“So you found them,” said Ruth. “The old bitch accused me of stealing them.”
“They were found in the hedge between her place and yours,” said Gamache.
“Imagine that,” said Ruth.
Gamache noticed the Mundins standing on the edge of the field, waiting for him. “Excuse me.”
He walked briskly to the young couple and their son and joined them as they walked to the stall Old Mundin had set up. It was full of furniture, hand made. A person’s choices were always revealing, Gamache found. Mundin chose to make furniture, fine furniture. Gamache’s educated eye skimmed the tables, cabinets and chairs. This was painstaking, meticulous work. All the joints dovetailed together without nails; the details were beautifully inlaid, the finishes smooth. Faultless. Work like this took time and patience. And the young carpenter could never, ever be paid what these tables, chairs, dressers were worth.
And yet Old Mundin chose to do it anyway. Unusual for a young man these days.
“How can we help?” The Wife asked, smiling warmly. She had very dark hair, cut short to her head, and large, thoughtful, eyes. Her clothing was layered and looked both comfortable and bohemian. An earth mother, thought Gamache, married to a carpenter.
“I have a few questions, but tell me about your furniture. It’s beautiful.”
“
Gamache ran his large hand over the smooth surface of a chest of drawers. “Lovely polish. Paraffin?”
“Not unless we want them to burst into flames,” laughed Old. “Paraffin’s highly flammable.”
“Varathane?”
Old Mundin’s beautiful face crinkled in a smile. “You are perhaps mistaking us for Ikea. Easy to do,” he joked. “No, we use beeswax.”
We, thought Gamache. He’d watched this young couple for just a few minutes but it seemed clear they were a team.
“Do you sell much at the fair?” he asked.
“This’s all we have left,” The Wife said, indicating the few exquisite pieces around them.
“They’ll be gone by the end of the fair tonight,” said Old Mundin. “Then I need to get going again. Fall’s a great time of year to get into the forests and find wood. I do most of my woodwork through the winter.”
“I’d like to see your workshop.”
“Any time.”
“How about now?”
Old Mundin stared at his visitor and Gamache stared back.
“Now?”
“Is that a problem?”
“Well . . .”
“It’s okay, Old,” said The Wife. “I’ll watch the booth. You go.”
“Is it okay if we take Charles?” Old asked Gamache. “It’s hard for The Wife to watch him and look after customers.”
“I insist he comes along,” said Gamache, holding out his hand to the boy, who took it without hesitation. A small shard stabbed Gamache’s heart as he realized how precious this boy was, and would always be. A child who lived in a perpetual state of trust.
And how hard it would be for his parents to protect him.
“He’ll be fine,” Gamache assured The Wife.
“Oh, I know he’ll be. It’s you I worry about,” she said.
“I’m sorry,” said Gamache, reaching out to shake her hand. “I don’t know your name.”
“My actual name is Michelle, but everyone calls me The Wife.”
Her hand was rough and calloused, like her husband’s, but her voice was cultured, full of warmth. It reminded him a little of Reine-Marie’s.
“Why?” he asked.
“It started out as a joke between us and then it took. Old and The Wife. It somehow fits.”
And Gamache agreed. It did fit this couple, who seemed to live in their own world, with their own beautiful creations.
“Bye.” Charles gave his mother the new one-fingered wave.
“Old,” she scolded.
“Wasn’t me,” he protested. But he didn’t rat on Ruth, Gamache noticed.
Old strapped his son into the van and they drove out of the fair parking lot.
“Is ‘Old’ your real name?”
