The Brutal Telling

She should have guessed. As she left he called after her, “Tell him I said hello.”



Lacoste stopped at the elevator, pressed the button, and looked back at the large man standing in the door frame, shutting out all the light that she knew was streaming into his apartment.



“Maybe you can tell him yourself. Visit even. Have you met Gabri?”



“Gabri?”



“Gabriel. His partner.”



“Gabrielle? He hasn’t told me about her.”



The elevator came and she stepped in, wondering if Monsieur Brulé would ever find Three Pines. She also wondered about this man who kept so much hidden.



But then, clearly, so did his son.



It was late morning and Olivier was in his bistro, at the front door. Trying to decide if he should unlock it. Let people in. Maybe the crowd would drown out the voice in his head. The Hermit’s voice. And that terrible story that bound them together. Even unto death.



The young man appeared at the base of the now barren mountain. Like everyone else in the region he’d heard the stories. Of bad children brought here as a sacrifice to the dreadful Mountain King.



He looked for tiny bones on the dusty soil, but there was nothing. No life. Not even death.



As he was about to leave he heard a small sigh. A breeze had blown up where nothing had stirred before. He felt it on the back of his neck, and he felt his skin grow cool and the hairs stand up. He looked down at the lush, green valley, the thick forests and the thatched roofs, and he wondered how he could have been so stupid as to have come up here. Alone.



“Don’t,” he heard on the wind. “Don’t.”



The young man turned round. “Go,” he heard.



“Don’t go,” said the sigh.



FIFTEEN



The three investigators left the Incident Room together, but parted ways at the village green. Beauvoir left the Chief and Agent Morin to interview Olivier and Gabri once again, while he headed to the old Hadley house.



The Inspector was feeling pretty cocky. They’d caught the Gilberts in a lie. Dominique had told him yesterday they never used Varathane. Was quite pleased to tell him how “green” they were. But now there was proof they’d at least bought a demi-liter of the stuff.



But the extra spring in his step was because he was curious, anxious even, to see what the Gilberts had done to the old Hadley house.



Gamache tried the door to the bistro and was surprised to find it open. Earlier that morning, over breakfast of pain doré, sliced strawberries and bananas, maple syrup and back bacon, Gabri had admitted he didn’t know when Olivier might reopen the bistro.



“Maybe never,” he said, “then where would we be? I’d have to start taking in paying guests.”



“Good thing then that you’re a B and B,” said Gamache.



“You’d think that would be an advantage, wouldn’t you? But I’m handicapped by extreme laziness.”



And yet, when Gamache and Agent Morin walked into the bistro there was Gabri behind the bar, polishing it. And from the kitchen came the aroma of fine cooking.



“Olivier,” Gabri called, coming around from behind the bar. “Our first customers since the murder are here,” he sang out.



“Oh, for God’s sake, Gabri,” they heard from the kitchen and a pot clanked down. A moment later Olivier punched through the swinging door. “Oh, it’s you.”



“Just us, I’m afraid. We have a few questions. Do you have a moment?”



Olivier looked as though he was about to say no, but changed his mind and indicated a seat by the hearth. Once again a fire was burning there. And the pokers had been returned.



Gamache looked at Agent Morin. Morin’s eyes widened. Surely the Chief Inspector wasn’t expecting him to conduct the interview? But the moments dragged by and no one else said anything. Morin searched his mind. Don’t be too forceful, though he didn’t think that would be a problem. Get the suspect to drop his guard. Gabri was smiling at him, wiping his hands on an apron and waiting. So far so good, thought Morin. Seems the idiot agent act is working. Now if only it wasn’t an act.



He smiled back at the two men and racked his brain. Up until now the only questioning he’d done was of speeders along Autoroute 10. It didn’t seem necessary to ask Gabri whether he had a driver’s license.



“Is it about the murder?” asked Gabri, trying to be helpful.



“Yes, it is,” said Morin, finding his voice. “Not really so much about the murder as a small issue that’s come up.”



“Please,” said Olivier, indicating a chair, “have a seat.”