Free The Murder Stone by Louise Penny Page A

she’d felt her mother’s hands?
    ‘I’m sorry,’ said Julia.
    ‘Jump, Bean, jump!’
    Clara turned and watched as Peter’s youngest sister leapt across the manicured lawn, feet barely touching the ground, and behind her ran Bean, beach towel tied at the neck, laughing. But not jumping. Good ol’ Bean, thought Clara.
    ‘Whew,’ puffed Mariana, stepping onto the terrasse moments later, sweat pouring off her as though she’d run through a sprinkler. She took a corner of a scarf and wiped her eyes. ‘Did Bean jump?’ she asked the family. Only Thomas reacted, with a dismissive smirk.
    Clara’s bra itched in the heat and humidity. She reached down and tugged it. Too late, she looked over. Peter’s mother was again watching, as though equipped with a special radar.
    ‘How’s your art?’
    The question took Clara by surprise. She’d assumed it to be directed at Peter, and had occupied herself by trying to pick off the tomato seeds now baked to her breasts.
    ‘Me?’ She looked up into Julia’s face. The sister she knew the least. But she’d heard the stories from Peter and was quick to put up her guard. ‘Oh, you know. Always a struggle.’
    It was the easy answer, the one they expected. Clara the failure, who called herself an artist but never sold. Who did ridiculous works like mannequins with bouffant hair and melting trees.
    ‘I remember hearing about your last show. Quite a statement.’
    Clara sat up straighter. She knew many people managed to ask the first, polite question. But it was the rare person who asked a second.
    Perhaps Julia was sincere.
    ‘Warrior Uteruses, wasn’t it?’ asked Julia. Clara searched her face for ridicule but found none.
    Clara nodded. True, by economic measurements the series couldn’t be considered a success, but emotionally it had been a triumph. She’d considered giving a Warrior Uterus to Peter’s mother as a Christmas gift, but decided that might be a step too far.
    ‘Didn’t we tell you?’ Peter walked over, smiling. Never a good sign at a family reunion. The more devious they got the more they smiled. Clara tried to catch his eye.
    ‘Tell us what?’ Sandra asked, sensing something unpleasant approaching.
    ‘About Clara’s art.’
    ‘I’d like another beer,’ said Clara. No one paid any attention.
    ‘What about it?’ asked Thomas.
    ‘Nothing,’ said Clara. ‘Just lots of crap. You know me. Always experimenting.’
    ‘She’s been approached by a gallery.’
    ‘Peter,’ Clara snapped. ‘I don’t think we need to talk about it.’
    ‘But I’m sure they’d like to hear,’ said Peter. He took his hand out of his slacks pocket and it turned inside out, marring his otherwise perfect appearance.
    ‘Clara’s modest. The Galerie Fortin in Montreal wants to do a one-woman show. Denis Fortin himself came to Three Pines to see her work.’
    Silence.
    Clara’s nails dug into her palms. A deerfly found the tender pale skin behind her ear, and bit.
    ‘Marvellous,’ said Peter’s mother to Clara. ‘I’m absolutely delighted.’
    Clara, surprised, turned to her mother-in-law. She could barely believe her ears. Had she been too harsh all this time? Judged Peter’s mother unfairly?
    ‘So often they’re too thick.’
    Clara’s smile faltered. Too thick?
    ‘And not made with real mayonnaise. But Chef Veronique has outdone herself again. Have you tried the cucumber sandwiches, Claire? They’re really very good.’
    ‘They are good,’ agreed Clara with maniacal enthusiasm.
    ‘Congratulations, Clara. What good news.’ The voice was masculine, jovial and vaguely familiar. ‘Felicitations.‘
    Across the lawn a powerfully built middle-aged man in a funny hat took easy strides towards them. Beside him was a small, elegant woman wearing the same floppy sun hat.
    ‘Reine-Marie?’ Clara peered, hardly believing her eyes. ‘Peter, is that Reine-Marie?’
    Peter was staring almost slack-jawed as the couple hurried up the steps.
    ‘Oh, Clara, what