Still Life (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #1) - Louise Penny Page 0,100
would be all right. He would catch him, wouldn’t let him fall. And to give Philippe credit, he considered it. Philippe yearned to close his eyes, take that step and fall into his father’s arms.
But in the end he couldn’t. Instead he turned his face to the wall, put his headphones back on, and retreated.
Matthew dropped his head and looked down at his dirty old work boots and saw in excruciating detail the mud and bits of leaves stuck there.
* * *
Gamache was sitting in Olivier’s Bistro, by the fireplace, waiting to be served. He’d just arrived, and the people who’d been in the choice location had just left, their tip still on the table. Gamache had the momentary desire to pocket the money himself. Another bit of weirdness from the long house.
‘Hi, may I join you?’
Gamache rose and bowed slightly to Myrna, then indicated the sofa facing the fireplace. ‘Please.’
‘Quite a lot of excitement,’ said Myrna. ‘I hear Jane’s home is wonderful.’
‘You haven’t seen it?’
‘No. I wanted to wait until Thursday.’
‘Thursday? What’s happening Thursday?’
‘Clara hasn’t asked you?’
‘Are my feelings going to be hurt? Sûreté homicide officers are notoriously sensitive. What’s happening on Thursday?’
‘Thursday? Are you going too?’ Gabri asked, standing over them wearing a little apron and channeling Julia Child. ‘Not yet.’
‘Oh well, never mind. I hear Hurricane Kyla’s hit land in Florida. Saw it on Méteo Media.’
‘I saw that, too,’ said Myrna. ‘When’s it supposed to get here?’
‘Oh, a few days. ‘Course it’ll be a tropical storm by then, or whatever they call it by the time it hits Quebec. Should be quite a storm.’ He looked out the window as though he expected to see it looming over the nearby mountain. He looked worried. Storms were never good.
Gamache toyed with the price tag dangling from the coffee table.
‘Olivier’s put price tags everywhere,’ confided Gabri, ‘including our private toilet, thank you very much. Fortunately I have enough elegance and good taste to overcome this one flaw of Olivier’s. Greed, I think it’s called. Now, can I interest you in a glass of wine, or perhaps a chandelier?’
Myrna ordered a red wine while Gamache took a Scotch.
‘Clara’s organising Jane’s party for Thursday, just the way Jane had planned,’ said Myrna, once the drinks had arrived. A couple of licorice pipes also appeared. ‘After the vernissage at Arts Williamsburg. Now, if Clara asks, you have to say you tortured me.’
‘Trying to get me suspended again? The Sûreté torturing a black woman?’
‘Don’t they promote you for that?’
Gamache caught and held Myrna’s eye. Neither smiled. They both knew the truth in that. He wondered whether Myrna knew his particular role in the Arnot case, and the price he’d paid. He thought not. The Sûreté was good at finding other people’s secrets, and keeping its own.
‘Wow,’ said Clara, taking the big chair on the other side of the fireplace. ‘This feels good. Nice to be out of the stink of the mineral spirits. I’m on my way home to make supper.’
‘Isn’t this a little out of your way?’ asked Myrna.
‘We artistic types never take a straight line, unless you’re Peter. He starts at A and paints and paints and ends up at B. Without even a hesitation. Enough to drive you to drink.’ She flagged down Gabri and ordered a beer and some nuts.
‘How’s the restoration?’ asked Gamache.
‘Fine, I think. I left Ben and Ruth there. Ruth has found Jane’s liquor cabinet and is writing verse while staring at the walls. God knows what Ben’s doing. Probably applying paint. I swear to God he seems to be going backwards. Still, it’s great to have him there and actually the work he does do is fantastic, brilliant.’
‘Peter isn’t helping anymore?’ asked Myrna.
‘Oh yes, but we’re taking turns now. Well, mostly he’s taking turns. I spend most of the day there. It’s kind of addictive. Peter loves the work, don’t get me wrong, but he needs to do his own work.’
Gabri appeared with her beer. ‘That’ll be a hundred thousand dollars.’
‘Well, you can kiss your tip goodbye.’
‘If I could kiss my tip I wouldn’t need Olivier.’
‘We were talking about Thursday,’ said Gamache. ‘I hear there’s a party.’
‘Do you mind? I’d like to hold it just as Jane had planned.’
‘Hope the Hurricane doesn’t ruin it,’ said Gabri, pleased to find melodrama.
Gamache wished he’d thought of it. Clara was doing it as a tribute to her friend, he knew, but it could have another very practical purpose. It could rattle the murderer.