Still Life (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #1)

by Louise Penny

She looked furtively around, partly in hopes no one was watching, and partly desperately hoping someone was, and would know what to do.

Clara had no idea a rectangle had so many corners.

They’d moved from one end of the gun to the other.

She might have been robbed, but she hadn’t been violated. Except for being killed, of course.

Maybe, said his brain and his upbringing, if you make enough tea and small talk, time reverses and all bad things are undone.

He knew it was there, that opiate of the Anglos. And his hand clutched the box just as the kettle whistled. Violent death demanded Earl Grey.

This village was old, and you don’t get to be old without knowing grief. And loss.

And bullies don’t much like getting some of their own back.’

Unconsciously, Olivier had equated the way people lived with the way they died.

expression he saw most on the faces of victims wasn’t fear, wasn’t anger. It was surprise.

Her family would have held back Thanksgiving dinner for her. They’d do anything for her, she knew, both comforted and bound by the certainty. And all she had to do was succeed.

Clara didn’t think the room could get any quieter, but it did. Even the coughing stopped, miraculously cured by curiosity.

His wife Nellie put her generous arm around him, as though flesh could ward off sickness.

He’d seen it many times, people jockeying for position as chief mourner.

Can she learn? Undoubtedly. But the real question is can she unlearn?

many people love their problems. Gives them all sorts of excuses for not growing up and getting on with life.’

‘Hard to get on with life and not feel guilty.’

Ironic, really, that from a blind they should suddenly see so clearly.

Suzanne took what was left. Her conscious brain told her it was a noble maternal instinct. Deep down inside she knew it was a more personal instinct for martyrdom that guided the portions.

Philippe was bilingual and bicultural and equally deaf to both languages.

He was always delighted when a digital clock had all the same numbers.

She knew she should hold him, should tell him how much she loved him and trusted him and needed him. But something held her back. There it was again. A silence between them. Something else unsaid.

Cockiness, tears, apparent calm but nervous hands and eyes. Something almost always betrayed the fear.

They say time heals. I think that’s bullshit, I think time does nothing. It only heals if the person wants it to. I’ve seen time, in the hands of a sick person, make situations worse. They ruminate and brood and turn a minor event into a catastrophe, given enough time.’

The Sûreté was good at finding other people’s secrets, and keeping its own.

This is what comes of trust and friendship, loyalty and love, thought Peter. You get screwed. Betrayed. You get wounded so deeply you can barely breathe and sometimes it kills you. Or worse. It kills the people you love most.