Still Life (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #1) - Louise Penny Page 0,38

arrangement on the buffet.

‘I did that this morning,’ said Myrna, happy that Clara had noticed. Clara noticed most things, Myrna realised, and had the wit to mostly mention just the good.

‘I thought perhaps you had. Anything in it?’

‘You’ll see,’ said Myrna, with a smile. Clara leaned into the arrangement of annual monarda, helenium and artist’s acrylic paint brushes. Nestled inside was a package wrapped in brown waxed paper.

‘It’s sage and sweetgrass,’ said Clara back at the table, unwrapping the package. ‘Does this mean what I think?’

‘A ritual,’ said Myrna.

‘Oh, what a fine idea.’ Clara reached over and touched Myrna’s arm.

‘From Jane’s garden?’ Ruth asked, inhaling the musky, unmistakable aroma of sage, and the honey-like fragrance of the sweetgrass.

‘The sage, yes. Jane and I cut it in August. The sweetgrass I got from Henri a couple of weeks ago, when he cut back his hay. It was growing around Indian Rock.’

Ruth passed them to Ben who held them at arm’s length.

‘Oh, for God’s sake, man, they won’t hurt you.’ Ruth snatched them up and whipped them back and forth under Ben’s nose. ‘As I recall, you were even invited to the Summer Solstice ritual.’

‘Only as a human sacrifice,’ said Ben.

‘Come on, Ben, that’s not fair,’ said Myrna. ‘We said that probably wouldn’t be necessary.’

‘It was fun,’ said Gabri, swallowing a deviled egg. ‘I wore the minister’s frocks.’ He lowered his voice and darted his eyes around, in case the minister should have actually decided to come and minister.

‘Best use they’ve been put to,’ said Ruth.

‘Thank you,’ said Gabri.

‘It wasn’t meant as a compliment. Weren’t you straight before the ritual?’

‘As a matter of fact, yes.’ Gabri turned to Ben. ‘It worked. Magic. You should definitely go to the next one.’

‘That’s true,’ said Olivier, standing behind Gabri and massaging his neck. ‘Ruth, weren’t you a woman before the ritual?’

‘Weren’t you?’

‘And you say this’, Gamache held the arrowhead up so the tip was pointing to the ceiling, ‘was found in an unlocked drawer along with twelve others?’ He examined the hunting tip with its four razor edges coming to an elegant and lethal point. It was a perfect, silent, killing device.

‘Yes, sir,’ said Lacoste. She’d firmly claimed the spot directly in front of the fire. From where she stood in the back room of the Bistro she could see out the French doors as rain, almost sleet, whipped against the glass. Her hands, now free of lethal weapons, cradled a mug of hot soup and a warm roll stuffed with ham, melting brie and a few leaves of arugula.

Gamache carefully placed the arrowhead on to Beauvoir’s open palm. ‘Can this be put on to the end of any arrow?’

‘What do you have in mind?’ Beauvoir asked the boss.

‘Well, that clubhouse is full of target-shooting arrows, right?’

Lacoste nodded, her mouth full.

‘With little stubby heads, like bullet tips?’

‘Phreith,’ Lacoste managed, nodding.

‘Can those tips be removed and this put on?’

‘Yes,’ said Lacoste, swallowing hard.

‘Forgive me.’ Gamache smiled. ‘But how do you know?’

‘I read up on it on the Internet last night. The tips are made to be interchangeable. ‘Course you have to know what you’re doing or you’ll cut your fingers to ribbons. But, yes, take one out, put the other in. That’s the design.’

‘Even the old wooden ones?’

‘Yes. I suspect these hunting heads came originally from the old wooden arrows in the clubhouse. Someone took them off and replaced them with the target heads.’

Gamache nodded. Ben had told them that he’d picked up the old wooden arrows from families who were upgrading their hunting equipment. The arrows would have come originally with hunting heads and he’d have to replace them with the target ones.

‘Good. Get them all to the lab.’

‘Already on their way,’ said Lacoste, taking a seat next to Nichol, who moved her chair slightly away.

‘What time is our appointment with Notary Stickley about the will?’ Gamache asked Nichol. Yvette Nichol knew very well it was at one-thirty, but saw an opportunity to prove she’d heard his little lecture that morning.

‘I forget.’

‘I’m sorry?’

Ha, she thought, he gets it. He’d given her one of the key statements in response. She quickly went through the other statements, the ones that lead to promotion. I forget, I’m sorry, I need help and what was the other one?

‘I don’t know.’

Now Chief Inspector Gamache was looking at her with open concern.

‘I see. Did you happen to write it down?’

She considered trying out the last phrase but couldn’t bring herself to say, ‘I need help.’ Instead she lowered her head and