In the living area by the huge windows two sofas lined up perfectly to face each other, with a low coffee table between them.
“Tea?” Hanna asked and Lacoste nodded.
These two Parras seemed at odds in the almost sterile environment and as they waited for the tea to brew Lacoste found herself wondering about the missing Parra. The father, Roar. Perhaps it was his angular, hard stamp on this house. Was he the one who yearned for cool certainty, straight lines, near empty rooms, and uncluttered shelves?
“Do you know who the dead man was?” asked Hanna as she placed a cup of tea in front of Agent Lacoste. A white plate piled with cookies was also put on the spotless table.
Lacoste thanked her and took one. It was soft and warm and tasted of raisin and oatmeal, with a hint of brown sugar and cinnamon. It tasted of home. She noticed the teacup had a smiling and waving snowman in a red suit. Bonhomme Carnaval. A character from the annual Quebec City winter carnival. She took a sip. It was strong and sweet.
Like Hanna herself, Lacoste suspected.
“No, we don’t know who he was yet,” she said.
“We’ve heard,” Hanna hesitated, “that it wasn’t natural. Is that right?”
Lacoste remembered the man’s skull. “No, it wasn’t natural. He was murdered.”
“Dear God,” said Hanna. “How awful. And you have no idea who did it?”
“We will, soon. For now I want to hear about last night.” She turned to the young man sitting across from her.
Just then a voice called from the back door in a language Lacoste couldn’t understand, but took to be Czech. A man, short and square, walked into the kitchen, whacking his knit hat against his coat.
“Roar, can’t you do that in the mudroom?” Hanna spoke in French, and despite the slight reprimand she was clearly pleased to see him. “The police are here. About the body.”
“What body?” Roar also switched to French, lightly accented. He sounded concerned. “Where? Here?”
“Not here, Dad. They found a body in the bistro this morning. He was killed.”
“You mean murdered? Someone was murdered in the bistro last night?”
His disbelief was clear. Like his son he was stocky and muscular. His hair was curly and dark, but unlike his son’s it was graying. He’d be in his late forties, Lacoste reckoned.
She introduced herself.
“I know you,” he said, his gaze keen and penetrating. His eyes were disconcertingly blue and hard. “You’ve been in Three Pines before.”
He had a good memory for faces, Lacoste realized. Most people remembered Chief Inspector Gamache. Maybe Inspector Beauvoir. But few remembered her, or the other agents.
This man did.
He poured himself tea then sat down. He also seemed slightly out of place in this pristine modern room. And yet he was completely comfortable. He looked a man who’d be comfortable most places.
“You didn’t know about the body?”
Roar Parra took a bite of his cookie and shook his head. “I’ve been working all day in the woods.”
“In the rain?”
He snorted. “What? A little rain won’t kill you.”
“But a blow to the head would.”
“Is that how he died?” When Lacoste nodded Parra went on. “Who was he?”
“No one knows,” said Hanna.
“But perhaps you do,” said Lacoste. She brought a photograph out of her pocket and placed it face down on the hard, cold table.
“Me?” said Roar with a snort. “I didn’t even know there was a dead man.”
“But I hear you saw a stranger hanging around the village this summer.”
“Who told you that?”
“Doesn’t matter. You were heard talking about it. Was it a secret?”
Parra hesitated. “Not really. It was just the once. Maybe twice. Not important. It was stupid, just some guy I thought I saw.”
“Stupid?”
He gave a smile suddenly, the first one she’d seen from him, and it transformed his stern face. It was as though a crust had broken. Lines creased his cheeks and his eyes lit momentarily.
“Trust me, this is stupid. And I know stupid, having raised a teenage son. I’ll tell you, but it can’t mean anything. There’re new owners at the old Hadley house. A couple bought it a few months ago. They’re doing renovations and hired me to build a barn and clear some trails. They also wanted the garden cleaned up. Big job.”
The old Hadley house, she knew, was a rambling old Victorian wreck on the hill overlooking Three Pines.
