Brutal Telling

the door. Cheerful and welcoming.

“Bonjour?” Dominique Gilbert opened the door, her face the image of polite suspicion.

“Madame Gilbert? We met in the village when you first arrived. I’m Gabriel Dubeau.”

He put out his large hand and she took it. “I know who you are. You run that marvelous B and B.”

Gabri knew when he was being softened up, having specialized in that himself. Still, it was nice to be on the receiving end of a compliment, and Gabri never refused one.

“That’s right,” he smiled. “But it’s nothing compared to what you’ve done here. It’s stunning.”

“Would you like to come in?” Dominique stood aside and Gabri found himself in the large foyer. The last time he’d been there it’d been a wreck and so had he. But it was clear the old Hadley house no longer existed. The tragedy, the sigh on the hill, had become a smile. A warm, elegant, gracious auberge. A place he himself would book into, for pampering. For an escape.

He thought about his slightly worn B and B. What moments ago had seemed comfortable, charming, welcoming, now seemed just tired. Like a grande dame past her prime. Who would want to visit Auntie’s place when you could come to the cool kids’ inn and spa?

Olivier had been right. This was the end.

And looking at Dominique, warm, confident, he knew she couldn’t fail. She seemed born to success, to succeed.

“We’re just in the living room having drinks. Would you like to join us?”

He was about to decline. He’d come to say one thing to the Gilberts and leave, quickly. This wasn’t a social call. But she’d already turned, assuming his consent, and was walking through a large archway.

But for all the easy elegance, of the place and the woman, something didn’t fit.

He examined his hostess as she walked away. Light silk blouse, Aquascutum slacks, loose scarf. And a certain fragrance. What was it?

Then he had it. He smiled. Instead of wearing Chanel this chatelaine was wearing Cheval. And not just horse, but a haughty undercurrent of horse shit.

Gabri’s spirits lifted. At least his place smelled of muffins.

“It’s Gabriel Dubeau,” Dominique announced to the room. The fire was lit and an older man was standing staring into it. Carole Gilbert sat in an armchair and Marc was by the drinks tray. They all looked up.

Chief Inspector Gamache had never seen the bistro so empty. He sat in an armchair by the fire and Havoc Parra brought him a drink.

“Quiet night?” he asked as the young man put down the Scotch and a plate of Quebec cheese.

“Dead,” Havoc said and reddened a little. “But it’ll probably pick up.”

They both knew that wasn’t true. It was six thirty. The height of what should be the cocktail and predinner rush. Two other customers sat in the large room while a small squadron of waiters waited. For a rush that would never come. Not that night. Perhaps not ever again.

Three Pines had forgiven Olivier a lot. The body had been dismissed as bad luck. Even Olivier knowing about the Hermit and the cabin had been shrugged off. Not easily, granted. But Olivier was loved and with love there was leeway. They’d even managed to forgive Olivier’s moving the body. It was seen as a kind of grand mal on his part.

But that had ended when they’d found out that Olivier had secretly made millions of dollars off a recluse who was probably demented. Over the course of years. And then had quietly bought up most of Three Pines. He was Myrna’s, Sarah’s and Monsieur Beliveau’s landlord.

This was Olivierville, and the natives were restless. The man they had thought they knew was a stranger after all.

“Is Olivier here?”

“In the kitchen. He let the chef off and decided to do the cooking himself tonight. He’s a terrific cook, you know.”

Gamache did know, having enjoyed his private meals a number of times. But he also knew this decision to cook allowed Olivier to hide. In the kitchen. Where he didn’t have to see the accusing, unhappy faces of people who were his friends. Or worse still, see the empty chairs where friends once sat.

“I wonder if you could ask him to join me?”

“I’ll do my best.”

“Please.”

In that one word Chief Inspector Gamache conveyed that while it might sound like a polite request, it wasn’t. A couple of minutes later Olivier lowered himself into the chair across from Gamache. They needn’t worry about keeping their voices down. The bistro was now empty.

Gamache leaned forward, took a sip of Scotch, and watched Olivier closely.

“What does the name Charlotte mean to you?”

Olivier’s brows went up in surprise. “Charlotte?” He thought for a few moments. “I’ve never known a Charlotte. I knew a girl named Charlie once.”

“Did the Hermit ever mention the name?”

“He never mentioned any name.”

“What did you talk about?”