dance of the County Fair Andy chose Jane.’ Ruth fell quiet, remembering. ‘Still don’t understand it,’ said Ruth. ‘I mean, Jane was nice and all. We all liked her. But, frankly, she was ugly as sin. Looked like a goat.’
Ruth laughed out loud at the image she’d conjured up.It was true. Young Jane’s face seemed to stretch out ahead of her, as though reaching for something, her nose elongating and her chin receding. She was also shortsighted, though her parents hated to admit they’d produced anything other than a perfect child, so they ignored her weak eyesight. This only accentuated the peering look, sticking her head out to the limits of her neck, trying to bring the world into focus. She always had a look on her face as though asking, ‘Is that edible?’ Young Jane was also chubby. She would remain chubby her whole life.
‘For some unfathomable reason, Andreas Selinsky chose her. They danced all night. It was quite a sight.’ Ruth’s voice had hardened.
Gamache tried to imagine the young Jane, short, prim and plump, dancing with this huge muscled mountain man.
‘They fell in love but her parents found out and put a stop to it. Caused quite a little stir. Jane was the daughter of the chief accountant for Hadley’s Mills. It was inconceivable she’d marry a lumberjack.’
‘What happened?’ he couldn’t help but ask. She looked at him as though surprised he was still there.
‘Oh, Andy died.’
Gamache raised an eyebrow.
‘No need to get excited, Inspector Clouseau,’ said Ruth. ‘An accident in the woods. A tree fell on him. Lots of witnesses. Happened all the time. Though there was some romantic notion at the time that he was so heartbroken he became deliberately careless. Bullshit. I knew him too. He liked her, perhaps even loved her, but he wasn’t nuts. We all get dumped at sometime or another and don’t kill ourselves. No, it was just an accident.’
‘What did Jane do?’
‘She went away to school. Came back a couple of years later with her teaching degree and took over at the school here. School House Number 6.’
Gamache noticed a slight shadow at his arm and looked up. A man in his mid-thirties was standing there. Blond, trim, well-dressed in a casual way as though he’d walked out of a Lands End catalogue. He looked tired, but eager to help.
‘I’m sorry I was so long. I’m Olivier Brulé.’
‘Armand Gamache, I’m the Chief Inspector of Homicide with the Sûreté du Quebec’
Unseen by Gamache, Ruth’s eyebrows rose. She’d underestimated the man. He was the big boss. She’d called him Inspector Clouseau, and that was the only insult she could remember. After Gamache arranged for lunch, Olivier turned to Ruth, ‘How are you?’ he touched Ruth lightly on the shoulder. She winced as though burned.
‘Not bad. How’s Gabri?’
‘Not good. You know Gabri, he wears his heart on his sleeve.’ In fact, there were times Olivier wondered whether Gabri hadn’t been born inside out.
Before Ruth left, Gamache got the bare outline of Jane’s life. He also got the name of her next of kin. A niece named Yolande Fontaine, a real estate agent working out of St Rémy. He looked at his watch: 12.30. St Rémy was about fifteen minutes away. He could probably make it. As he fished in his pocket for his wallet he saw Olivier just leaving and wondered if he couldn’t do two things at once.
Grabbing his hat and coat from the rack he noticed a tiny white tag hanging from one of the hooks. It twigged. The thing that was out of place, unusual. He turned around, putting on his coat, and peered at the tables and chairs and mirrors and all the other antiques in the Bistro. Every one of them had a tag. This was a shop. Everything was for sale. You could eat your croissant and buy your plate. He felt a wave of pleasure at solving the little riddle. A few minutes later he was in Olivier’s car heading for St Rémy. It wasn’t hard to convince Olivier to give him a lift. Olivier
Ruth laughed out loud at the image she’d conjured up.It was true. Young Jane’s face seemed to stretch out ahead of her, as though reaching for something, her nose elongating and her chin receding. She was also shortsighted, though her parents hated to admit they’d produced anything other than a perfect child, so they ignored her weak eyesight. This only accentuated the peering look, sticking her head out to the limits of her neck, trying to bring the world into focus. She always had a look on her face as though asking, ‘Is that edible?’ Young Jane was also chubby. She would remain chubby her whole life.
‘For some unfathomable reason, Andreas Selinsky chose her. They danced all night. It was quite a sight.’ Ruth’s voice had hardened.
Gamache tried to imagine the young Jane, short, prim and plump, dancing with this huge muscled mountain man.
‘They fell in love but her parents found out and put a stop to it. Caused quite a little stir. Jane was the daughter of the chief accountant for Hadley’s Mills. It was inconceivable she’d marry a lumberjack.’
‘What happened?’ he couldn’t help but ask. She looked at him as though surprised he was still there.
‘Oh, Andy died.’
Gamache raised an eyebrow.
‘No need to get excited, Inspector Clouseau,’ said Ruth. ‘An accident in the woods. A tree fell on him. Lots of witnesses. Happened all the time. Though there was some romantic notion at the time that he was so heartbroken he became deliberately careless. Bullshit. I knew him too. He liked her, perhaps even loved her, but he wasn’t nuts. We all get dumped at sometime or another and don’t kill ourselves. No, it was just an accident.’
‘What did Jane do?’
‘She went away to school. Came back a couple of years later with her teaching degree and took over at the school here. School House Number 6.’
Gamache noticed a slight shadow at his arm and looked up. A man in his mid-thirties was standing there. Blond, trim, well-dressed in a casual way as though he’d walked out of a Lands End catalogue. He looked tired, but eager to help.
‘I’m sorry I was so long. I’m Olivier Brulé.’
‘Armand Gamache, I’m the Chief Inspector of Homicide with the Sûreté du Quebec’
Unseen by Gamache, Ruth’s eyebrows rose. She’d underestimated the man. He was the big boss. She’d called him Inspector Clouseau, and that was the only insult she could remember. After Gamache arranged for lunch, Olivier turned to Ruth, ‘How are you?’ he touched Ruth lightly on the shoulder. She winced as though burned.
‘Not bad. How’s Gabri?’
‘Not good. You know Gabri, he wears his heart on his sleeve.’ In fact, there were times Olivier wondered whether Gabri hadn’t been born inside out.
Before Ruth left, Gamache got the bare outline of Jane’s life. He also got the name of her next of kin. A niece named Yolande Fontaine, a real estate agent working out of St Rémy. He looked at his watch: 12.30. St Rémy was about fifteen minutes away. He could probably make it. As he fished in his pocket for his wallet he saw Olivier just leaving and wondered if he couldn’t do two things at once.
Grabbing his hat and coat from the rack he noticed a tiny white tag hanging from one of the hooks. It twigged. The thing that was out of place, unusual. He turned around, putting on his coat, and peered at the tables and chairs and mirrors and all the other antiques in the Bistro. Every one of them had a tag. This was a shop. Everything was for sale. You could eat your croissant and buy your plate. He felt a wave of pleasure at solving the little riddle. A few minutes later he was in Olivier’s car heading for St Rémy. It wasn’t hard to convince Olivier to give him a lift. Olivier
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