The modest second floor had a large bathroom and two good-size bedrooms. What looked to be the master bedroom had dark red painted walls. The next room had been painted a deep blue.
But something was missing in the house.
Gamache went back downstairs and searched the living room, then back out into the kitchen and mudroom.
'There're no easel, no paints. There's no studio. Where'd she do her art?'
'How about the basement?'
'Sure, go down and check, but I can guarantee you an artist isn't going to paint in a windowless basement.' Though, come to think of it, Jane Neal's work did look like it'd been done in the dark.
'There're paints down there, but no easel,' Beauvoir said, emerging from the basement. 'Her studio wasn't in the basement. There're another thing -' he loved being able see something the chief had missed. Gamache turned an interested face to him. 'Pictures. There are no pictures on the walls. Anywhere.'
Gamache's face opened in astonishment. He was right. Gamache spun in place, searching the walls. Nothing.
'Upstairs too?'
'Upstairs too.'
'I just don't get it. All of this is odd, the wallpaper, the painted rooms and floors, the lack of pictures. But none of it's so odd she'd have to keep her friends out. But there is something around here she didn't want anyone to see.'
Beauvoir flopped into the big sofa and looked around. Gamache subsided into the leather chair, put his hands together like steeples on his stomach, and thought. After a few minutes he rocked himself to his feet and went downstairs. The unfinished basement was replete with cardboard boxes, an old cast iron tub, a fridge with wines. He took one out. A Dunham vineyard, reputed to be quite good. Replacing the bottle he closed the fridge and turned around. Another door led to her preserves cupboard. Auburn jellies, rich red and purple jams, British racing-green dill pickles. He looked at the dates, some from the year before, most from this year. Nothing spectacular. Nothing abnormal. Nothing he hadn't found in his mother's basement after she'd died.
He closed the door and took a step backward. Just as his back brushed the rough basement wall something bit his shoe. Hard. It was at once shocking and familiar.
'Tabernacle!' he yelped. Above he could hear feet running to the basement door. In an instant Beauvoir was there, his hand resting on his revolver still in its holster.
'What! What is it?' He'd so rarely heard the chief swear that when he did it acted like a siren. Gamache pointed to his foot. A small wooden plank had attached itself to his shoe.
'Pretty big mouse,' said Beauvoir with a grin. Gamache bent down and removed the trap. It had been smeared with peanut butter to attract mice. He wiped a bit off his shoe and looked around. More traps became apparent, all lined up against the wall.
'She got a couple,' said Beauvoir, pointing to some upturned traps, little tails and balled up fists poking out from underneath.
'I don't think she set those. I think these are hers.' Gamache bent down and picked up a small gray box. Opening it he found a small field mouse curled up inside. Dead. 'It's a humane trap. She caught them alive then released them. This, poor one, must have been caught after she was murdered. It starved to death.'
'So who set those other mousetraps? Wait, don't tell me. Yolande and Andre, of course. They were here alone for a week or so. Still, you'd think they could have at least checked the humane trap,' said Beauvoir with disgust. Gamache shook his head. Violent, intentional, death still surprised him, whether of a man or mouse.
'Come with me, little one,' he said to the curled-up mouse, as he took it upstairs. Beauvoir tossed the other traps into a plastic bag and followed the chief. The two men locked up and walked down Jane's garden path and across the Commons. A few headlights could be seen now that the sun had set. Rush hour. And a few villagers were out doing errands or walking dogs. In the silence Gamache could hear unintelligible snippets of conversations from other strollers. Off toward du Moulin he heard, 'Pee, please pee.' He hoped it was directed at a dog. The two men crossed the village green toward the brightly lit and welcoming B. & B. Halfway across Gamache stopped and laid the mouse on the grass, beside him Beauvoir opened the plastic bag and released the other little bodies from the traps.
'They'll be eaten,' said Beauvoir.
'Exactly. Something will benefit at least. Abby Hoffman said we should all eat what we kill. That would put an end to war.'
Not for the first time Beauvoir was at a loss for words with Gamache. Was he serious? Was he, perhaps, a little touched? And who was Abbe Offman? A local cleric? Sounds like exactly the sort of things some Christian mystic would say.
The next morning the team had reassembled in the incident room, been briefed on the latest developments, and given their assignments. At Gamache's desk he found a little paper bag and inside it an eclair. A note, in large childish letters, said, 'From Agent Nichol.'
Nichol watched him open the bag.
'Agent Nichol, a word please.'
'Yes, sir.' The eclair had obviously worked. He couldn't possibly continue his unreasonable behavior.
Gamache pointed to a desk at the far end of the room, well away from the others.
'Thank you for the eclair. Did you make sure Maitre Stickley held the latest will for Jane Neal?'
That was it? All that effort to go across to Sarah's boulangerie early and buy the pastry? For one line? And now he's cross-examining me again? Her mind raced. This was patently unfair, but she had to think fast. She knew the truth, but that would get her into trouble. What to say? Maybe she should mention the pastry again? But no, he was expecting an answer to his question.
'Yes sir, I did. He confirmed that Maitre Stickley has the latest will.'
'And who was "he"?'
'He was the guy at the other end of the phone.'
Gamache's calm face changed. He leaned forward, stern and annoyed.
'Stop using that tone with me. You'll answer my questions thoroughly, respectfully and thoughtfully. And more than that -' his voice grew quiet, almost to a whisper. People who had heard this tone rarely forgot it. 'You will answer my questions truthfully.' He paused and stared into her defiant eyes. He was tired of this dysfunctional person. He'd done his best. Against good advice he'd kept her on but now she'd actually lied not once, but twice.
'Stop slouching in that chair like a petulant child. Sit up straight when you talk to me. Eyes on me.'
Nichol responded immediately.
'Who did you call to ask about the will, Agent?'
'I called headquarters in Montreal and told the person who answered to check it for me. He called back with this information. Was it wrong, sir? If it was it wasn't my fault. I believed him. I trusted him to do the job properly.'
Gamache was so amazed by her response he would have felt admiration if he hadn't been so repelled.
The truth was, she hadn't called anyone because she had had no idea whom to call. The least Gamache could have done was give her guidance. He was so big on bragging how he loved to take young people under his wing and then do fuck all for them. It was his own fault.
'Who at headquarters?'
'I don't know.'
Gamache was tired of this, it was a waste of time. She was a waste of time. But there was one more thing he might try. He could show her her future, if she wasn't careful. 'Come with me.'
Ruth Zardo's home was tiny and cramped, full of papers and magazines and work books, piled high. Books lined every wall, and camped on the footstools and coffee table and kitchen counter. They were stacked in the closet where she threw their coats.