'This was taken on the last day of the county fair. The day after the dance. You can see how happy Jane is,' Timmer had said, and it was true. Even in the grainy photo she glowed, even more in comparison to the glum faces of her parents and sister.
'She'd become engaged to her young man that night,' said Timmer, wistfully. 'What was his name? Andreas. He was a lumberjack, of all things. Doesn't matter. She hadn't told her parents yet, but she had a plan. She'd elope. They made a wonderful couple. Rather odd to look at, until you got to know them and saw how good they were together. They loved each other. Except,' and here Timmer's brow had clouded, 'Ruth Kemp went to Jane's parents, here at the fair, and told them what Jane planned to do. She did it in secret but I overheard. I was young, and my big regret to this day was not going to Jane right away to warn her. But I didn't.'
'What happened?' Myrna asked.
'They took Jane home and broke up the relationship. Spoke to Kaye Thompson, who employed Andreas, and threatened to take away the mills' business from her operation if this lumberjack so much as looked at Jane. You could do that in those days. Kaye's a good woman, a fair woman, and she explained it all to him, but it broke his heart. He apparently tried to see Jane, but couldn't.'
'And Jane?'
'She was told she couldn't see him. No debate. She was only seventeen, and not a very headstrong person. She gave in. It was a horrible thing.'
'Did Jane ever know it was Ruth who did it?'
'I never told her. Perhaps I should have. Seemed there was enough pain, but probably I was just afraid.'
'Did you ever say anything to Ruth?'
'No.'
Myrna looked down at the photograph in Timmer's translucent hand. A moment of joy caught just before it was extinguished.
'Why did Ruth do it?'
'I don't know. For sixty years I've wondered that. Maybe she wonders the same thing. There's something about her, something bitter, that resents happiness in others, and needs to ruin it. That's probably what makes her a great poet, she knows what it is to suffer. She gathers suffering to her. Collects it, and sometimes creates it. I think that's why she likes to sit with me, she feels more comfortable in the company of a dying woman than a thriving one. But perhaps I'm being unfair.'
Listening to Myrna's narrative, Gamache thought he would've liked to meet Timmer Hadley. But too late. He was, though, about to meet Jane Neal, or at least get as close as he would ever come to doing so.
Beauvoir stepped into the perfect home. So perfect it was lifeless. So perfect a tiny part of him found it attractive. He shoved that part down and pretended it didn't exist.
Yolande Fontaine's home gleamed. Every surface glowed with polish. In his stockinged feet he was shown into the living room, a room whose only blemish sat in an overstuffed chair and read the sports section. Andre didn't move, didn't acknowledge his wife. Yolande made her way to him. Actually, to his pile of dumped newspaper, forming a teepee village on the tasteful area rug. She picked up the paper, folded it, and put it in a neat stack on the coffee table, all the edges lining up. Then she turned to Beauvoir.
'Now, Inspector, would you like a coffee?'
Her change in attitude almost gave him whiplash, then he remembered. They were in her home. Her territory. It was safe for the lady of the manor to make an appearance.
'No, thank you. I just need some answers.'
Yolande inclined her head slightly, a gracious gesture to a working man.
'Did you take anything out of Miss Neal's home?'
This question brought a rise, but not from Yolande. Andre lowered his paper and scowled. 'And what business is it of yours?'
'We now believe Miss Neal was murdered. We have a warrant to search her home and seal it off.'
'What does that mean?'
'It means no one but the police are allowed in.'
A look was exchanged between husband and wife, the first since Beauvoir had arrived. It wasn't a loving, supportive glance, more a question from him and a confirmation from her. Beauvoir was convinced. They'd done something in that home.
'Did you take anything?' he repeated.
'No,' said Yolande.
'If you're lying, I'll have you charged with interfering with the investigation and that, M. Malenfant, won't look good on your already impressive record.' Malenfant smiled. He didn't care.
'What've you been doing in there for five days, Ms. Fontaine?'
'Decorating.' She swept her arm around the living room. It screamed cheap 'taste'. The curtains struck him as a little odd, then he noticed she'd put the pattern on both sides, so it showed outside as well as in the home. He'd never seen that before, but wasn't surprised. Yolande Fontaine only really existed with an audience. She was like those novelty lamps that came on when you clapped your hands. She switched to life with applause, or the sharp clap of rebuke. Any reaction, as long as it was directed at her, was sufficient. Silence and solitude drained her of life.
'This is a lovely room,' he lied. 'Is the rest of the home as - elegant?'
She heard his clapping and sprung into action. 'Come with me,' she said, practically dragging him around the tiny home. It was like a hotel room, sterile and anonymous. It seemed Yolande had become so self-absorbed she no longer existed. She'd finally absorbed herself.
