Still Life

‘No, not a clue. You mentioned mineral spirits and a rag, but the first time I ever heard of mineral spirits was a few days ago when you needed them for your work here.’

‘Exactly. Artists know these things, but most people don’t. Once the face is off she’d have to paint on another, using Jane’s style. That takes skill. Whoever did this is an artist, and I’d say a good one. It took us quite a while to find the mistake. We probably never would have if your Agent Nichol hadn’t been so obnoxious. She said this was Yolande. I was so pissed off I went in search of Jane’s Yolande to see if it was true. And it wasn’t. But it forced me to look more closely at the face to see who it might be. That’s when I noticed the differences. So you can tell Nichol she helped solve the case.’

‘Anything else you’d like us to tell her?’ Beauvoir smiled at Clara.

Gamache knew he wouldn’t lead Nichol to believe her rudeness had paid off, and yet he knew if he’d sent her away earlier they’d never be this far now. In a sense Clara was right but she’d failed to give herself enough credit. Her own need to prove Nichol wrong had played quite a role as well.

‘You thought Fair Day was good enough for the exhibition when you judged it on the Friday before Thanksgiving?’ he asked Peter.

‘I thought it was brilliant.’

‘It had changed by Thanksgiving Monday,’ said Clara, turning to Gamache and Beauvoir. ‘Remember when you two came in and I showed you Fair Day? The magic was gone then.’

‘Saturday and Sunday,’ said Beauvoir. Two days. Somewhere in there the murderer changed this painting. Jane Neal was killed Sunday morning.’

They all stared at it, willing it to tell them who did this. Gamache knew that Fair Day was screaming at them. The reason for Jane Neal’s murder was in that picture. Clara could hear a tap tap tapping on the living-room window and went over to see who was out there. Staring into the darkness a branch suddenly appeared and hit the glass. Hurricane Kyla had arrived, and wanted in.

The party broke up quickly after that, everyone racing for their homes or cars before the worst of the storm hit.

‘Don’t let a house fall on you,’ Gabri shouted after Ruth, who may or may not have given him the finger as she disappeared into the dark. Fair Day was taken to the B. & B. where a group now sat in the large living room sipping liqueurs and espresso. A fire had been laid and lit and outside Kyla moaned and called the leaves from the trees. Rain now whipped against the windows causing them to tremble. Inside the group instinctively huddled closer, warmed by the fire, the drinks and the company.

‘Who knew about Fair Day before Miss Neal was killed?’ Gamache asked. Peter and Clara were there, as were Ben, Olivier, Gabri and Myrna.

‘The jury,’ said Peter.

‘Didn’t you talk about it at your Thanksgiving dinner that Friday night?’

‘We talked about it a lot. Jane even described it,’ confirmed Clara.

‘It’s not the same thing,’ said Gamache. ‘Who saw Fair Day before tonight?’

They looked at each other, shaking their heads.

‘Who was on the jury again?’ Beauvoir asked.

‘Henri Lariviere, Irenée Calfat, Elise Jacob, Clara and me,’ said Peter.

‘And who else might have seen it?’ Gamache asked again. It was a crucial question. The murderer killed Jane because of Fair Day. He or she had to have seen it and seen the threat, enough to alter the picture, enough to murder.

‘Isaac Coy,’ said Clara. ‘He’s the caretaker. And I guess it’s possible anyone who came in to see the other exhibition, the abstract art, could have wandered into the storeroom and seen it.’

‘But not likely,’ said Gamache.

‘Not by mistake,’ Clara agreed. She got up. ‘I’m sorry, but I think I’ve left my purse at Jane’s. I’m just going to nip over and get it.’

‘In the storm?’ Myrna asked, incredulous.

‘I’m going home as well,’ said Ben. ‘Unless there’s something else I can do?’

Gamache shook his head and the gathering broke up. One by one they made their way into the black night; arms instinctively up to protect their faces. The night air was filled with driving rain and dead leaves and running people.

Clara needed to think, and for that she needed her safe place, which happened to be Jane’s kitchen. She turned on all the lights and sank into one of the big old chairs beside the wood stove.

Was it possible? Surely she’d gotten something wrong. Forgotten something, or read too much into something. It’d struck her first staring at Fair Day during the cocktail, though the beginnings of the idea had started at Arts Williamsburg earlier in the evening. But she’d rejected the thought. Too painful. Too close. Much too close.