But no more.
Lucy knew her God was dead. And she now knew the miracle wasn’t the banana, it was the hand that offered the banana.
After breakfast Peter and Clara both got into their fall clothing and headed across the village green to Ben’s place. The gray clouds were threatening rain and the wind had a dampness and a bite. The aroma of sautéed garlic and onions met them as they stepped on to Ben’s front veranda. Clara knew if she was struck blind she’d always be able to tell when she was in Ben’s home. It smelled of stinky dog and old books. All of Ben’s dogs had smelled, not just Daisy, and it seemed to have nothing to do with age. Clara wasn’t sure if he created or attracted them. But now, suddenly, his place smelled of home cooking. Instead of welcoming it, Clara felt a little queasy, as though one more certainty had been removed. She wanted the old smell back. She wanted Jane back. She wanted everything to stay the same.
‘Oh, I wanted to surprise you,’ said Ben, coming over to hug Clara. ‘Chili con carne.’
‘My favorite comfort food.’
‘I’ve never made it before but I have some of my mother’s recipe books and found it in The Joy of Cooking. It won’t bring Jane back, but it might ease the pain.’
Clara looked at the huge cookbook open on the counter, and felt revolted. It had come from that house. Timmer’s place. The home that repulsed love and laughter and welcomed snakes and mice. She wanted nothing to do with it, and she realised her revulsion stretched even to objects that had come from there.
‘But Ben, you loved Jane too. And you found her. It must have been a nightmare.’
‘It was.’ He told them briefly about it, his back to them, not daring to face Peter and Clara as though he was responsible. He stirred the ground meat as it cooked while Clara opened the tins of ingredients and listened to Ben. After a moment she handed the can opener to Peter and had to sit down. Ben’s story was playing in her head like a movie. But she kept expecting Jane to get up. As Ben finished Clara excused herself and went through the kitchen into the living room.
She put another small log on the fire and listened to the quiet murmur of Peter and Ben. She couldn’t make out the words, just the familiarity. Another wave of sadness enveloped her. She’d lost her murmuring partner. The one with whom she made comforting noises. And she felt something else, a wisp of jealousy that Peter still had Ben. He could visit any time, but her best friend was gone. She knew it was unspeakably petty and selfish but there it was. She took a deep breath and inhaled garlic and onions and frying mince and other calming smells. Nellie must have cleaned recently because there was the fresh aroma of detergents. Cleanliness. Clara felt better and knew that Ben was her friend too, not just Peter’s. And that she wasn’t alone, unless she chose to be. She also knew Daisy could best sautéed garlic any day and her smell would re-emerge triumphant.
St Thomas’s was filling up when Peter, Clara and Ben arrived. The rain was just beginning so there wasn’t much milling about. The tiny parking lot at the side of the chapel was packed, and trucks and cars lined the circular Commons. Inside, the small church was overflowing and warm. It smelled of damp wool and the earth trod in on boots. The three squeezed in and joined the line of people leaning against the back wall. Clara felt some small knobs pushing into her and turning around she saw she’d been leaning against the cork bulletin board. Notices of the semi-annual tea and craft sale, the Brownie meeting, Hanna’s exercise classes Monday and Thursday mornings, the bridge club Wednesdays at 7.30, and old yellowed announcements of ‘new’ church hours, from 1967.
‘My name is Armand Gamache.’ The big man had taken center stage. This morning he was dressed in a tweed jacket and gray flannel slacks with a simple and elegant burgundy tie around the neck of his Oxford shirt. His hat was off and Clara saw he was balding, without attempt to hide it. His hair was graying, as was his trimmed moustache. He gave the impression of a county squire addressing the village. He was a man used to being in charge, and he wore it well. The room hushed immediately, save for a persistent cough at the back. ‘I’m the chief inspector of homicide for the Sûreté du Quebec.’ This produced quite a buzz, which he waited out.
‘This is my second in command, Inspector Jean Guy Beauvoir.’ Beauvoir stepped forward and nodded. ‘There are other Sûreté officers around the room. I expect they’re obvious to you.’ He didn’t mention that most of his team were off turning the archery clubhouse upside down.
It struck Clara that the person who had killed Jane was probably among the crowd gathered in St Thomas’s. She looked around and spotted Nellie and her husband Wayne, Myrna and Ruth, Olivier and Gabri. Matthew and Suzanne Croft sat in the row behind them. But no Philippe.
