Louise Penny - Bury Your Dead

“May I help you?”

Beauvoir unwrapped himself, now feeling like The Mummy. He was an entire B-grade film festival. Finally he removed his hat and Carole Gilbert smiled warmly.

“It’s Inspector Beauvoir, non ?”

“Oui, madame, comment allez-vous?”

“I’m well, thank you. Have you come to stay? I didn’t see your name on the register.”

She looked behind her into the large, open entrance hall, with its black and white tile floor, gleaming wood desk and fresh flowers, even in the middle of winter. It was inviting and for a moment Beauvoir wished he had booked in. But then he remembered the prices, and remembered why he was there.

Not for massages and gourmet meals, but to find out whether Olivier had actually killed the Hermit.

Why did Olivier move the body?

And the very spot he was standing was where Olivier had dumped the Hermit. Olivier had admitted as much. He’d hauled the dead man through the woods that Labor Day weekend, in the middle of the night. Finding the door unlocked he simply dropped the sad bundle here. Right here.

Beauvoir looked down. He was melting, like the Wicked Witch of the West, his snow-covered boots puddling on the tile floor. But Carole Gilbert didn’t seem to care. She was more concerned for his comfort.

“No, I’m staying at the B and B,” he said.

“Of course.” He searched her face for any sign of professional jealousy, but saw none. And why would he? It seemed inconceivable the owners of this magnificent inn and spa would be jealous of any establishment, especially Gabri’s somewhat weary B and B.

“And what brings you back to us?” she asked, her voice light, conversational. “Is the Chief Inspector with you?”

“No, I’m on vacation. Leave, actually.”

“Of course, I’m sorry.” And she looked it, her face suddenly concerned. “How stupid of me. How are you?”

“I’m well. Better.”

“And Monsieur Gamache?”

“Better also.” He was, it must be admitted, a little tired of answering these kind questions.

“I’m so glad to hear it.” She motioned him into the inn but he held his ground. He was in a hurry and it was his temperament to show it. He consciously tried to slow himself down. He was supposed to be there for a vacation, after all.

“How can I help you?” she asked. “I don’t suppose you’ve come for the hot mud treatment? The Tai Chi class perhaps?”

He noticed her bemused look. Laughing at him? He thought not. More likely poking gentle fun at herself and the services of the spa. Her son Marc and his wife Dominique had bought the run-down place a year or so ago and turned it into this magnificent inn and spa. And had invited his mother, Carole Gilbert, to move from Quebec City to Three Pines, to help them run it.

“I can see how you might think so, since I’ve worn my Tai Chi outfit.” He opened his arms so she could see the full splendor of his ski suit. She laughed. “I’ve actually come to ask a favor. May I borrow one of your snowmobiles? I understand you have some for your guests.”

“That’s true, we do. I’ll get Roar Parra to help you.”

“ Merci. I thought I’d go into the woods, to the cabin.”

He watched her as he spoke, hoping for a reaction, and got one. The gracious woman became glacial. Interesting how a moment before she’d seemed calm, content, relaxed. And now, while hardly anything had physically changed she suddenly seemed to be made of ice. A chill radiated from her.

“Is that so? Why?”

“Just to see it again. Something to do.”

She examined him closely, her eyes reptilian. Then the mask descended and she once again became the gentille grande dame of the manor house.

“In this weather?” She glanced outside to the falling snow.

“If snow kept me from doing things I’d get nothing done in winter,” he said.

“That’s true,” she admitted. Reluctantly? he wondered. “I don’t suppose you’ve heard, but my husband is living there now.”

“Is that so?” He hadn’t heard. But he did hear her say “husband,” not “former husband.” They’d been separated for years, until Vincent Gilbert had suddenly shown up, uninvited, at the inn and spa at almost exactly the same time the Hermit’s body had appeared.

“Are you sure you wouldn’t prefer a mud wrap?” she asked. “It’s quite similar to an hour with Vincent, I find.”

He laughed. “ Non, madame , merci. Will he mind if I drop in?”

“Vincent? I’m afraid I’ve given up trying to figure out how his mind works.” But she relented a little and smiled at the melting man. “I’m sure he’ll be delighted for the company. But you’d better hurry, before it gets too late.”

It was already two in the afternoon. It would be dark by four.

And when the winter sun set on a Québec forest, monsters crawled out of the shadows. Not the B-grade movie monsters, not zombies or mummies or space aliens. But older, subtler wraiths. Invisible creatures that rode in on plunging temperatures. Death by freezing, death by exposure, death by going even a foot off the path, and getting lost. Death, ancient and patient, waited in Québec forests for the sun to set.

“Come with me.”

Carole Gilbert, petite and refined, put on her bulbous coat and joined the alien army. They walked around the side of the inn and spa, through large soft flakes of snow. In the middle distance Inspector Beauvoir could see cross-country skiers striding across the field on well-marked paths. In a few minutes they’d be inside, sipping buttery rum toddies or hot chocolate by the fire, their cheeks rosy, their noses running, rubbing their feet to get the circulation back.

If they were staying at the inn they’d be healthy and wealthy and warm.

And he’d be heading deep into the forest, racing the setting sun, to a cabin where a murder had happened and an asshole now lived.

“Roar,” Carole Gilbert called and the short, squat man in the shed straightened up. His hair and eyes were almost black and he was powerfully built.

“Madame Gilbert,” he said, nodding to her. Not in an obsequious manner, but with respect. And Inspector Beauvoir realized this woman would naturally receive respect because she treated others with it. As she did now with this woodsman.

“You remember Inspector Beauvoir, I believe.”

There was an awkward hesitation before Roar Parra put out his hand. Beauvoir wasn’t surprised. He and the rest of the homicide team had made this man’s life miserable. He, his wife Hanna and son Havoc had been the chief suspects in the murder of the Hermit.

The Inspector looked at their former suspect. A man familiar with the forest, a man who’d been cutting a trail, straight for the recluse’s cabin. He was Czech. The dead man was Czech. His son Havoc worked for Olivier and could have followed him one night through the woods and found the cabin, and found the treasure.

The Hermit had amassed his treasures almost certainly by stealing them from people in the Eastern Bloc when the walls were crumbling. When communism was crumbling, when people were desperate to get out, to the West.

They’d entrusted their family treasures, guarded and hidden for generations of communist rule, to the wrong man. To the Hermit, before he was a hermit, when he was a man with a plan. To steal from them. But he’d stolen more than antiquities and works of art. He’d stolen hope, he’d stolen trust.

Had he stolen from Roar and Hanna Parra? Had they found him?

Had they killed him?

Carole Gilbert had left and the two men were alone in the shed.

“Why’re you heading back to the cabin?”

There was nothing subtle about this brick of a man.