The Brutal Telling (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #5)

They’d taken the room back to its basic structure, clean lines that showed off its gracious proportions. The curtains had wide stripes of of sage and gray and let the light stream through. Along the top of each of the large windows was a lintel of stained glass. Original. More than a century old. It spilled playful colors into the room. The floors, newly stained, glowed. The king-size bed had an upholstered headboard and simple, fresh, white bed linen. A fire was laid in the hearth, ready for the first guest.

“Let me show you the en suite,” said Dominique.

She was tall and willowy. Mid-forties, Gamache thought, she wore jeans, a simple white shirt and her blonde hair loose. She had an air of quiet confidence and well-being. Her hands were flecked with white paint and her nails cut short.

Beside her Marc Gilbert smiled, happy to be showing off their creation. And Gamache, of all people, knew this resurrection of the old Hadley house was an act of creation.

Marc was also tall, over six feet. Slightly taller than Gamache, and about twenty pounds lighter. His hair was short, almost shaved, and it looked as though if he grew it in he’d be balding. His eyes were a piercing, buoyant blue and his manner welcoming and energetic. But while his wife was relaxed there was something edgy about Marc Gilbert. Not nervous so much as needy.

He wants my approval, thought Gamache. Not unusual really when showing off a project this important to them. Dominique pointed out the features of the bathroom, with its aqua mosaic-glass tiles, spa bath and separate walk-in shower. She was proud of their work, but she didn’t seem to need him to exclaim over it.

Marc did.

It was easy to give him what he wanted. Gamache was genuinely impressed.

“And we just put this door in last week,” said Marc. Opening a door from the bathroom they stepped onto a balcony. It looked out over the back of the house, across the gardens and a field beyond.

Four chairs were drawn around a table.

“I thought you could use these,” a voice said from behind them and Marc hurried to take the tray from his mother. On it were four glasses of iced tea and some scones.

“Shall we?” Dominique indicated the table and Gamache held a chair for Carole.

“Merci,” the older woman said, and sat.

“To second chances,” said the Chief Inspector. He lifted his iced tea and as they toasted he watched them. The three people who’d been drawn to this sad, violated, derelict house. Who’d given it new life.

And the house had returned the favor.

“Well, there’s more to do,” said Marc. “But we’re getting there.”

“We’re hoping to have our first guests by Thanksgiving,” said Dominique. “If Carole would just get off her derrière and do some work. But so far she’s refused to dig the fence posts or pour concrete.”

“Perhaps this afternoon,” said Carole Gilbert with a laugh.

“I noticed some antiques. Did you bring them from your home?” Gamache asked her.

Carole nodded. “We combined our belongings, but there was still a lot to buy.”

“From Olivier?”

“Some.” It was the most curt answer he’d received so far. He waited for more.

“We got a lovely rug from him,” said Dominique. “The one in the front hall, I think.”

“No, it’s in the basement,” said Marc, his voice sharp. He tried to soften it with a smile, but it didn’t quite work.

“And a few chairs, I think,” said Carole, quickly.

That would account for about one one-hundredth of the furnishings in the rambling old place. Gamache sipped his tea, looking at the three of them.

“We picked up the rest in Montreal,” said Marc. “On rue Notre Dame. Do you know it?”

Gamache nodded and then listened as Marc described their treks up and down the famed street, which was packed with antique shops. Some were not much more than junk shops but some contained real finds, near priceless antiques.

“Old Mundin’s repairing a few items we picked up in garage sales. Don’t tell the guests,” said Dominique with a laugh.

“Why didn’t you get more from Olivier?”

The women concentrated on their scones and Marc poked at the ice in his drink.

“We found his prices a little high, Chief Inspector,” said Dominique at last. “We’d have preferred to buy from him, but . . .”

It was left hanging, and still Gamache waited. Eventually Marc spoke.

“We were going to buy tables and beds from him. Made all the arrangements, then discovered he’d charged us almost double what he’d originally asked for them.”