Free The Brutal Telling by Louise Penny Page A

was a stunning arrangement of hollyhocks and climbing white roses, clematis and sweet pea and fragrant pink phlox.
    More drinks were poured and the guests wandered into the living room and milled around nibbling soft runny Brie or orange and pistachio caribou pâté on baguette.
    Across the room Ruth was interrogating the Chief Inspector.
    “Don’t suppose you know who the dead man was.”
    “Afraid not,” said Gamache evenly. “Not yet.”
    “And do you know what killed him?”
    “
Non.
”
    “Any idea who did it?”
    Gamache shook his head.
    “Any idea why it happened in the bistro?”
    “None,” admitted Gamache.
    Ruth glared at him. “Just wanted to make sure you’re as incompetent as ever. Good to know some things can be relied upon.”
    “I’m glad you approve,” said Gamache, bowing slightly before wandering off toward the fireplace. He picked up the poker, and examined it.
    “It’s a fireplace poker,” said Clara, appearing at his elbow. “You use it to poke the fire.”
    She was smiling and watching him. He realized he must have looked a little odd, holding the long piece of metal to his face as though he’d never seen one before. He put it down. No blood on it. He was relieved.
    “I hear your solo show is coming up in a few months.” He turned to her, smiling. “It must be thrilling.”
    “If putting a dentist’s drill up your nose is thrilling. Yes.”
    “That bad?”
    “Oh, well, you know. It’s only torture.”
    “Have you finished all the paintings?”
    “They’re all done, at least. They’re crap, of course, but at least they’re finished. Denis Fortin is coming down himself to discuss how they’ll be hung. I have a specific order in mind. And if he disagrees I have a plan. I’ll cry.”
    Gamache laughed. “That’s how I got to be Chief Inspector.”
    “I told you so,” Ruth hissed at Rosa.
    “Your art is brilliant, Clara. You know that,” said Gamache, leading her away from the crowd.
    “How’d you know? You’ve only seen one piece. Maybe the others suck. I wonder if I made a mistake going with the paint by numbers.”
    Gamache made a face.
    “Would you like to see them?” Clara asked.
    “Love to.”
    “Great. How about after dinner? That gives you about an hour to practice saying, ‘My God, Clara, they’re the best works of art ever produced by anyone, anywhere.’ ”
    “Sucking up?” smiled Gamache. “That’s how I made Inspector.”
    “You’re a Renaissance Man.”
    “I see you’re good at it too.”
    “
Merci
. Speaking of your job, do you have any idea who that dead man is?” She’d lowered her voice. “You told Ruth you didn’t, but is that true?”
    “You think I’d lie?” he asked. But why not, he thought. Everyone else does. “You mean, how close are we to solving the crime?”
    Clara nodded.
    “Hard to say. We have some leads, some ideas. It makes it harder to know why the man was killed not knowing who he was.”
    “Suppose you never find out?”
    Gamache looked down at Clara. Was there something in her voice? An imperfectly hidden desire that they never find out who the dead man was?
    “It makes our job harder,” he conceded, “but not impossible.”
    His voice, while relaxed, became momentarily stern. He wanted her to know they’d solve this case, one way or another. “Were you at the bistro last night?”
    “No. We’d gone to the fair with Myrna. Had a disgusting dinner of fries, burgers and cotton candy. Went on a few rides, watched the local talent show, then came back here. I think Myrna might’ve gone in, but we were tired.”
    “We know the dead man wasn’t a villager. He seems to have been a stranger. Have you seen any strangers around?”
    “People come through backpacking or bicycling,” said Clara, sipping her red wine and thinking. “But most of them are younger. I understand this was quite an old man.”
    Gamache didn’t tell her what the coroner had said that afternoon.
    “Roar Parra told Agent