Louise Penny - Brutal Telling

“What did it sell for?”

“Fifteen thousand.” He watched for the shock on Gamache’s face.

But Gamache’s gaze didn’t waver, and Olivier congratulated himself on telling the truth. It was clear the Chief Inspector already knew the answer to that question. Telling the truth was always a crapshoot. As was the telling of lies. It was best, Olivier had found, to mingle the two.

“How many carvings did he make?”

“I thought eight, but now that you’ve found those, I guess he did ten.”

“And you sold all the ones he gave you?”

Olivier nodded.

“You’d told us he started out giving you other things from his cabin, as payment for food. Where did those go?”

“I took them to the antique stores on rue Notre Dame in Montreal. But then once I realized the stuff was valuable I found private dealers.”

“Who?”

“I haven’t used them in years. I’ll have to look it up. People in Toronto and New York.” He leaned back and looked around the empty room. “I suppose I should let Havoc and the others off for the night.”

Gamache remained quiet.

“Do you think people’ll come back?”

The Chief Inspector nodded. “They’re hurt by what you did.”

“Me? Marc Gilbert’s way worse. Be careful with him. He’s not what he seems.”

“And neither are you, Olivier. You’ve lied all along. You may be lying now. I’m going to ask you a question and I need you to think carefully about the answer.”

Olivier nodded and straightened up.

“Was the Hermit Czech?”

Olivier immediately opened his mouth but Gamache quickly brought up a hand to stop him. “I asked you to think about your answer. Consider it. Could you have been wrong? Maybe there was no accent,” Gamache watched his companion closely. “Maybe he spoke with an accent but it wasn’t necessarily Czech. Maybe you just assumed. Be careful what you say.”

Olivier stared at Gamache’s large, steady hand and as it lowered he switched his gaze to the large, steady man.

“There was no mistake. I’ve heard enough Czech over the years from friends and neighbors. He was Czech.”

It was said with more certainty than anything Olivier had said to Gamache since the investigation began. Still, Gamache stared at the slight man across from him. He examined his mouth, his eyes, the lines on his forehead, his coloring. Then the Chief Inspector nodded.

“Chilly night,” said Ruth, plopping onto the seat beside Gamache and managing to knock his knee quite hard with her muddy cane. “Sorry,” she said, then did it again.

She was completely oblivious of the conversation she was interrupting and the tension between the two men. She looked from Olivier to Gamache.

“Well, enough of this gay banter. Can you believe what Olivier did with that body? His idiocy eclipses even your own. Gives me a sense of the infinite. It’s almost a spiritual experience. Cheese?”

She took the last bite of Gamache’s Saint-André and reached for his Scotch, but he got there first. Myrna arrived, then Clara and Peter dropped by and told everyone about Denis Fortin. There was general commiserating and all agreed Clara had done the right thing. Then they agreed she should call in the morning and beg his forgiveness. Then they agreed she shouldn’t.

“I saw Rosa outside,” said Clara, anxious to change the subject. “She’s looking very smart in her rain jacket.” It had occurred to her to wonder why a duck might need a raincoat, but she supposed Ruth was just training Rosa to get used to wearing coats.

Eventually the conversation came back to Olivier, and the Hermit, dead, and the Hermit alive. Ruth leaned over and took Olivier’s hand. “It’s all right, dear, we all know you’re greedy.” Then she looked at Clara. “And we all know you’re needy, and Peter’s petty and Clouseau here,” she turned to Gamache, “is arrogant. And you’re . . .” She looked at Myrna, then turned back to Olivier, whispering loudly, “Who is that anyway? She’s always hanging around.”

“You’re a nasty, demented, drunken old fart,” said Myrna.

“I’m not drunk, yet.”

They finished their drinks and left, but not before Ruth handed Gamache a piece of paper, carefully, precisely folded, the edges sharpened. “Give this to that little fellow who follows you around.”

Olivier kept looking out into the village where Rosa was sitting quietly on the village green, waiting for Ruth. There was no sign of the one not there, the one Olivier longed to see.

Gabri was mostly curious to meet the saint. Vincent Gilbert. Myrna was in awe of him, and she wasn’t in awe of many people. Old Mundin and The Wife said he’d changed their lives with his book Being , and his work at LaPorte. And by extension, he’d changed little Charlie’s life.

“ Bonsoir ,” said Gabri, nervously. He looked over to Vincent Gilbert. Growing up in the Catholic Church he’d spent endless hours staring at the gleaming windows showing the wretched lives and glorious deaths of the saints. When Gabri had wandered from the Church he’d taken one thing with him. The certainty that saints were good.

“What do you want?” Marc Gilbert asked. He stood with his wife and mother by the sofa. Forming a semicircle. His father a satellite off to the side. Gabri waited for Vincent Gilbert to calm his son, to tell him to greet their guest nicely. To invite Marc to be reasonable.

Gilbert said nothing.

“Well?” said Marc.

“I’m sorry I haven’t been up sooner to welcome you.”

Marc snorted. “The Welcome Wagon’s already left us our package.”

“Marc, please,” said Dominique. “He’s our neighbor.”

“Not by choice. If he had his way we’d be long gone.”

And Gabri didn’t deny it. It was true. Their troubles arrived with the Gilberts. But here they were and something had to be said.

“I came to apologize,” he said, standing to his full six foot one. “I’m sorry I haven’t made you feel more welcome. And I’m very sorry about the body.”

Yes, that definitely sounded as lame as he’d feared. But he hoped it at least sounded genuine.

“Why isn’t Olivier here?” Marc demanded. “You didn’t do it. It’s not up to you to apologize.”

“Marc, really,” said Dominique. “Can’t you see how difficult this is for him?”

“No, I can’t. Olivier probably sent him hoping we won’t sue. Or won’t tell everyone what a psycho he is.”

“Olivier’s not a psycho,” said Gabri, feeling a kind of trill inside as his patience unraveled. “He’s a wonderful man. You don’t know him.”

“You’re the one who doesn’t know him if you think he’s wonderful. Does a wonderful man dump a body at a neighbor’s home?”

“You tell me.”

The two men advanced on each other.

“I didn’t take the body into a private home to scare the occupants half to death. That was a terrible thing to do.”

“Olivier was pushed to it. He tried to make friends when you first arrived but then you tried to steal our staff and open this huge hotel and spa.”

“Ten guest rooms isn’t huge,” said Dominique.

“Not in Montreal, but out here it is. This’s a small village. We’ve been here for a long time living quietly. You come here and change all that. Made no effort to fit in.”

“By ‘fit in’ you mean tug our forelocks and be grateful you’ve allowed us to live here?” Marc demanded.

“No, I mean being respectful of what’s here already. What people’ve worked hard to establish.”

“You want to raise the drawbridge, don’t you?” said Marc in disgust. “You’re in and you want to keep everyone else out.”

“That’s not true. Most of the people in Three Pines have come from somewhere else.”