Louise Penny - Brutal Telling

“The Hermit made this?” Gamache twisted in his chair and looked at her. She nodded. He looked back at the screen. The carving was complex. On one side was the shipwreck, then some forest, and on the other side a tiny village being built. “Even in a photograph it seems alive. I can see the little people. Are they the same ones from the other carvings?”

“I think so. But I can’t find the frightened boy.”

Gamache searched the village, the ship on the shore, the forest. Nothing. What happened to him? “We need to have the carving,” he said.

“This’s in a private collection in Zurich. I’ve contacted a gallery owner I know there. Very influential man. He said he’d help.”

Gamache knew enough not to press Superintendent Brunel about her connections.

“It’s not just the boy,” he said. “We need to know what’s written underneath it.”

Like the others this one was, on the surface, pastoral, peaceful. But something lurked on the fringes. A disquiet.

And yet, once again, the tiny wooden people seemed happy.

“There’s another one. In a collection in Cape Town.” The screen flickered and another carving appeared. A boy was lying, either asleep or dead, on the side of a mountain. Gamache put on his glasses and leaned closer, squinting.

“Hard to tell, but I think it’s the same young man.”

“So do I,” said the Superintendent.

“Is he dead?”

“I wondered that myself, but I don’t think so. Do you notice something about this carving, Armand?”

Gamache leaned back and took a deep breath, releasing some of the tension he felt. He closed his eyes, then opened them again. But this time not to look at the image on the screen. This time he wanted to sense it.

After a moment he knew Thérèse Brunel was right. This carving was different. It was clearly the same artist, there was no mistaking that, but one significant element had changed.

“There’s no fear.”

Thérèse nodded. “Only peace. Contentment.”

“Even love,” said the Chief Inspector. He longed to hold this carving, to own it even, though he knew he never would. And he felt, not for the first time, that soft tug of desire. Of greed. He knew he’d never act on it. But he knew others might. This was a carving worth owning. All of them were, he suspected.

“What do you know about them?” he asked.

“They were sold through a company in Geneva. I know it well. Very discreet, very high end.”

“What did he get for them?”

“They sold seven of them. The first was six years ago. It went for fifteen thousand. The prices went up until they reached three hundred thousand for the last one. It sold this past winter. He says he figures he could get at least half a million for the next one.”

Gamache exhaled in astonishment. “Whoever sold them must have made hundreds of thousands.”

“The auction house in Geneva takes a hefty commission, but I did a quick calculation. The seller would have made about one point five million.”

Gamache’s mind was racing. And then it ran into a fact. Or rather into a statement.

I threw the carvings away, into the woods, when I walked home.

Olivier had said it. And once again, Olivier had lied.

Foolish, foolish man, thought Gamache. Then he looked back at the computer screen and the boy lying supine on the mountain, almost caressing it. Was it possible, he asked himself.

Could Olivier have actually done it? Killed the Hermit?

A million dollars was a powerful motive. But why kill the man who supplied the art?

No, there was more Olivier wasn’t telling, and if Gamache had any hope of finding the real killer it was time for the truth.

Why does Gabri have to be such a fucking queer, thought Clara. And a fag. And why do I have to be such a fucking coward?

“Yes, that’s the one,” she heard herself say, in an out-of-body moment. The day had warmed up but she pulled her coat closer as they stood on the sidewalk.

“Where can I drive you?” Denis Fortin asked.

Where? Clara didn’t know where Gamache would be but she had his cell-phone number. “I’ll find my own way, thanks.”

They shook hands.

“This show’s going to be huge, for both of us. I’m very happy for you,” he said, warmly.

“There is one other thing. Gabri. He’s a friend of mine.”

She felt his hand release hers. But still, he smiled at her.

“I just need to say that he’s not queer and he’s not a fag.”

“He isn’t? He sure seems gay.”

“Well, yes, he’s gay.” She could feel herself growing confused.

“What’re you saying, Clara?”

“You called him queer, and a fag.”

“Yes?”

“It just didn’t seem very nice.”

Now she felt like a schoolgirl. Words like “nice” weren’t used very often in the art world. Unless it was as an insult.

“You’re not trying to censor me, are you?”

His voice had become like treacle. Clara could feel his words sticking to her. And his eyes, once thoughtful, were now hard. With warning.

“No, I’m just saying that I was surprised and I didn’t like hearing my friend called names.”

“But he is queer and a fag. You admitted it yourself.”

“I said he’s gay.” She could feel her cheeks sizzling and knew she must be beet red.

“Oh,” he sighed and shook his head. “I understand.” He looked at her with sadness now, as one might look at a sick pet. “It’s the small-town girl after all. You’ve been in that tiny village too long, Clara. It’s made you small-minded. You censor yourself and now you’re trying to stifle my voice. That’s very dangerous. Political correctness, Clara. An artist needs to break down boundaries, push, challenge, shock. You’re not willing to do that, are you?”

She stood staring, unable to grasp what he was saying.

“No, I didn’t think so,” he said. “I tell the truth, and I say it in a way that might shock, but is at least real. You’d prefer something just pretty. And nice.”

“You insulted a lovely man, behind his back,” she said. But she could feel the tears now. Of rage, but she knew how it must look. It must look like weakness.

“I’m going to have to reconsider the show,” he said. “I’m very disappointed. I thought you were the real deal, but obviously you were just pretending. Superficial. Trite. I can’t risk my gallery’s reputation on someone not willing to take artistic risks.”

There was a rare break in traffic and Denis Fortin darted across Saint-Urbain. On the other side he looked back and shook his head again. Then he walked briskly to his car.

Inspector Jean Guy Beauvoir and Agent Morin approached the Parra home. Beauvoir had expected something traditional. Something a Czech woodsman might live in. A Swiss chalet perhaps. To Beauvoir there was Québécois and then “other.” Foreign. The Chinese were all alike, as were Africans. The South Americans, if he thought of them at all, looked the same, ate the same foods and lived in exactly the same homes. A place somewhat less attractive than his own. The English he knew to be all the same. Nuts.

Swiss, Czech, German, Norwegian, Swedish all blended nicely together. They were tall, blond, good athletes if slightly thick and lived in A-frame homes with lots of paneling and milk.

He slowed the car and it meandered to a stop in front of the Parra place. All he saw was glass, some gleaming in the sun, some reflecting the sky and clouds and birds and woods, the mountains beyond and a small white steeple. The church at Three Pines, in the distance, brought forward by this beautiful house that was a reflection of all life around it.