The Brutal Telling by Louise Penny Read Free Book Online

sense.”
    “Really?” Olivier sat forward. “How?”
    “I don’t know. But I will.”
    Olivier stared at the formidable, quiet man who suddenly seemed to fill the entire room without raising his voice.
    “Did you know him?”
    “You’ve asked me that before,” snapped Olivier, then gathered himself. “I’m sorry, but you have, you know, and it gets annoying. I didn’t know him.”
    Gamache stared. Olivier’s face was red now, blushing. But from anger, from the heat of the fire, or did he just tell a lie?
    “Someone knew him,” said Gamache at last, leaning back, giving Olivier the impression of pressure lifted. Of breathing room.
    “But not me and not Gabri.” His brow pulled together and Gamache thought Olivier was genuinely upset. “What was he doing here?”
    “ ‘Here’ meaning Three Pines, or ‘here’ meaning the bistro?”
    “Both.”
    But Gamache knew Olivier had just lied. He meant the bistro, that was obvious. People lied all the time in murder investigations. If the first victim of war was the truth, some of the first victims of a murder investigation were people’s lies. The lies they told themselves, the lies they told each other. The little lies that allowed them to get out of bed on cold, dark mornings. Gamache and his team hunted the lies down and exposed them. Until all the small tales told to ease everyday lives disappeared. And people were left naked. The trick was distinguishing the important fibs from the rest. This one appeared tiny. In which case, why bother lying at all?
    Gabri approached carrying a tray with four steaming plates. Within minutes they were sitting around the fireplace eating fettuccine with shrimp and scallops sautéed in garlic and olive oil. Fresh bread was produced and glasses of dry white wine poured.
    As they ate they talked about the Labor Day long weekend, about the chestnut trees and conkers. About kids returning to school and the nights drawing in.
    The bistro was empty, except for them. But it seemed crowded to the Chief Inspector. With the lies they’d been told, and the lies being manufactured and waiting.

FIVE

    After lunch, while Agent Lacoste made arrangements for them to stay overnight at Gabri’s B and B, Armand Gamache walked slowly in the opposite direction. The drizzle had stopped for the moment but a mist clung to the forests and hills surrounding the village. People were coming out of their homes to do errands or work in their gardens. He walked along the muddy road and turning left made his way over the arched stone bridge that spanned the Rivière Bella Bella.
    “Hungry?” Gamache opened the door to the old train station and held out the brown paper bag.
    “Starving,
merci
.” Beauvoir almost ran over, and taking the bag he pulled out a thick sandwich of chicken, Brie and pesto. There was also a Coke and
pâtisserie
.
    “What about you?” asked Beauvoir, his hand hesitating over the precious sandwich.
    “Oh, I’ve eaten,” the Chief said, deciding it would really do no good describing his meal to Beauvoir.
    The men drew a couple of chairs up to the warm pot-bellied stove and as the Inspector ate they compared notes.
    “So far,” said Gamache, “we have no idea who the victim was, who killed him, why he was in the bistro and what the murder weapon was.”
    “No sign of a weapon yet?”
    “No. Dr. Harris thinks it was a metal rod or something like that. It was smooth and hard.”
    “A fireplace poker?”
    “Perhaps. We’ve taken Olivier’s in for tests.” The Chief paused.
    “What is it?” Beauvoir asked.
    “It just strikes me as slightly odd that Olivier would light fires in both grates. It’s rainy but not that cold. And for that to be just about the first thing he’d do after finding a body . . .”
    “You’re thinking the weapon might be one of those fireplace pokers? And that Olivier lit the fires so that he could use them? Burn away evidence on them?”
    “I think it’s possible,” said the Chief, his