“Olive?” he asked Olivier.
The two men looked down at the plate.
“Does that make me the mandarin?” asked Gabri.
“You need to get your head out of your own asshole,” said Olivier.
Gabri opened his mouth, but the warning looks on everyone’s faces made him shut it again.
Peter, standing a little way off from the conversation and nursing the glass of water Ruth had offered him, smiled. It was much the same thing Clara had said when he’d told her he’d felt violated by the police search.
“Why?” she’d asked.
“Didn’t you? I mean, all those strangers looking at your art.”
“Isn’t that what we call a show? There were more people looking this afternoon than I’ve had most of my career. Bring on more cops. Hope they brought their checkbooks.” She laughed, and clearly didn’t care. But she could see he did. “What’s the matter?”
“The picture isn’t ready to be seen.”
“Look, Peter, you make it sound as though this is something to do with your art.”
“Well, it is.”
“They’re trying to find a murderer, not an artist.”
And there it had sat, like most uncomfortable truths. Between them.
Gamache and Olivier had wandered away from the group, into a quiet corner.
“I understand you bought your building a few years ago.”
Olivier colored slightly, surprised by the question. He instinctively and furtively scanned the room, making sure they weren’t overheard.
“I thought it was a good investment. I’d saved some money from my job, and business here was good.”
“Must have been. You paid almost three-quarters of a million dollars.”
“I bet it’s worth a million today.”
“Could be. But you paid cash. Was business all that good?”
Olivier shot a look around but no one could hear them. Still he lowered his voice.
“The bistro and B and B are doing very well, for now anyway, but it’s the antiques end that’s been the surprise.”
“How so?”
“Lots of interest in Quebec pine, and lots of great finds.”
Gamache nodded. “We spoke to the Poiriers this afternoon.”
Olivier’s face hardened. “Look, what they say just isn’t true. I didn’t screw their mother. She wanted to sell. Was desperate to sell.”
“I know. We spoke to her too. And the Mundins. The furniture must have been in very bad shape.”
Olivier relaxed a little.
“It was. Years sitting in damp, freezing barns and the attic. Had to chase the mice out. Some were warped almost beyond repair. Enough to make you weep.”
“Madame Poirier says you came by her home later with a new bed. That was kind.”
Olivier dropped his eyes. “Yeah, well, I wanted to thank her.”
Conscience, thought Gamache. This man had a huge and terrible conscience riding herd on a huge and terrible greed.
“You said the bistro and B and B were doing well, for now. What did you mean?”
Olivier looked out the window for a moment, then back at Gamache.
“Hi ho, dinner everyone,” sang Ruth.
“What should we do?” Clara whispered to Myrna. “Can we run for it?”
“Too late. Either Ruth or the duck would get us for sure. The only thing to do is hunker down and pray for daylight. If the worst happens, play dead.”
Gamache and Olivier rose, the last in for dinner.
“I suppose you know what they’re doing up at the old Hadley house?” When Gamache didn’t answer Olivier continued. “They’ve almost completely gutted the place and are turning it into an inn and spa. Ten massage rooms, meditation and yoga classes. They’ll do a day spa and corporate retreats. People’ll be crawling all over the place, and us. It’ll ruin Three Pines.”
“Three Pines?”
“All right,” snapped Olivier. “The bistro and the B and B.”
They joined the others in the kitchen and sat at Ruth’s white plastic garden table.
“Incoming,” warned Gabri as Ruth put a bowl in front of each of them.
Gamache looked at the contents of his bowl. He could make out canned peaches, bacon, cheese and Gummi Bears.
“They’re all the things I love,” said Ruth, smiling. Rosa was sitting next to her on a nest of towels, her beak thrust under the sleeve of her dress.
“Scotch?” Ruth asked.
“Please.” Six glasses were thrust forward and Ruth poured each a Scotch, into their dinners.
