‘No, it isn’t. If she did this she must have liked this style. She certainly wouldn’t have been ashamed of it. So why keep them out? And let’s even suppose this was done by someone else, her parents, for example, back in the days this sort of thing was in—’
‘Hate to tell you, but it’s back.’ Beauvoir had just bought a lava lamp, but didn’t think he’d tell the chief about that now. Gamache brought his hands up and rubbed his face. Lowering them he still saw the acid-trip room. Shit, indeed.
‘All right, let’s just say her elderly and probably demented parents did this and she didn’t change it for some reason, like finances or loyalty to them or something like that, well, really it’s pretty awful, but it’s not that bad. Embarrassing at worst, but not shameful. To keep friends out of the heart of her home for decades speaks of more than embarrassment.’
Both men looked around again. The room had beautiful proportions, Beauvoir had to admit. But that was kind of like saying a blind date had a good personality. You still wouldn’t want to introduce her to your friends. Beauvoir could understand perfectly how Jane Neal felt. He thought, perhaps, he’d return the lava lamp.
Gamache walked slowly around the room. Was there anything here he shouldn’t see? Why had Jane Neal, a woman who loved and trusted her friends, kept them out of this room? And why did she change her mind two days before she was killed? What secret did this room hold?
‘Upstairs?’ suggested Beauvoir.
‘After you.’ Gamache lumbered over and looked at the stairway which ascended from the rear of the living room. It was also wallpapered, this time in a burgundy velveteen effect. To say it clashed with the flowers would be to suggest there was a wallpaper in existence which wouldn’t. Still, of all the colors and styles to have chosen, this was the worst. Up it went, like a strep throat, into the second floor. The steps of the stairs had also been painted. It broke Gamache’s heart.
The modest second floor had a large bathroom and two good-size bedrooms. What looked to be the master bedroom had dark red painted walls. The next room had been painted a deep blue.
But something was missing in the house.
Gamache went back downstairs and searched the living room, then back out into the kitchen and mudroom.
‘There’re no easel, no paints. There’s no studio. Where’d she do her art?’
‘How about the basement?’
‘Sure, go down and check, but I can guarantee you an artist isn’t going to paint in a windowless basement.’ Though, come to think of it, Jane Neal’s work did look like it’d been done in the dark.
‘There’re paints down there, but no easel,’ Beauvoir said, emerging from the basement. ‘Her studio wasn’t in the basement. There’re another thing -’ he loved being able see something the chief had missed. Gamache turned an interested face to him. ‘Pictures. There are no pictures on the walls. Anywhere.’
Gamache’s face opened in astonishment. He was right. Gamache spun in place, searching the walls. Nothing.
‘Upstairs too?’
‘Upstairs too.’
‘I just don’t get it. All of this is odd, the wallpaper, the painted rooms and floors, the lack of pictures. But none of it’s so odd she’d have to keep her friends out. But there is something around here she didn’t want anyone to see.’
Beauvoir flopped into the big sofa and looked around. Gamache subsided into the leather chair, put his hands together like steeples on his stomach, and thought. After a few minutes he rocked himself to his feet and went downstairs. The unfinished basement was replete with cardboard boxes, an old cast iron tub, a fridge with wines. He took one out. A Dunham vineyard, reputed to be quite good. Replacing the bottle he closed the fridge and turned around. Another door led to her preserves cupboard. Auburn jellies, rich red and purple jams, British racing-green dill pickles. He looked at the dates, some from the year before, most from this year. Nothing spectacular. Nothing abnormal. Nothing he hadn’t found in his mother’s basement after she’d died.
He closed the door and took a step backward. Just as his back brushed the rough basement wall something bit his shoe. Hard. It was at once shocking and familiar.
‘Tabernacle!’ he yelped. Above he could hear feet running to the basement door. In an instant Beauvoir was there, his hand resting on his revolver still in its holster.
‘What! What is it?’ He’d so rarely heard the chief swear that when he did it acted like a siren. Gamache pointed to his foot. A small wooden plank had attached itself to his shoe.
