Still Life (A Three Pines Mystery)

'True, but that's not what happened. Last week Jane decided to show her work at Arts Williamsburg. She just decided Friday morning, and the judging was Friday afternoon. Her painting was accepted.'

'Got accepted and got murdered,' murmured Beauvoir. 'That is odd.'

'Speaking of odd,' said Gamache, 'is it true Miss Neal never invited anyone into her living room?'

'It's true,' said Peter. 'We've gotten so used to it it doesn't seem strange. It's like a limp or a chronic cough, I guess. A small abnormality that becomes normal.'

'But why not?'

'Don't know,' admitted Clara, herself baffled. 'Like Peter said I've gotten so used to it it doesn't seem strange.'

'Didn't you ever ask?'

'Jane? I suppose we did, when we first arrived. Or maybe we asked Timmer and Ruth, but I know for sure we never got an answer. No one seems to know. Gabri thinks she has orange shag carpet and pornography.'

Gamache laughed. 'And what do you think?'

'I just don't know.'

Silence greeted this. Gamache wondered about this woman who had chosen to live with so many secrets for so long, then chosen to let them all out. And died because of it? That was the question.

Maitre Norman Stickley stood at his desk and nodded his hello, then sat down without offering a seat to the three officers in front of him. Putting on large round glasses and looking down at his file he launched into speech.

'This will was drawn up ten years ago and is very simple. After a few small bequests the bulk of her estate goes to her niece, Yolande Marie Fontaine, or her issue. That would be the home in Three Pines, all its contents, plus whatever monies are left after paying the bequests and burial fees and whatever bills the executors incur. Plus taxes, of course.'

'Who are the executors of her estate?' Gamache asked, taking the blow to their investigation in his stride, but inwardly cursing. Something wasn't right, he felt. Maybe it's just your pride, he thought. Too stubborn to admit you were wrong and this elderly woman quite understandably left her home to her only living relative.

'Ruth Zardo, nee Kemp, and Constance Hadley, nee Post, known, I believe, as Timmer.'

The list of names troubled Gamache, though he couldn't put his finger on it. Was it the people themselves? he wondered. The choice? What?

'Had she made other wills with you?' Beauvoir asked.

'Yes. She'd made a will five years before this one.'

'Do you still have a copy of it?'

'No. Do you think I have space to keep old documents?'

'Do you remember what was in it?' Beauvoir asked, expecting to get another defensive, snippy, answer.

'No. Do you--' but Gamache headed him off.

'If you can't remember the exact terms of the first will can you perhaps remember, in broad strokes, her reasons for changing it five years later?' Gamache asked in as reasonable and friendly a tone as possible.

'It's not unusual for people to make wills every few years,' said Stickley, and Gamache was beginning to wonder if this slightly whiny tone was just his way of speaking. 'Indeed, we recommend that clients do this every two to five years. Of course,' said Stickley, as though answering an accusation, 'it's not for the notarial fee, but because situations tend to change every few years. Children are born, grandchildren come, spouses die, there's divorce.'

'The great parade of life.' Gamache jumped in to stop the parade.

'Exactly.'

'And yet, Maitre Stickley, her last will is ten years old. Why would that be? I think we can assume she made this one because the old one was no longer valid. But,' Gamache leaned forward and tapped the long thin document in front of the notary, 'this will is also out of date. Are you certain this is the most recent?'

'Of course it is. People get busy and a will is often not a priority. It can be an unpleasant chore. There are any number of reasons people put them off.'

'Could she have gone to another notary?'

'Impossible. And I resent the implication.'

'How do you know it's impossible?' Gamache persevered. 'Would she necessarily tell you?'

'I just know. This is a small town and I would have heard.' Point finale.

As they were leaving, a copy of the will in hand, Gamache turned to Nichol, 'I'm still not convinced about this will. I want you to do something.'

'Yes, sir,' Nichol was suddenly alert.

'Find out if this is the latest copy. Can you do that?'

'Absolument.' Nichol practically levitated.

'Hello,' Gamache called, poking his head through the door of Arts Williamsburg. After they'd been to the notary they'd walked over to the gallery, a wonderfully preserved and restored former post office. Its huge windows let in what little light the sky offered and that gray light sat on the narrow and worn wood floors and rubbed against the pristine white walls of the small open room, giving it an almost ghostly glow.

'Boniour,' he called again. He could see an old pot-bellied wood stove in the center of the room. It was beautiful. Simple, direct, nothing elegant about it, just a big, black stove that had kept the Canadian cold at bay for more than a hundred years. Nichol had found the light switches and turned them on. Huge