The Brutal Telling (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #5)
Page 48“Can you remember how much you got?”
“I remember exactly. It was three thousand two hundred dollars. Enough to pay for all of this. Sears.”
Gamache looked at the legs of the table. Prefabricated wood. There was an upholstered rocker facing the new television, and a dark wood-veneer cabinet, with decorative plates.
Madame Poirier was also looking at the contents of the room, with pride.
“He came by a few weeks later and you know what he’d brought? A new bed. Plastic still on the mattress. Set it up for me too. He still comes by sometimes. He’s a nice man.”
Beauvoir nodded. A nice man who’d paid this elderly woman a fraction of what that furniture was worth.
“But you’re not in the seniors’ home? Why not?”
“After I got the new furniture the place felt different. More mine. I kinda liked it again.”
She showed them to the door and Beauvoir noticed the welcome mat. Worn, but still there. They said good-bye and headed for her eldest son’s place a mile down the road. A large man with a gut and stubble opened the door.
“Cops,” he called into the house. It, and he, smelled of beer and sweat and tobacco.
Petty crimes. Drunk and disorderly. Shoplifting. Benefit fraud.
They were the type who took advantage, found fault, pointed fingers. Still, it didn’t mean that sometimes they weren’t right. Like about Olivier. He’d screwed them.
After the introductions Poirier launched into his long, sad litany. It was all Beauvoir could do to keep him focused on Olivier, so long was this man’s list of people who’d done him wrong. Including his own mother.
Finally the two investigators lurched from the stale house, taking deep breaths of fresh late afternoon air.
“Do you think he did it?” asked Gamache
“He’s certainly angry enough,” said Beauvoir, “but unless he could transport a body to the bistro using the buttons on his remote, I think he’s off the suspect list. Can’t see him getting off that stinking sofa long enough.”
They walked back to their cars. The Chief paused.
“What’re you thinking?” Beauvoir asked.
“I was remembering what Madame Poirier said. She was about to take all those antiques to the dump. Can you imagine?”
“But Olivier saved them,” said the Chief. “Strange how that works. He might not have given Madame enough money, but he gave her affection and company. What price do you put on that?”
“So, can I buy your car? I’ll give you twenty hours of my company.”
“Don’t be cynical. One day you might be elderly and alone and you’ll see.”
As he followed the Chief’s car back to Three Pines Beauvoir thought about that, and agreed that Olivier had saved the precious antiques, and spent time with the crabby old woman. But he could have done it and still given the old woman a fair price.
But he hadn’t.
Marc Gilbert looked at Marc the horse. Marc the horse looked at Marc Gilbert. Neither seemed pleased.
“Dominique!” Marc called from the door of the barn.
“Yes?” she said, cheerily, walking across the yard from the house. She’d hoped it would take Marc a few days to find the horses. Actually, she’d hoped he never would. But that was in the same league as the Mrs. Keith Partridge dream. Unlikely at best.
And now she found him cross-armed in the dim barn.
“They’re horses,” she said. Though, it must be said, she suspected Macaroni might be a moose.
“I can see that, but what kind? These aren’t hunters, are they?”
Dominique hesitated. For an instant she wondered what would happen if she said yes. But she guessed that Marc, while not a horse expert, wouldn’t buy that.
“No, they’re better.”
“How better?”
His sentences were getting shorter, never a good sign.
“Well, they’re cheaper.”
She could see that actually had a slight mollifying effect. Might as well tell him the full story. “I bought them from the slaughterhouse. They were going to be killed today.”
Marc hesitated. She could see him struggling with his anger. Not trying to let it go, but trying to hold on to it. “Maybe there was a reason they were going to be . . . you know.”