The Brutal Telling Read Online Free PDF Page B

possible, but no one looks at a newborn and decides to call her The Wife. At least I hope not.”
    Myrna smiled. “You’re right. I’m just so used to it I never thought. I have no idea what her real name is.”
    Beauvoir wondered just how pathetic a woman had to be to allow herself to be called The Wife. It actually sounded slightly biblical, Old Testament.
    Gabri put some beers, Cokes and a couple of bowls of mixed nuts on the table. Outside the villagers had finally gone home. It looked wet and bleak, but inside they were snug and warm. It was almost possible to forget this wasn’t a social occasion. The Scene of Crime agents seemed to have dissolved into the woodwork, only evident when a slight scratching or mumbling could be heard. Like rodents, or ghosts. Or homicide detectives.
    “Tell us about last night,” said Chief Inspector Gamache.
    “It was a madhouse,” said Gabri. “Last big weekend of the summer so everyone came by. Most had been to the fair during the day so they were tired. Didn’t want to cook. It’s always like that on Labor Day weekend. We were prepared.”
    “What does that mean?” asked Agent Lacoste, who’d joined them.
    “I brought in extra staff,” said Olivier. “But it went smoothly. People were pretty relaxed and we closed on time. At about one in the morning.”
    “What happened then?” asked Lacoste.
    Most murder investigations appeared complex but were really quite simple. It was just a matter of asking “And then what happened?” over and over and over. And listening to the answers helped too.
    “I usually do the cash and leave the night staff to clean up, but Saturdays are different,” said Olivier. “Old Mundin comes after closing and delivers the things he’s repaired during the week and picks up any furniture that’s been broken in the meantime. Doesn’t take long, and he does it while the waiters and kitchen staff are cleaning up.”
    “Wait a minute,” said Beauvoir. “Mundin does this at midnight on Saturdays? Why not Sunday morning, or any other reasonable time? Why late at night?”
    It sounded furtive to Beauvoir, who had a nose for things secretive and sly.
    Olivier shrugged. “Habit, I guess. When he first started doing the work he wasn’t married to The Wife so he’d hang around here Saturday nights. When we closed he’d just take the broken furniture then. We’ve seen no reason to change.”
    In a village where almost nothing changed this made sense.
    “So Mundin took the furniture. What happened then?” asked Beauvoir.
    “I left.”
    “Were you the last in the place?”
    Olivier hesitated. “Not quite. Because it was so busy there were a few extra things to do. They’re a good bunch of kids, you know. Responsible.”
    Gamache had been listening to this. He preferred it that way. His agents asked the questions and it freed him up to observe, and to hear what was said, how it was said, and what was left out. And now he heard a defensiveness creep into Olivier’s calm and helpful voice. Was he defensive about his own behavior, or was he trying to protect his staff, afraid they’d fall under suspicion?
    “Who was the last to leave?” Agent Lacoste asked.
    “Young Parra,” said Olivier.
    “Young Parra?” asked Beauvoir. “Like Old Mundin?”
    Gabri made a face. “Of course not. His name isn’t ‘Young.’ That’d be weird. His name’s Havoc.”
    Beauvoir’s eyes narrowed and he glared at Gabri. He didn’t like beingmocked and he suspected this large, soft man was doing just that. He then looked over at Myrna, who wasn’t laughing. She nodded.
    “That’s his name. Roar named his son Havoc.”
    Jean Guy Beauvoir wrote it down, but without pleasure or conviction.
    “Would he have locked up?” asked Lacoste.
    It was, Gamache and Beauvoir both knew, a crucial question, but its significance seemed lost on Olivier.
    “Absolutely.”
    Gamache and Beauvoir exchanged glances. Now they were getting somewhere. The murderer had to