Louise Penny: Brutal Telling

Sharon Harris joined them, taking off her wet raincoat then smiling at Agent Lacoste and shaking hands solemnly with the Chief Inspector.

“Dr. Harris,” he said, bowing slightly. “I’m sorry about disturbing your long weekend.”

She’d been sitting at home, flipping through the television channels, trying to find someone who wasn’t preaching at her, when the phone had rung. It had seemed a godsend. But looking now at the body, she knew that this had very little to do with God.

“I’ll leave you to it,” said Gamache. Through the windows he saw the villagers, still there, waiting for news. A tall, handsome man with gray hair bent down to listen as a short woman with wild hair spoke. Peter and Clara Morrow. Villagers and artists. Standing like a ramrod beside them and staring unblinking at the bistro was Ruth Zardo. And her duck, looking quite imperious. Ruth wore a sou’wester that glistened in the rain. Clara spoke to her, but was ignored. Ruth Zardo, Gamache knew, was a drunken, embittered old piece of work. Who also happened to be his favorite poet in the world. Clara spoke again and this time Ruth did respond. Even through the glass Gamache knew what she’d said.

“Fuck off.”

Gamache smiled. While a body in the bistro was certainly different, some things never changed.

“Chief Inspector.”

The familiar, deep, singsong voice greeted him. He turned and saw Myrna Landers walking across the room, her electric yellow boots clumping on the floor. She wore a pink tracksuit tucked into her boots.

She was a woman of color, in every sense.

“Myrna,” he smiled and kissed her on both cheeks. This drew a surprised look from some of the local Sûreté officers, who didn’t expect the Chief Inspector to kiss suspects. “What’re you doing in here when everyone else is out there?” He waved toward the window.

“I found him,” she said, and his face grew grave.

“Did you? I’m sorry. That must’ve been a shock.” He guided her to a chair by the fire. “I imagine you’ve given someone your statement?”

She nodded. “Agent Lacoste took it. Not much to tell, I’m afraid.”

“Would you like a coffee, or a nice cup of tea?”

Myrna smiled. It was something she’d offered him often enough. Something she offered everyone, from the kettle that bubbled away on her woodstove. And now it was being offered to her. And she saw how comforting it actually was.

“Tea, please.”

While she sat warming herself by the fire Chief Inspector Gamache went to ask Gabri for a pot of tea, then returned. He sat in the armchair and leaned forward.

“What happened?”

“I go out every morning for a long walk.”

“Is this something new? I’ve never known you to do that before.”

“Well, yes. Since the spring anyway. I decided since I turned fifty I needed to get into shape.” She smiled fully then. “Or at least, into a different shape. I’m aiming for pear rather than apple.” She patted her stomach. “Though I suspect my nature is to be the whole orchard.”

“What could be better than an orchard?” he smiled, then looked at his own girth. “I’m not exactly a sapling myself. What time do you get up?”

“Set my alarm for six thirty and I’m out the door by quarter to seven. This morning I’d just left when I noticed Olivier’s door was open a little, so I looked in and called. I know Olivier doesn’t normally open until later on a Sunday so I was surprised.”

“But not alarmed.”

“No.” She seemed surprised by the question. “I was about to leave when I spotted him.”

Myrna’s back was to the room, and Gamache didn’t glance over to the body. Instead he held her gaze and encouraged her with a nod, saying nothing.

Their tea arrived and while it was clear Gabri wanted to join them he, unlike Gamache’s son-in-law David, was intuitive enough to pick up the unspoken signals. He put the teapot, two bone china cups and saucers, milk, sugar and a plate of ginger cookies on the table. Then left.

“At first I thought it was a pile of linen left by the waiters the night before,” Myrna said when Gabri was out of earshot. “Most of them’re quite young and you never know. But then I looked closer and saw it was a body.”

“A body?”

It was the way someone describes a dead man, not a living one.

“I knew he was dead right away. I’ve seen some, you know.”

Gamache did know.

“He was exactly as you see him now.” Myrna watched as Gamache poured their tea. She indicated milk and sugar then accepted her cup, with a biscuit. “I got up close but didn’t touch him. I didn’t think he’d been killed. Not at first.”

“What did you think?” Gamache held the cup in his large hands. The tea was strong and fragrant.

“I thought he’d had a stroke or maybe a heart attack. Something sudden, by the look on his face. He seemed surprised, but not afraid or in pain.”

That was, thought Gamache, a good way of putting it. Death had surprised this man. But it did most people, even the old and infirm. Almost no one really expected to die.

“Then I saw his head.”

Gamache nodded. It was hard to miss. Not the head, but what was missing from it.

“Do you know him?”

“Never seen him before. And I suspect he’d be memorable.”

Gamache had to agree. He looked like a vagrant. And while easily ignored they were hard to forget. Armand Gamache put his delicate cup on its delicate saucer. His mind kept going to the question that had struck him as soon as he’d taken the call and heard about the murder. In the bistro in Three Pines.

Why here?

He looked quickly over to Olivier who was talking to Inspector Beauvoir and Agent Lacoste. He was calm and contained. But he couldn’t be oblivious of how this appeared.

“What did you do then?”

“I called 911 then Olivier, then went outside and waited for them.”

She described what happened, up to the moment the police arrived.

“ Merci ,” said Gamache and rose. Myrna took her tea and joined Olivier and Gabri across the room. They stood together in front of the hearth.

Everyone in the room knew who the three main suspects were. Everyone, that was, except the three main suspects.

THREE

Dr. Sharon Harris stood, brushed her skirt clean and smiled thinly at the Chief Inspector.

“Not much finesse,” she said.

Gamache stared down at the dead man.

“He looks like a tramp,” said Beauvoir, bending down and examining the man’s clothing. It was mismatched and worn.

“He must be living rough,” said Lacoste.

Gamache knelt down and looked closely at the old man’s face again. It was weathered and withered. An almanac face, of sun and wind and cold. A seasoned face. Gamache gently rubbed his thumb across the dead man’s cheek, feeling stubble. He was clean shaven, but what might have grown in would’ve been white. The dead man’s hair was white and cut without enthusiasm. A snip here, a snip there.

Gamache picked up one of the victim’s hands, as though comforting him. He held it for an instant, then turned it over, palm up. Then he slowly rubbed his own palm over the dead man’s.

“Whoever he was he did hard work. These are calluses. Most tramps don’t work.”

Gamache shook his head slowly. So who are you? And why are you here? In the bistro, and in this village. A village few people on earth even knew existed. And even fewer found.

But you did, thought Gamache, still holding the man’s cold hand. You found the village and you found death.