Still Life (A Three Pines Mystery)

Once again her lover closed up. Became stone. Still and cold.

Ben had walked in on them at that moment, and caught them in an act more intimate than sex. Their anger and pain was fully exposed. Ben stammered and stumbled and bumbled and finally left, looking like a child who had walked in on his parents.

That night, after everyone had left, Clara said the things she knew Peter had longed to hear. How much she trusted him and loved him. How sorry she was, and how grateful she was for his patience in the face of her own pain at Jane's death. And she asked for his forgiveness. And he gave it, and they'd held each other until their breathing became deep and even and in sync.

But still, something had been left unsaid.

The next morning Clara rose early, let Lucy out, and made Peter pancakes, maple syrup and bacon. The unexpected smell of cured Canadian bacon, fresh coffee and woodsmoke woke Peter. Lying in bed he resolved to try to move beyond the hard feelings of the day before. Still, it had confirmed for Peter that feelings were too dangerous to expose. He showered, put on clean clothes and his game face, and went downstairs.

'When do you think Yolande'll move in?' Clara asked Peter over breakfast.

'I guess after the will has been read. A few days, maybe a week.'

'I can't believe Jane would leave her home to Yolande, if for no other reason than she knew how much I hate her.'

'Maybe it wasn't about you, Clara.'

Zing. And maybe, thought Clara, he's still pissed off. 'I've been watching Yolande for the last couple of days. She keeps lugging stuff into Jane's place.'

Peter shrugged. He was getting tired of comforting Clara.

'Didn't Jane make a new will?' she tried again.

'I don't remember that.' Peter knew Clara enough to know this was a ruse, an attempt to take his mind off his hurt and to get him on her side. He refused to play.

'No, really,' said Clara. 'I seem to remember when Timmer was diagnosed and knew it was terminal that they both talked about revising their wills. I'm sure Jane and Timmer went off to that notary in Williamsburg. What was her name? You know. The one who just had the baby. She was in my exercise class.'

'If Jane made a new will, the police'll know about it. It's what they do.'

Gamache got up from the bench. He'd seen what he needed to. What he suspected. It was far from conclusive, but it was interesting. Lies always were. Now, before the day swept him up in its imperatives, he wanted to see the blind again. Maybe not climb it, though. He walked across the green, his duck boots leaving prints in the frost-soaked grass. Up the hill he walked, past the old schoolhouse, and then into the woods. Once again he found himself at the foot of the tree. It was pretty obvious from his first, and he hoped only, visit upwards that the blind hadn't been used by the killer. But still ...

'Bang. You're dead.'

Gamache swung around, but had recognised the voice an instant after he'd begun to turn.

'You're a sneak, Jean Guy. I'm going to have to put a cow bell on you.'

'Not again.' It wasn't often he could get the drop on the chief. But Beauvoir had begun to worry. Suppose he snuck up on Gamache sometime and he had a heart attack? It would certainly take the fun out of it. But he worried about the Chief Inspector. His rational mind, which normally had the upper hand, knew it was stupid. The Chief Inspector was slightly overweight and he had crested fifty, but that described many people, and most did just fine without Beauvoir's help. But. But the Chief Inspector's job was stressful enough to fell an elephant. And he worked hard. But mostly Jean Guy Beauvoir's feelings couldn't be explained. He just didn't want to lose the Chief Inspector. Gamache clapped him on the shoulder and offered him the last of the cafe au lait from the thermos, but Beauvoir had had breakfast at the B. & B.

'Brunch, you mean.'

'Humm. Eggs Benedict, croissants, homemade jams.' Beauvoir looked at the crumpled paper bag in Gamache's fist. 'It was awful. You're lucky to have missed it. Nichol is still there. She came down after me and sat at a different table. Odd girl.'

'Woman, Jean Guy.'

Beauvoir harrumphed. He hated Gamache's political correctness. Gamache smiled. 'It's not that.' He'd divined the reason for the harrumph. 'Don't you see? She wants us all to see her as a girl, as a child, someone who needs to be treated delicately.'

'If so she's a spoiled child. She gives me the willies.'

'Don't let her get under your skin. She's manipulative and angry. Just treat her like any other agent. That'll drive her nuts.'

'Why's she even with us? She brings nothing.'

'She came up with some very good analysis yesterday that helped convince us Philippe Croft is our killer.'

'True, but she's a dangerous character.'

'Dangerous, Jean Guy?'

'Not physically. She won't take her gun and shoot us all. Probably.'

'Not all. One of us would get her before she finished us all off, I hope.' Gamache smiled.

'I hope it's me. She's dangerous because she's divisive.'

'Yes. That makes sense. I've been thinking about it. When she picked me up at home Sunday morning I was impressed. She was respectful, thoughtful, answered thoroughly when asked a question but didn't impose or need to impress. I really thought we had a winner.'