Free The Brutal Telling by Louise Penny

wonder why the murderer left him there.”
    “What do you mean?” asked Lacoste.
    “Well, no one was there. It was dark. Why not pick up the body and take it into the forest? You wouldn’t have to take him far, just a few hundred feet. The animals would do the rest and chances are he’d never be found. We’d never know a murder had been committed.”
    “Why do you think the body was left?” asked Gamache.
    Beauvoir thought for a minute. “I think someone wanted him to be found.”
    “In the bistro?” asked Gamache.
    “In the bistro.”

SEVEN

    Olivier and Gabri strolled across the village green. It was seven in the evening and lights were beginning to glow in windows, except at the bistro, which was dark and empty.
    “Christ,” came a growl through the dusk. “The fairies are out.”
    “
Merde
,” said Gabri. “The village idiot’s escaped from her attic.”
    Ruth Zardo limped toward them followed by Rosa.
    “I hear you finally killed someone with your rapier wit,” said Ruth to Gabri, falling into step.
    “Actually, I hear he read one of your poems and his head exploded,” said Gabri.
    “Would that that were true,” said Ruth, slipping her bony arms into each of theirs, so that they walked across to Peter and Clara’s arm in arm. “How are you?” she asked quietly.
    “Okay,” said Olivier, not glancing at the darkened bistro as they passed.
    The bistro had been his baby, his creation. All that was good about him, he put in there. All his best antiques, his finest recipes, great wines. Some evenings he’d stand behind the bar, pretending to polish glasses, but really just listening to the laughter and looking at the people, who’d come to his bistro. And were happy to be there. They belonged, and so did he.
    Until this.
    Who’d want to come to a place where there’d been a murder?
    And what if people found out he actually knew the Hermit? What if they found out what he’d done? No. Best to say nothing and see what happened. It was bad enough as it was.
    They paused on the walk just outside Peter and Clara’s house. Inside they saw Myrna putting her effusive flower arrangement on the kitchen table, already set for supper. Clara was exclaiming at its beauty and artistry. They couldn’t hear the words, but her delight was obvious. In the living room Peter tossed another log on the fire.
    Ruth turned from the comforting domestic scene to the man beside her. The old poet leaned in to whisper in his ear, so that not even Gabri could hear. “Give it time. It’ll be all right, you know that, don’t you?”
    She turned to glance again through the glow at Clara hugging Myrna and Peter walking into the kitchen and exclaiming over the flowers as well. Olivier bent and kissed the old, cold cheek and thanked her. But he knew she was wrong. She didn’t know what he knew.
    Chaos had found Three Pines. It was bearing down upon them and all that was safe and warm and kind was about to be taken away.
     
    P eter had poured them all drinks, except Ruth who’d helped herself and was now sipping from a vase filled with Scotch and sitting in the middle of the sofa facing the fire. Rosa was waddling around the room, barely noticed by anyone anymore. Even Lucy, Peter and Clara’s golden retriever, barely looked at Rosa. The first time the poet had shown up with Rosa they’d insisted she stay outside, but Rosa set up such a quacking they were forced to let her in, just to shut the duck up.
    “
Bonjour.
”
    A deep, familiar voice was heard from the mudroom.
    “God, you didn’t invite Clouseau, did you?” asked Ruth, to the empty room. Empty except for Rosa, who raced to stand beside her.
    “It’s lovely,” said Isabelle Lacoste as they walked from the mudroom into the airy kitchen. The long wooden table was set for dinner with baskets of sliced baguette, butter, jugs of water and bottles of wine. It smelled of garlic and rosemary and basil, all fresh from the garden.
    And in the center of the table