Still Life

‘Miserable weather,’ said Beauvoir, lifting the collar of his jacket and shrugging his shoulders against the driving rain.

‘More rain on the way and turning colder,’ Gamache said automatically, and suddenly realised the villagers were getting into his head, or at least their incessant forecasts were.

‘What do you think of Agent Nichol, Jean Guy?’

‘I can’t figure out how she got into the Sûreté, with an attitude like that, not to mention recommended for a promotion to homicide. No skill as a team member, almost no people skills, no ability to listen. It’s amazing. I have to think it backs up what you’ve been saying for years, that the wrong people are promoted.’

‘Do you think she can learn? She’s young, right? About twenty-five?’

‘That’s not so young. Lacoste isn’t much older. I’m far from convinced it’s an issue of age and not personality. I think she’s going to be like this, and worse, at fifty if she isn’t careful. Can she learn? Undoubtedly. But the real question is can she unlearn? Can she get rid of her bad attitudes?’ He noticed the rain dripping from the chief inspector’s face. He wanted to wipe it away, but resisted the impulse.

Even as he spoke, Beauvoir knew he’d made a mistake. It was like honey to a bear. He could see the chief’s face change, from the somber problem-solving mode into mentor mode. He’d try to fix her. God, here it comes, thought Beauvoir. He respected Gamache more than any other human being, but saw his flaw, perhaps a fatal flaw, as a desire to help people, instead of just firing them. He was far too compassionate. A gift Beauvoir sometimes envied, but mostly watched with suspicion.

‘Well, maybe her need to be right will be tempered by her curiosity.’

And maybe the scorpion will lose its sting, thought Beauvoir.

‘Chief Inspector?’ The two men looked up and saw Clara Morrow running through the rain, her husband Peter fighting with their umbrella and struggling to keep up. ‘I’ve thought of something odd.’

‘Ahh, sustenance.’ Gamache smiled.

‘Well this is a pretty small nugget, but who knows. It just struck me as a strange coincidence and I thought you should know. It’s about Jane’s art.’

‘I don’t think it’s that big a deal,’ said Peter, soaked and sullen. Clara shot him a surprised look which wasn’t lost on Gamache.

‘It’s just that Jane painted all her life but never let anyone see her work.’

‘That’s not so strange, is it?’ said Beauvoir. ‘Lots of artists and writers keep their work secret. You read about it all the time. Then after their deaths their stuff is discovered and makes a fortune.’

‘True, but that’s not what happened. Last week Jane decided to show her work at Arts Williamsburg. She just decided Friday morning, and the judging was Friday afternoon. Her painting was accepted.’

‘Got accepted and got murdered,’ murmured Beauvoir. ‘That is odd.’

‘Speaking of odd,’ said Gamache, ‘is it true Miss Neal never invited anyone into her living room?’

‘It’s true,’ said Peter. ‘We’ve gotten so used to it it doesn’t seem strange. It’s like a limp or a chronic cough, I guess. A small abnormality that becomes normal.’

‘But why not?’

‘Don’t know,’ admitted Clara, herself baffled. ‘Like Peter said I’ve gotten so used to it it doesn’t seem strange.’

‘Didn’t you ever ask?’

‘Jane? I suppose we did, when we first arrived. Or maybe we asked Timmer and Ruth, but I know for sure we never got an answer. No one seems to know. Gabri thinks she has orange shag carpet and pornography.’

Gamache laughed. ‘And what do you think?’

‘I just don’t know.’

Silence greeted this. Gamache wondered about this woman who had chosen to live with so many secrets for so long, then chosen to let them all out. And died because of it? That was the question.

Maître Norman Stickley stood at his desk and nodded his hello, then sat down without offering a seat to the three officers in front of him. Putting on large round glasses and looking down at his file he launched into speech.

‘This will was drawn up ten years ago and is very simple. After a few small bequests the bulk of her estate goes to her niece, Yolande Marie Fontaine, or her issue. That would be the home in Three Pines, all its contents, plus whatever monies are left after paying the bequests and burial fees and whatever bills the executors incur. Plus taxes, of course.’