Bury Your Dead

“I think we need to talk to the suspects again,” said Beauvoir. “I thought I might drop by the Mundins’ place this afternoon, pretend I want to buy some furniture.”

“Great, and I’ll try to talk to some of the others.” She hesitated. “There is another way the murderer could have found the Hermit.”

“Yes?”

“Maybe he recognized the treasures when Olivier went to sell them. It says here,” she tapped the manila file folder, “that Olivier sold a lot of the stuff on eBay. Well people all over the world could have seen it, including eastern Europe. Suppose someone recognized one of the items and tracked Olivier down.”

“And followed him to the Hermit,” said Beauvoir. “I’ll look into it.”

He was beginning to appreciate why the Chief Inspector insinuated himself into the communities they investigated. It had long perplexed Beauvoir and privately he didn’t approve. It blurred the lines between investigator and investigated.

But he now wondered if that was such a bad thing.

As he stepped out of the small home the sun glared off the snow, blinding him. Beauvoir put his dark glasses on.

Ray-Ban. Old School. He liked them, made him look cool on cold days.

Getting in his car he let it warm up, feeling the heated seats grow warm under him. On a bitterly cold winter day it was almost as good as sex. Then he put the car in gear and headed up the hill and out of town.

Five minutes later he arrived at the old farm. The Surete team had last been there in late summer, when everything had been in bloom. Beyond bloom. It was going to seed, the leaves were turning color and the wasps fed drunkenly on over-ripe fruit.

But now it was all dead or dormant and the farm, once teeming with life, looked deserted.

But as he drove slowly up to the house the door opened and standing there was The Wife, holding little Charlie Mundin’s hand.

As he got out of the car she waved and he noticed Old Mundin approaching the open door, wiping his large, expressive hands on a towel.

“Welcome,” The Wife smiled, kissing him on both cheeks. He wasn’t often greeted like that in a case, then he remembered, he wasn’t on a case.

Like Old Mundin, The Wife was young, and like Old, she was stunning. Not in a Vogue sort of way, but her beauty came from her obvious good health and humor. Her dark hair was cut very short and her eyes were deep brown, large and warm. She smiled easily and readily, as did Old, as did Charlie.

“Come in, before you freeze,” Old said, closing the door. “Would you like a hot chocolate? Charlie and I just got back from tobogganing and we sure could use one.”

Charlie, his round face ruddy red from being outside, his eyes sparkling, looked up at Jean-Guy as though they’d known each other all their lives.

“I’d love one.” Beauvoir followed them into their home.

“You’ll have to excuse our place, Inspector,” said The Wife, leading the way into the warm kitchen. “We’re still renovating.”

And the place certainly looked it. Some rooms weren’t yet dry-walled, others had the plaster done, but no paint. The kitchen looked like something out of the 1950s, but not in a good way. Tacky, not retro-chic.

“It looks fine to me,” he lied. What it did look, and feel, was comfortable. It felt like a home.

“You wouldn’t know it,” said Old, helping The Wife with the hot cocoa, “but we’ve actually done a lot of work. You should see the upstairs. It’s wonderful.”

“Old, I can’t imagine the Inspector’s come all this way to see our renovations,” laughed The Wife. She returned to the kitchen table carrying steaming mugs of hot chocolate each with a large, melting, marshmallow.

“We saw you at the bistro the other night,” said Old. “Gabri says you’re here for a holiday. That’s nice.”

They looked at him with sympathy. It was gentle, it was meant to be supportive, but Jean-Guy wished it would stop, though he knew this young couple meant it kindly.

Fortunately, their sympathy also gave him the opening he needed.

“Yes, I haven’t been back since the Hermit case. What a blow to the community.”

“Olivier’s arrest?” said The Wife. “We still can’t believe it.”

“You knew him quite well, as I remember,” Beauvoir turned to Old. “Gave you your first job.”

“He did. Restoring and repairing furniture.”

“Show, show, show,” said Charlie.

“Exactly,” said The Wife. “Chaud. Chocolat chaud. He wasn’t speaking six months ago but Dr. Gilbert’s been coming once a week for dinner and working with him.”

“Really? Vincent Gilbert?”

“Yes. You knew he used to work with children with Down syndrome?”

“Oui.”

“Boo,” said Charlie to Beauvoir, who smiled and tried to ignore the child. “Boo,” Charlie repeated.

“Boo!” said Beauvoir back, thrusting his head forward in a way he hoped was more playful than terrifying.