Free Still Life by Louise Penny Page B

rupture of sorts. No idea what it was. Yolande eventually pisses everyone off, but it must have been pretty big. Jane even refused to see Yolande.’
    ‘Really? Why?’
    ‘Not a clue. Clara might know. Timmer Hadley could certainly have told you, but she’s dead.’
    There it was again. Timmer’s death, so close to Jane’s.
    ‘And yet Yolande Fontaine seems to think Miss Neal left everything to her.’
    ‘Well, she might have. For some blood is thicker, etc’
    ‘She seemed particularly anxious to get into Miss Neal’s home before we do. Does that make any sense to you?’
    Olivier considered. ‘Can’t say. I don’t think anyone cananswer that question since no one has ever been into Jane’s home.’
    ‘Pardon?’ Gamache thought he must have misheard.
    ‘Funny, I’m so used to it I never even thought to mention it. Yes. That’s the only thing that was weird about Jane. She’d have us into the mudroom and kitchen. But never, ever, beyond the kitchen.’
    ‘Surely Clara—’
    ‘Not even Clara. Not Timmer. Nobody.’
    Gamache made a note to make that the first activity after lunch. They arrived back with a few minutes to spare. Gamache settled into the bench on the green and watched Three Pines go about its life and its singular death. Ben joined him for a few minutes chat then dragged Daisy back home. Before heading to the Bistro for lunch Gamache reflected on what he’d heard so far, and who would want to kill kindness.
    Beauvoir had set up a large stand with paper and magic markers. Gamache took a seat next to him in Olivier’s private back room and looked out through the wall of French doors. He could see tables, their umbrellas down, and beyond them the river. Bella Bella. He agreed.
    The room filled with hungry and cold Sûreté officers. Gamache noticed Agent Nichol was sitting by herself and wondered why she chose her isolated position. Beauvoir reported first between bites of a ham sandwich, made with thick-sliced ham carved from what must have been a maple-cured roast, with honey-mustard sauce and slabs of aged cheddar on a fresh croissant.
    ‘We scoured the site and found’ – Beauvoir checked his notebook, smearing a bit of mustard on the page – ‘three old beer bottles.’
    Gamache raised his eyebrows. ‘That’s it?’
    ‘And fifteen million leaves.’
    ‘This is the wound.’ Beauvoir drew a circle using a red magic marker. The officers watched without interest. Then Beauvoir raised his hand again and completed the drawing, marking in four lines radiating from the circle, as though marking compass points. Several officers lowered their sandwiches. Now they were interested. It looked like a crude map of Three Pines. Contemplating the macabre image Gamache wondered if the killer could possibly have done that intentionally.
    ‘Would an arrow make this wound?’ Beauvoir asked. No one seemed to know.
    If an arrow had made that wound, thought Gamache, then where was it? It should be in the body. Gamache had an image from Notre Dame de Bon Secours, the church he and Reine-Marie attended sporadically. The walls were thick with murals of saints in various stages of pain and ecstasy. One of those images floated back to him now. St Sebastien, writhing, falling, his body stuffed full of arrows. Each one pointing out of his martyred body like accusing fingers. Jane Neal’s body should have had an arrow sticking out of it, and that arrow should have pointed to the person who did this. There should not have been an exit wound. But there was. Another puzzle.
    ‘Let’s leave this and move on. Next report.’
    The lunch progressed, the officers sitting around listening and thinking out loud, in an atmosphere that encouraged collaboration. He strongly believed in collaboration, not competition, within his team. He realised he was in a minority within the leadership of the Sûreté. He believed a good leader was also a good follower. And he invited his team to treat each other with respect, listen