d stop coming even if that poor man had been murdered here? The Parras? Monsieur Béliveau? They’d all come if a mountain of bodies was found here. Do you know why?”



“Because they like it?”



“Because they like you. They love you. Listen, Olivier, you have the best bistro, the finest food, the most comfortable place. It’s brilliant. You’re brilliant. Everyone loves you. And you know what?”



“What?” asked Olivier, grumpily.



“You’re the kindest, most handsome man in the world.”



“You’re just saying that.” Olivier felt like a little boy again. While other kids ran around collecting frogs and sticks and grasshoppers, he’d sought reassurance. Affection. He’d gather up the words and actions, even from strangers, and he’d stuff them into the hole that was growing.



It had worked. For a while. Then he’d needed more than just words.



“Did Myrna tell you to say that?”



“Right. It’s not true at all, just a big lie cooked up by Myrna and me. What’s wrong with you anyway?”



“You wouldn’t understand.”



Gabri followed Olivier’s stare out the window. And up the hill. He sighed. They’d been through this before.



“There’s nothing we can do about them. Maybe we should just—”



“Just what?” Olivier snapped.



“Are you looking for an excuse to be miserable? Is that it?”



Even by Olivier’s standards that had been an unreasonable reaction. He’d been reassured about the body, he’d been reassured that everyone still loved him. He’d been reassured that Gabri wasn’t running away. So what was the problem?



“Listen, maybe we should give them a chance. Who knows? Their inn and spa might even help us.”



This was not what Olivier wanted to hear. He stood abruptly, almost knocking the chair to the floor. He could feel that bloom of anger in his chest. It was like a superpower. It made him invincible. Strong. Courageous. Brutal.



“If you want to be friends with them, fine. Why don’t you just fuck off?”



“I didn’t mean that. I meant we can’t do anything about them so we might as well be friends.”



“You make this sound like kindergarten. They’re out to ruin us. Do you understand? When they first came I was nice, but then they decided to steal our customers, even our staff. Do you think anyone’s going to come to your tacky little B and B when they can stay there?”



Olivier’s face was red and blotchy. Gabri could see it spread even under his scalp, through the thinning and struggling blond hair.



“What’re you talking about? I don’t care if people come, you know that. We don’t need the money. I just do it for fun.”



Olivier struggled to control himself now. To not take that one step too far. The two men glared so that the space between them throbbed.



“Why?” Olivier finally said.



“Why what?”



“If the dead man wasn’t killed here, why was he put here?”



Gabri felt his anger lift, evaporated by the question.



“I heard from the police today,” said Olivier, his voice almost monotone. “They’re going to speak to my father tomorrow.”



Poor Olivier, thought Gabri, he did have something to worry about after all.



Jean Guy Beauvoir got out of the car and stared across the road at the Poirier home.



It was ramshackle and in need of way more than just a coat of paint. The porch was sloping, the steps looked unsound, pieces of boarding were missing from the side of the house.



Beauvoir had been in dozens of places like this in rural Quebec. Lived in by a generation born there too. Clotilde Poirier probably drank coffee from a chipped mug her mother had used. Slept on a mattress she’d been conceived on. The walls would be covered with dried flowers and spoons sent by relatives who’d escaped to exotic places like Rimouski or Chicoutimi or Gaspé. And there’d be a chair, a rocking chair, by the window, near the woodstove. It would have a slightly soiled afghan on it and crumbs. And after clearing up the breakfast dishes Clotilde Poirier would sit there, and watch.