Louise Penny - Still Life (Three Pines Mysteries)

‘I just had the last cup of coffee and don’t intend to make anymore.’

What a bitch, thought Nichol.

‘We just have a few questions,’ said Gamache.

‘I’m not going to invite you to sit down, so you can hurry up.’

Nichol couldn’t believe the discourtesy. Really, some people.

‘Did Jane Neal know you’d told her parents about Andreas Selinsky?’ Gamache asked, and a stillness settled on the home.

Ruth Zardo might have had a very good reason to want Jane Neal dead. Suppose Ruth thought if her ancient betrayal of Jane came to light her friendships in Three Pines would end. These people who loved her despite herself might suddenly see her for what she really was. They’d hate her if they knew of this horrible thing she’d done, then she’d be alone. An angry, bitter, lonely old lady. She couldn’t risk it, there was too much at stake.

Gamache knew from years of investigating murders there was always a motive, and the motive often made absolutely no sense to anyone other than the murderer. But it made absolute sense to that person.

‘Come in,’ she said, motioning to the kitchen table. It was a garden table surrounded by four metal Canadian Tire garden chairs. Once seated she saw him looking around and volunteered, ‘My husband died a few years ago. Since then I’ve been selling bits and pieces, mostly antiques from the family. Olivier handles them for me. It keeps my head above water, just.’

‘Andreas Selinsky,’ he reminded her.

‘I heard you the first time. That was sixty years ago. Who cares now?’

‘Timmer Hadley cared.’

‘What do you know about that?’

‘She knew what you’d done, she overheard you talking to Jane’s parents.’ As he spoke he studied Ruth’s fortress face. ‘Timmer kept your secret, and regretted it the rest of her life. But maybe Timmer told Jane, in the end. What do you think?’

‘I think you make a lousy psychic. Timmer’s dead, Jane’s dead. Let the past lie.’

‘Can you?

Who hurt you, once, so far beyond repair that you would greet each overture with curling lip?’

Ruth snorted. ‘You really think throwing my own poetry at me’s going to do it? What’d you do, stay up all night cramming like a student for this interview? Hoping to reduce me to tears in the face of my own pain? Crap.’

‘Actually, I know that whole poem by heart:

When were these seeds of anger sown, and on what ground that they should flourish so, watered by tears of rage, or grief?’

‘It was not always so,’ Ruth and Gamache finished the stanza together.

‘Yeah, yeah. Enough. I told Jane’s parents because I thought she was making a mistake. She had potential and it’d be lost on that brute of a man. I did it for her sake. I tried to convince her; when that failed, I went behind her back. In retrospect it was a mistake, but only that. Not the end of the world.’

‘Did Miss Neal know?’

‘Not that I know of, and it wouldn’t have mattered if she did. It was long ago, gone and buried.’

What a horrible, self-involved woman, thought Nichol, looking around for something to eat. Then Nichol awoke to a realisation. She had to pee.

‘May I use your toilet?’ She’d be damned if she’d say please to this woman.

‘You can find it.’

Nichol opened every door on the main floor and found books, and magazines but no toilet. Then she climbed the stairs and found the only washroom in the home. After flushing she ran the water, pretending to wash her hands, and looked into the mirror. A young woman with a short-bob haircut looked back. As did some lettering, probably another God-damned poem. She leaned in closer and saw there was a sticker attached to the mirror. On it was written, ‘You’re looking at the problem.’

Nichol immediately began searching the area behind her, the area reflected in the mirror, because the problem was there.

‘Did Timmer Hadley tell you she knew what you’d done?’

Ruth had wondered whether this question would ever be asked. She hoped not. But here it was.

‘Yes. That day she died. And she told me what she thought. She was pretty blunt. I had a lot of respect for Timmer. Hard to hear a person you admire and respect say those things, even harder because Timmer was dying and there was no way to make up for it.’

‘What did you do?’

‘It was the afternoon of the parade and Timmer said she wanted to be alone. I’d started to explain but she was tired and said she needed to rest, and could I go to the parade and come back in an hour. We could talk then. By the time I got back, exactly an hour later, she was dead.’

‘Did Mrs Hadley tell Jane Neal?’

‘I don’t know. I think perhaps she planned to, but felt she needed to say something to me first.’

‘Did you tell Miss Neal?’

‘Why would I? It was long ago. Jane had probably long forgotten.’

Gamache wondered how much of this was Ruth Zardo trying to convince herself. It certainly didn’t convince him.

‘Do you have any idea who could have wanted Miss Neal dead?’

Ruth folded both hands on her cane, and carefully placed her chin on her hands. She looked past Gamache. Finally, after about a minute of silence, she spoke.

‘I told you before I think one of those three boys who threw manure might have wanted her dead. She’d embarrassed them. I still think there’s nothing like a brooding, adolescent mind for creating poison. But it often takes time. They say time heals. I think that’s bullshit, I think time does nothing. It only heals if the person wants it to. I’ve seen time, in the hands of a sick person, make situations worse. They ruminate and brood and turn a minor event into a catastrophe, given enough time.’

‘Do you think that’s what might have happened here?’ Ruth Zardo’s thoughts so mirrored his own it was as though she’d read his mind. But did she realise this made her a perfect suspect?

‘Could have.’

On their walk back across the village Nichol told Gamache about the sticker on Ruth’s mirror and her own search, which had revealed shampoo, soap and a bath mat. Nichol was confirmed in her certainty Gamache was beyond it. All he did was laugh.

‘Let’s get started, said Solange Frenette, a few minutes later when Gamache, Beauvoir and Ruth had arrived. Clara and Peter were already seated. ‘I called the Régie du Notaries in Quebec City and they looked up the official registered wills. According to them, Miss Neal’s last will and testament was made in this office on 28 May this year. Her previous will was ten years ago. It’s been nullified.

‘Her will is very simple. After covering burial expenses and any debts, credit card, taxes, et cetera, she leaves her home and its contents to Clara Morrow.’

Clara felt the blood race from her skin. She didn’t want Jane’s home. She wanted Jane’s voice in her ears and her arms around her. And her laughter. She wanted Jane’s company.

‘Miss Neal asks Clara to have a party, invite certain people, the list is in the will, and ask each of those people to choose one item from the home. She leaves her car to Ruth Zardo and her book collection to Myrna. The rest she leaves to Clara Morrow.’

‘How much?’ asked Ruth, to Clara’s relief. She wanted to know but didn’t want to look greedy.

‘I made some calls and did some calculations this morning. It’s roughly a quarter of a million dollars, after tax.’

The air seemed to have been sucked from the room. Clara couldn’t believe it. Rich. They’d be rich. Despite herself she saw a new car, and new bedlinens and a good dinner in a restaurant in Montreal. And ...

‘There are two more things; envelopes, actually. One is for you, Mrs Zardo.’ Ruth took it and shot a glance at Gamache who’d been watching this entire process intently. ‘The other is for Yolande Fontaine. Who’d like it?’ No one spoke.