Still Life (A Three Pines Mystery)

St. Martin's Paperbacks are published by St. Martin's Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.

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This book is given, along with all my heart, to Michael

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

This is for my husband Michael, who has created a life for us full of love and kindness. He allowed me to quit my job, pretend to write, then gave me unstinting praise even when what I produced was drivel. I've realised that anyone can be a critic but it takes a remarkable person to offer praise. Michael is that person. As is Liz Davidson, my wonderful friend and inspiration. She allowed me to steal her life, her time, her poetry and her brilliant art. And in return she got to hear about every burp from my book-baby. What luck. I'm grateful to her husband, John Ballantyne, who also allowed me to steal his life; Margaret Ballantyne-Power--more a sister than a friend - for her encouragement spanning years; and Sharon and Jim, who never failed to celebrate. Thank you to the lively and caffeinated members of Les Girls: Liz, France, Michele, Johanne, Christina, Daphne, Brigitte, and a special thank you to Cheryl for her love and her prayer stick ritual for Still Life. Thank you to the No Rules Book Club, to Christina Davidson Richards, Kirk Lawrence, Sheila Fischman, Neil McKenty, Cotton Aimers and Sue and Mike Riddell. Thank you to Chris Roy for giving me archery lessons and not mocking, I think.

My brothers, Rob and Doug, and their families have offered love and support without qualification.

Still Life would never have been noticed beyond the other wonderful unpublished novels out there had it not been for the generosity of the Crime Writers' Association in Great Britain. The CWA has created the Debut Dagger award for an unpublished first novel. I'm almost certain mine would never have been noticed had Still Life not been short-listed and then 'Very Highly Commended', coming in second for the CWA Debut Dagger in 2004. It was one of the most remarkable things to have happened to me. Here is a group of successful authors who take time to read, support and encourage new crime writers. They gave me an opportunity most of them never had, and I'll be forever grateful. I also know it's a gift designed to be given away.

Kay Mitchell of the CWA has been wonderful and her own novels have given me such pleasure. Thank you as well to Sarah Turner, a heroine in our household, and to Maxim Jakubowski.

My editor at Hodder Headline is Sherise Hobbs and at St Martin's Minotaur it is Ben Sevier. They have made Still Life so much better through their critiques, firm suggestions and enthusiasm. It's both an education and a pleasure to work with them.

Thank you to Kim McArthur, for taking me under her literary wing.

And, finally, my agent is Teresa Chris. It is solely because of her that Still Life is in your hands now. She is brilliant and fun, a great editor, pithy in the extreme and a superb agent. I am particularly fortunate to be working with her, considering I almost ran her over the first time we met--not a strategy I would recommend to new writers, but it seemed to work.

Thank you, Teresa.

I went through a period in my life when I had no friends, when the phone never rang, when I thought I would die from loneliness. I know that the real blessing here isn't that I have a book published, but that I have so many people to thank.

ONE

Miss Jane Neal met her maker in the early morning mist of Thanksgiving Sunday. It was pretty much a surprise all round. Miss Neal's was not a natural death, unless you're of the belief everything happens as it's supposed to. If so, for her seventy-six years Jane Neal had been walking toward this final moment when death met her in the brilliant maple woods on the verge of the village of Three Pines. She'd fallen spread-eagled, as though making angels in the bright and brittle leaves.

Chief Inspector Armand Gamache of the Surete du Quebec knelt down; his knees cracking like the report of a hunter's rifle, his large, expressive hands hovering over the tiny circle of blood marring her fluffy cardigan, as though like a magician he could remove the wound and restore the woman. But he could not. That wasn't his gift. Fortunately for Gamache he had others. The scent of mothballs, his grandmother's perfume, met him halfway. Jane's gentle and kindly eyes stared as though surprised to see him.