“That’s great news for Olivier, isn’t it?”
“You mean it makes him less of a suspect?” said Gamache. “I suppose. But it raises a lot more questions.”
“Like how’d the body get into the bistro,” said Myrna.
“And where he was killed,” said Peter.
“We’re searching the village. House by house.”
“You’re what?” asked Peter. “Without our permission?”
“We have warrants,” said Gamache, surprised by Peter’s vehement reaction.
“It’s still a violation of our privacy. You knew we’d be back, you could’ve waited.”
“I could have, but chose not to. These weren’t social calls, and frankly your feelings are secondary.”
“Apparently our rights are too.”
“That’s not accurate.” The Chief Inspector spoke firmly. The more heated Peter became the calmer Gamache grew. “We have warrants. Your right to privacy I’m afraid ended when someone took a life in your village. We’re not the ones who’ve violated your rights, the murderer is. Don’t forget that. You need to help us, and that means stepping aside and letting us do our work.”
“Letting you search our homes,” said Peter. “How would you feel?”
“I wouldn’t feel good about it either,” admitted Gamache. “Who would? But I hope I’d understand. This has just begun, you know. It’s going to get worse. And before it’s over we’ll know where everything is hidden.”
He looked sternly at Peter.
Peter saw the closed door into his studio. He imagined Sûreté officers opening it. Flicking on the light switch. Going into his most private space. The place he kept his art. The place he kept his heart. His latest work was in there, under a sheet. Hiding. Away from critical eyes.
But now strangers would have opened that door, lifted that veil and seen it. What would they think?
“So far we haven’t found anything, except, I understand, Guylaine’s missing boots.”
“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.”
“Merci,” said Mundin. “I spend most of the year making pieces to sell at the fair.”
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?”
