alive, at the party.
“Bonjour.”
Inspector Jean Guy Beauvoir approached. As he got closer Gabri broke into a smile and extended his hand.
“I’m beginning to think you’re bad luck,” said Gabri. “Every time you come to Three Pines there’s a body.”
“And I think you provide them just for the pleasure of my company,” said Beauvoir, warmly shaking Gabri’s hand, then accepting Olivier’s.
They’d seen each other the evening before, at the vernissage. At that time they’d been in Peter and Clara’s element. The gallery. But now they were in Beauvoir’s habitat. A crime scene.
Art scared him. But pin a dead body to the wall and he was fine. Or, in this case, drop it into a garden. This he understood. It was simple. Always so simple.
Someone had hated the victim enough to kill her.
His job was to find that person and lock him up.
There was nothing subjective about it. No question of good and bad. It wasn’t an issue of perspective or nuance. No shading. Nothing to understand. It just was.
Collect the facts. Put them in the right order. Find the killer.
Of course, while it was simple it wasn’t always easy.
But he’d take a murder over a vernissage any day.
Though, like everyone else here, he suspected in this case the murder and the vernissage were one and the same. Inter-locked.
The thought dismayed him.
“Here’re the pictures you asked for.” Beauvoir handed the Chief Inspector a photograph. Gamache studied them.
“Merci. C’est parfait.” He looked up at the four people watching him. “I’d like you all to look at these photographs of the dead woman.”
“But we’ve already seen her,” said Gabri.
“I wonder if that’s true. When I asked if you’d seen her at the party you all said she’d be hard to miss in her red dress. I thought the same thing. When I tried to remember if I’d seen her at your vernissage yesterday, Clara, what I was really doing was scouring my memory for a woman in bright red. I was focusing on the dress, not the woman.”
“So?” asked Gabri.
“So,” said Gamache. “Suppose the red dress was recent. She might have been at the vernissage, but wearing something more conservative. She might have even been here—”
“And changed into the red dress mid-party?” asked Peter, incredulous. “Why would someone do that?”
“Why would someone kill her?” asked Gamache. “Why would a perfect stranger be at the party? There’re all sorts of questions, and I’m not saying this is the answer, but it is a possibility. That you were all so impressed by the dress you didn’t really concentrate on her face.”
He held up a photograph.
“This is what she looks like.”
He handed it to Clara first. The woman’s eyes were now closed. She looked peaceful, if a little flaccid. Even in sleep there’s some life in a face. This was an empty face. Blank. No more thoughts, or feelings.
Clara shook her head and passed the picture to Peter. Around the circle of friends the photo circulated, to the same reaction.
Nothing.
“The coroner’s ready to move the body,” said Beauvoir.
Gamache nodded and placed the photo in his pocket. Beauvoir and Lacoste and the others would have their own copies, he knew. Excusing themselves they walked back to the body.
Two assistants stood by a stretcher, waiting to lift the woman onto it and take her to the waiting van. The photographer also waited. All looking at Chief Inspector Gamache. Waiting for him to give the order.
“Do you know how long she’s been dead?” Beauvoir asked the coroner, who’d just stood up and was moving her stiff legs.
“Between twelve and fifteen hours,” said Dr. Harris.
Gamache checked his watch and did the math. It was now eleven thirty on Sunday morning. That meant she was alive at eight thirty last night and dead by midnight. She never saw Sunday.
“No apparent sexual assault. No assault at all, except the broken neck,” said Dr. Harris. “Death would’ve been
“Bonjour.”
Inspector Jean Guy Beauvoir approached. As he got closer Gabri broke into a smile and extended his hand.
“I’m beginning to think you’re bad luck,” said Gabri. “Every time you come to Three Pines there’s a body.”
“And I think you provide them just for the pleasure of my company,” said Beauvoir, warmly shaking Gabri’s hand, then accepting Olivier’s.
They’d seen each other the evening before, at the vernissage. At that time they’d been in Peter and Clara’s element. The gallery. But now they were in Beauvoir’s habitat. A crime scene.
Art scared him. But pin a dead body to the wall and he was fine. Or, in this case, drop it into a garden. This he understood. It was simple. Always so simple.
Someone had hated the victim enough to kill her.
His job was to find that person and lock him up.
There was nothing subjective about it. No question of good and bad. It wasn’t an issue of perspective or nuance. No shading. Nothing to understand. It just was.
Collect the facts. Put them in the right order. Find the killer.
Of course, while it was simple it wasn’t always easy.
But he’d take a murder over a vernissage any day.
Though, like everyone else here, he suspected in this case the murder and the vernissage were one and the same. Inter-locked.
The thought dismayed him.
“Here’re the pictures you asked for.” Beauvoir handed the Chief Inspector a photograph. Gamache studied them.
“Merci. C’est parfait.” He looked up at the four people watching him. “I’d like you all to look at these photographs of the dead woman.”
“But we’ve already seen her,” said Gabri.
“I wonder if that’s true. When I asked if you’d seen her at the party you all said she’d be hard to miss in her red dress. I thought the same thing. When I tried to remember if I’d seen her at your vernissage yesterday, Clara, what I was really doing was scouring my memory for a woman in bright red. I was focusing on the dress, not the woman.”
“So?” asked Gabri.
“So,” said Gamache. “Suppose the red dress was recent. She might have been at the vernissage, but wearing something more conservative. She might have even been here—”
“And changed into the red dress mid-party?” asked Peter, incredulous. “Why would someone do that?”
“Why would someone kill her?” asked Gamache. “Why would a perfect stranger be at the party? There’re all sorts of questions, and I’m not saying this is the answer, but it is a possibility. That you were all so impressed by the dress you didn’t really concentrate on her face.”
He held up a photograph.
“This is what she looks like.”
He handed it to Clara first. The woman’s eyes were now closed. She looked peaceful, if a little flaccid. Even in sleep there’s some life in a face. This was an empty face. Blank. No more thoughts, or feelings.
Clara shook her head and passed the picture to Peter. Around the circle of friends the photo circulated, to the same reaction.
Nothing.
“The coroner’s ready to move the body,” said Beauvoir.
Gamache nodded and placed the photo in his pocket. Beauvoir and Lacoste and the others would have their own copies, he knew. Excusing themselves they walked back to the body.
Two assistants stood by a stretcher, waiting to lift the woman onto it and take her to the waiting van. The photographer also waited. All looking at Chief Inspector Gamache. Waiting for him to give the order.
“Do you know how long she’s been dead?” Beauvoir asked the coroner, who’d just stood up and was moving her stiff legs.
“Between twelve and fifteen hours,” said Dr. Harris.
Gamache checked his watch and did the math. It was now eleven thirty on Sunday morning. That meant she was alive at eight thirty last night and dead by midnight. She never saw Sunday.
“No apparent sexual assault. No assault at all, except the broken neck,” said Dr. Harris. “Death would’ve been
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