Deadly cold read. Louise Penny: Deadly Cold

Louise Penny

Deadly cold

Dedicated to my brother Doug and his family -

Mary, Brian, Roslyn and Charles,

who showed me what it's like

real courage. Namaste

Chapter first

If CC de Poitiers knew that she would be killed, she would probably have bought her husband Richard a gift for Christmas. She probably would have even gone to the holiday at the school where her daughter studied - Miss Edwards Girls' School, or the "ass" school, as CC liked to say, teasing her immensely sized daughter. If CC had known the end was near, she would have stayed at work rather than spending time in the cheapest room the Ritz Hotel in Montreal had to offer. But she only knew of one end nearby, and it belonged to a man named Sol.

So what do you think? Do you like it?

She set the book on her white belly.

Saul looked at the book, not for the first time. For the past few days, CC has been pulling this book out of her huge purse every five minutes. At business meetings, at lunch, during taxi rides through the snowy streets of Montreal, CC would suddenly bend over and solemnly straighten up, holding her creation in her hands, as if revealing to the world yet another immaculate conception.

“I like the photo,” Sol said, realizing that this insulted her.

He took this photo himself. He knew that she was waiting and even asking for some kind of encouragement from him, but he no longer wanted to pat her on the head. And he also asked himself how long he could stay near CC de Poitiers without turning into her. Not in the physical sense, of course. She was forty-eight - several years younger than him. She was slim, lithe and in good shape, with incredibly white teeth and incredibly blonde hair. Touching her was like touching a block of ice. There was a peculiar beauty and fragility about it that seemed attractive to him. However, there was also danger. If CC breaks, splits, then he will be torn to shreds.

But it wasn't about her appearance. Watching her caress her book - with more tenderness than she had ever caressed him - he asked himself whether her inner ice had penetrated into him, perhaps during sex, and whether he himself was now freezing from the inside. He no longer felt his heart.

At fifty-two, Sol Petrov was just beginning to notice that his friends were no longer as brilliant, not as smart, not as slender as they once were. To be honest, most of them were starting to tire him. Yes, and when communicating with him, it happened that they yawned eloquently. They grew fat, went bald, and became boring. And he suspected that the same transformations were happening to him. He wasn't very upset that women rarely looked at him anymore, or that he was starting to think about changing his alpine skiing to cross-country skiing, or that his family doctor ordered an ultrasound of his prostate. He could accept all this. What bothered and awakened Sol Petrov at two o’clock in the morning was something else: the same voice that in childhood whispered to him that there were lions living under his bed, now confidently whispered that people were sick of him. Saul breathed deeply into the dark night air, trying to convince himself that the yawns his counterpart had yawned at dinner that day were due to the wine he had drunk, or the magret de canard. fr.), or the enveloping warmth in a Montreal restaurant, where they arrived in their practical winter sweaters.

And the night voice continued to grumble, warning Sol about the dangers that awaited him. About an imminent disaster. About how he talks too much, how he's no longer interesting, how people around him roll their eyes too often. About the fact that his interlocutors sneak glances at their watches, waiting for the right moment to leave him. Of eyes darting around the room, desperately searching for more entertaining company.

And so he allowed CC to seduce him. Seduce and swallow, and thus the lion moved from under the bed to the bed. Saul began to suspect that this self-absorbed woman had finally consumed herself entirely, had consumed her husband and even her terrible daughter, and was now beginning to consume him too.

In her company he had already become cruel. I began to despise myself. But not with the same force with which he despised her.

This is a brilliant book,” CC said, ignoring him. - No, really. Who would refuse this? - She waved the book in front of his face. “People will just swallow it.” There are so many mentally disturbed people around. “She actually turned and stared through the window of their room at the building opposite, as if looking out for “her” people. - I did it for them. - And she looked at Sol with wide, sincere eyes.

“Does she really believe this?” - he asked himself.

He, of course, read her book. Brand Worry was what she called it, just like the company she'd started a few years earlier, and the name sounded like a mockery of CC herself, who was a real bundle of nerves. Hands that know no rest, constantly smoothing and straightening something. Short sharp answers, impatience, often turning into a flash of rage.

Although CC de Poitiers had a serene, frozen appearance, it is unlikely that anyone would associate the word “calm” with her.

She offered her book to everyone, from leading New York publishing houses to postcard printers in the remote village of Sainte-Polycarp on the highway between Toronto and Montreal.

They all refused, immediately recognizing in the manuscript a helpless mishmash of ridiculous home-grown philosophizing wrapped in half-baked Buddhist and Hindu teachings, spewed out by a woman who, judging by the photograph on the cover, eats her children.

“What the hell is this about enlightenment,” CC told Saul in her Montreal office on the day she received another stack of refusals. She tore them into shreds and threw them on the floor: let the cleaning lady sweep up. - I'm telling you, we live in some kind of inside-out world. People are cruel and insensitive, they live to deceive each other. Neither love nor compassion exists. But this,” she cut the air with her book, like a hammer from ancient myths, aimed at a merciless anvil, “this will teach people to be happy.

The words spoken in a low voice were filled with anger. She decided to publish the book with her own money, and so that it would come out before Christmas. And although the book contained a lot of discussion about light, Sol found it curious and full of irony that this little book was published before the winter solstice. Before the darkest day of the year.

What do you say the name of the publishing house is? - he couldn’t resist. - Oh yes, I remembered. Nobody wanted to print it. It must have been terrible. - He thought for a moment, not knowing whether to turn the knife in the wound or not. Come on, why stand on ceremony. - Well, how did you feel?

Was it his imagination or did she actually wince?

But her silence eloquently continued, an impassive expression frozen on her face. Everything that CC didn't like simply didn't exist. Including her husband and her daughter. Including all unpleasant things, any criticism, any harsh words (if they were not said by her), any emotions. Saul knew that CC lived in her own world, where she was perfect, where she could hide her feelings and failures.

How long does it take for this world to explode? Saul hoped he would be nearby to see it happen. Close, but at a safe distance.

She said people are cruel and insensitive. Cruel and insensitive. Not long ago he signed a freelance contract with her as her photographer and lover, and then it seemed to him that this world was a wonderful place. Every morning he woke up early and started a new day in a new world where nothing was impossible, and he saw how beautiful Montreal was. He saw people smiling at each other, ordering cappuccino in a cafe, buying fresh flowers or French long loaves. He saw children collecting fallen chestnuts, tying strings to them and playing. He saw old ladies walking along Main.

He wasn't blind or stupid - he noticed homeless men and women, noticed beaten and bruised faces that spoke of a long empty night and an even longer day ahead.

But deep down he believed that the world was a wonderful place. And his photographs reflected this, they captured the light, the shine, the hope. And the shadow that inevitably challenged the light.

Ironically, it was this quality that attracted CC's attention and gave her the idea to offer him a contract. An article in one magazine, written in typical Montreal style, described him as a “cool” journalist, and CC always wanted only the best. That's why they always rented a room at the Ritz. A cramped, creepy room on one of the lower floors with no view from the window and no charm, but still a Ritz. CC chose even her shampoos and stationery to confirm her reputation, and for the same reason she chose him, Sol. She used all of this - and even him, Sol - to prove something incomprehensible to people who didn't care. After some time, all this was thrown away. How her husband was cast aside, how her daughter was ignored and ridiculed.

The world was a cruel and unfeeling place.

And now Saul believed it.

He hated CC de Poitiers.

Sol stood up from the bed, leaving CC to stare at her book, her true lover. He looked at her - she either blurred before his eyes, then regained clarity. He tilted his head to his shoulder, thinking that he had probably drunk too much again. But her outline became blurry again, and then sharp again, as if he was looking through a prism at two different women: one - beautiful, glamorous, cheerful, and the other - a pathetic dyed blonde, a complete bundle of nerves, bristling and rough. And dangerous.

What's this? - Sol asked.

He pulled out a folder from the trash can. Its purpose was obvious - the artist's portfolio. It was beautifully and carefully bound and printed on special thick paper. Sol opened his portfolio and his breath caught.

Inside was a series of works filled with light, as if radiating from the gorgeous paper. Sol's chest tightened. The paintings depicted a beautiful and at the same time wounded world. But for the most part, it was a world where hope and comfort still existed. The artist clearly saw this world every day and lived in it. Like Sol, who once lived in a world of light and hope.

The work seemed simple, but was actually very complex. Images and colors were layered on top of each other. Many hours and days must have been spent to achieve the desired effect.

Saul peered at one of these works. The majestic tree, soaring into the sky, seemed to be rushing towards the sun. The artist photographed it and somehow managed to convey the feeling of movement, but in a way that did not disorient the viewer. No, the work was graceful, calming and, most importantly, powerful. The tips of the branches seemed to dissolve or become indistinct, as if even their confidence and determination had a tiny bit of doubt. It was brilliant.

All his thoughts about CC were forgotten. Sol climbed the tree, almost feeling its rough bark on his palms; it was as if he was sitting on his grandfather’s lap again and pressed against his unshaven face. How did the artist do this?

Saul couldn't make out the signature. He flipped through the remaining pages and felt a smile slowly appear on his frozen face, as his hardened heart softened.

Maybe if he can get rid of CC, he'll go back to his job and do things like this.

He exhaled all the darkness that had accumulated within him.

So do you like it? - CC waved her book in front of him.

Chapter two

Cree carefully put on the suit, trying not to tear the white chiffon. The Christmas holidays have already begun. She heard the children from the lower classes singing: “His cradle is in a manger instead of a shelter,” although she suspiciously heard “cow.” Surely this doesn't apply to her? Aren't they all laughing at her? She pushed the thought away and continued to get dressed, humming quietly to herself.

Who is this? - the voice of Madame Latour, the music teacher, rang out in the crowded, noisy room. -Who's humming there?

Madame's face, like a bright bird, peeked out from around the corner where Cree was struggling to get dressed without help. Kree instinctively tried to cover the nakedness of her half-naked fourteen-year-old body with her costume. Of course, this was impossible. Too big a body and too little matter.

Was that you who sang?

Kree stared at her, afraid to say a word. Her mother warned her about this. She warned me that I should never sing in public.

But today her jubilant heart failed her: something like singing actually escaped her.

Madame Latour looked at the huge girl and felt that the lunch she had eaten rose in her throat. These fat rolls, these terrible pits, underwear disappearing into the folds of the body. An expressionless face with wide eyes. The science teacher, Monsieur Drapeau, said that Cree was the best in the class, but another teacher reported that one of the topics they covered this term was "Vitamins and Minerals", and Cree probably devoured the textbook.

And yet, she participated in the celebration and was ready to show herself in all her glory, although this required a lot of effort.

Hurry up. You'll be leaving soon.

Madame Latour left without waiting for an answer. This was the first Christmas party Cree had attended in her five years at Miss Edwards Girls' School. All the past years, when the other students were preparing their costumes, she was preparing a vague apology. No one tried to convince her. On the contrary, she was assigned to work with lighting equipment because, as Madame Latour said, she had a technical streak. And this meant that she had no vein for any human emotions. So all the previous Christmases had been watched by Cree alone from the darkness, looking at the pretty, shining, talented girls who danced and sang songs about the miracle of Christmas, basking in the rays of light provided by Cree.

But not this year.

She put on her suit and looked at herself in the mirror - from there a huge chiffon snowflake was looking at her. Yes, she admitted to herself, it was not a snowflake, but a whole snowdrift, but still it was a costume, and an excellent one at that. The other girls had help from their mothers, but Cree had to do everything herself. To surprise her mother, she told herself, trying to drown out the other voice.

Looking more closely, one could see tiny droplets of blood on the material: her plump, clumsy fingers struggled with the needle and could not always cope with it. But she persevered and finished the costume. And then she suddenly had a brilliant idea. The best of her entire fourteen-year life.

She knew that her mother had always revered light. The Cree have said all their lives that this is what we all fight for. Hence the name - enlightenment. That's why smart people are spoken of as bright people. Why do people make great discoveries? Because enlightenment descends on them.

It was all so obvious.

And today Cree will portray a snowflake. The whitest and brightest thing you can imagine. What if we add her own sparkle to this? She went to a store where all the goods cost a dollar, and with the money her mother left her, she bought a bottle of glitter. She was even able to pass by the chocolate bar, although she stopped to stare in front of the window. Cree had been on a diet for a month now and was sure that her mother would soon notice.

Using glue, she applied glitter and now saw the results in front of her.

For the first time in her life, Cree knew that she was beautiful. And she knew that in a few short moments her mother would be thinking the same thing.

Clara Morrow looked out through the frosty windows of her living room at the village of Three Pines. Then she bent down and began to scrape the ice off the glass. “Now that we have some money,” she thought, “it might be worth changing the windows.” Clara understood that this would be reasonable, but most of her decisions were hardly reasonable. But these decisions suited her lifestyle. And, looking at the snowy world that Three Pines represented, she knew that she liked to look at this world through the bizarre pattern of frost left by the cold on the old glass.

As she sipped her hot chocolate, she watched the warmly bundled residents stroll through the leisurely falling snow, waving their mittened hands in greeting, their words framed in puffs of breath like comic book characters. Some headed to Bistro Olivier for café au lait, others needed fresh bread or a patisserie [Pastry, cakes ( fr.).] from Sarah's Bakery. Myrna's Books, New and Old, next to the bistro, was closed today. Monsieur Beliveau cleared the snow from the porch and approaches to his store and waved to Gabri, whose huge, imposing figure was moving across the village meadow from the small inn on the corner. To an outsider, the villagers would seem faceless, even sexless. During the Quebec winter, all people are alike. Everyone is hobbling around, wrapped in warm clothes, huge masses of goose down and “Thinsulatu” [ "Tinsulata"- a Canadian company specializing in the production of synthetic thermal clothing.], which makes even slender people seem plump, and plump people seem fat. Everyone looks the same. It's just that everyone's hats are different. Clara saw the bright green pom-pom on Ruth's cap, a nod to Wayne's multi-colored cap that Nellie had knitted on long autumn evenings. The children of the Leveque family, kicking a hockey puck across the frozen pond, wore caps of all shades of blue; little Rose was shaking so much in the net of the gate that even Clara could see how her pale blue cap was shaking. But the brothers loved her, and therefore every time, rushing to the goal, they pretended to fall and, instead of hitting the goal with a sharp blow, they simply quietly slid towards her along the ice, so that the breakthrough ended in a cheerful fight. It reminded Clara of one of the lithographs from Courier and Ives [ Courier & Ives- an American printing company of the 2nd half of the 19th century, specializing in the production of black and white lithographs of famous artists. The lithographs were hand-colored.], which she spent hours looking at as a child, exhausted by the desire to step beyond the frame and be among the characters depicted.

Three Pines were wrapped in a blanket of snow. About a foot of snow has fallen in the last few weeks, and all the old houses around the village meadow have acquired caps of the purest white. Smoke flowed from the chimneys, as if the houses had their own voices and breathing. The gates and gates were decorated with Christmas wreaths. In the evenings, the quiet village of the Eastern Cantons sparkled with Christmas decorations. Adults and children were preparing for a big holiday, and this caused a quiet rumble throughout the village.

The novel "Deadly Cold" continues the series of investigations of the brilliant Chief Inspector Armand Gamache - a new character created by the pen of Louise Penny, the world's only five-time Agatha Christie Award winner.

In the village of Three Pines, south of Montreal, an incredible murder took place. Death overtook Cecilia de Poitiers on the snowy surface of a frozen lake, where she and other fans were watching a curling match, and the murder weapon was a metal chair connected to a power source. Someone carefully thought out and planned the murder, leaving the victim not the slightest chance. It is not often that Chief Inspector Armand Gamache of the Quebec City Police has to deal with such a sophisticated and brutal criminal. But what did this woman do to deserve such a terrible death?

On our website you can download the book “Deadly Cold” by Penny Louise for free and without registration in fb2, rtf, epub, pdf, txt format, read the book online or buy the book in the online store.

Louise Penny

Deadly cold

Publishing house AZBUKA®

All rights reserved. No part of the electronic version of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, including posting on the Internet or corporate networks, for private or public use without the written permission of the copyright owner.

Dedicated to my brother Doug and his family -

Mary, Brian, Roslyn and Charles,

who showed me what it's like

real courage. Namaste

Chapter first

If CC de Poitiers knew that she would be killed, she would probably have bought her husband Richard a gift for Christmas. She probably would have even gone to the holiday at the school where her daughter studied - Miss Edwards Girls' School, or the "ass" school, as CC liked to say, teasing her enormous daughter. If CC had known the end was near, she would have stayed at work rather than spending time in the cheapest room the Ritz Hotel in Montreal had to offer. But she only knew of one end nearby, and it belonged to a man named Sol.

- Well, what do you think? Do you like it?

She set the book on her white belly.

“I like the photograph,” Sol said, realizing that this insulted her.

He took this photo himself. He knew that she was waiting and even asking for some kind of encouragement from him, but he no longer wanted to pat her on the head. And he also asked himself how long he could stay near CC de Poitiers without turning into her. Not in the physical sense, of course. She was forty-eight, several years younger than him. She was slim, lithe and in good shape, with incredibly white teeth and incredibly blonde hair. Touching her was like touching a block of ice. There was a peculiar beauty and fragility about it that seemed attractive to him. However, there was also danger. If CC breaks, splits, then he will be torn to shreds.

At fifty-two, Sol Petrov was just beginning to notice that his friends were no longer as brilliant, not as smart, not as slender as they once were. To be honest, most of them were starting to tire him. Yes, and when communicating with him, it happened that they yawned eloquently. They grew fat, went bald, and became boring. And he suspected that the same transformations were happening to him. He wasn't very upset that women rarely looked at him anymore, or that he was starting to think about changing his alpine skiing to cross-country skiing, or that his family doctor ordered an ultrasound of his prostate. He could accept all this. What bothered and awakened Sol Petrov at two o’clock in the morning was something else: the same voice that in childhood whispered to him that there were lions living under his bed, now confidently whispered that people were sick of him. Saul took deep breaths of the dark night air, trying to convince himself that the yawns his counterparts had yawned at lunch today were due to the wine they had drunk, or the magret de canard, or the enveloping warmth in the Montreal restaurant where they had arrived in their practical winter sweaters.

In her company he had already become cruel. I began to despise myself. But not with the same force with which he despised her.

“This is a brilliant book,” CC said, ignoring him. - No, really. Who would refuse this? “She waved the book in front of his face. “People will just swallow it.” There are so many mentally disturbed people around. “She actually turned and stared through the window of their room at the building opposite, as if looking out for “her” people. “I did it for them.” “And she looked at Sol with wide, sincere eyes.

“Does she really believe this?” - he asked himself.

He, of course, read her book. Brand Worry was what she called it, just like the company she had started several years ago, and the name sounded like a joke on CC herself, who was a real bundle of nerves. Hands that know no rest, constantly smoothing and straightening something. Short sharp answers, impatience, often turning into a flash of rage.

Although CC de Poitiers had a serene, frozen appearance, it is unlikely that anyone would associate the word “calm” with her.

She offered her book to everyone, from leading New York publishing houses to postcard printers in the remote village of Sainte-Polycarp on the highway between Toronto and Montreal.

“What the hell is this about enlightenment,” CC said to Saul in her Montreal office on the day she received another stack of refusals. She tore them into shreds and threw them on the floor: let the cleaning lady sweep up. – I’m telling you, we live in some kind of world turned inside out. People are cruel and insensitive, they live to deceive each other. Neither love nor compassion exists. But this,” she cut the air with her book, like a hammer from ancient myths, aimed at a merciless anvil, “this will teach people to be happy.

– What do you say the name of the publishing house is? – he couldn’t resist. - Oh yes, I remembered. Nobody wanted to print it. It must have been terrible. “He thought for a moment, not knowing whether to turn the knife in the wound or not. Come on, why stand on ceremony. - Well, how did you feel?

Was it his imagination or did she actually wince?

Publishing house AZBUKA®

Dedicated to my brother Doug and his family -

Mary, Brian, Roslyn and Charles,

who showed me what it's like

real courage. Namaste

Chapter first

If CC de Poitiers knew that she would be killed, she would probably have bought her husband Richard a gift for Christmas. She probably would have even gone to the holiday at the school where her daughter studied - Miss Edwards Girls' School, or the "ass" school, as CC liked to say, teasing her enormous daughter. If CC had known the end was near, she would have stayed at work rather than spending time in the cheapest room the Ritz Hotel in Montreal had to offer. But she only knew of one end nearby, and it belonged to a man named Sol.

- Well, what do you think? Do you like it?

She set the book on her white belly.

“I like the photograph,” Sol said, realizing that this insulted her.

He took this photo himself. He knew that she was waiting and even asking for some kind of encouragement from him, but he no longer wanted to pat her on the head. And he also asked himself how long he could stay near CC de Poitiers without turning into her. Not in the physical sense, of course. She was forty-eight, several years younger than him. She was slim, lithe and in good shape, with incredibly white teeth and incredibly blonde hair. Touching her was like touching a block of ice. There was a peculiar beauty and fragility about it that seemed attractive to him. However, there was also danger. If CC breaks, splits, then he will be torn to shreds.

At fifty-two, Sol Petrov was just beginning to notice that his friends were no longer as brilliant, not as smart, not as slender as they once were. To be honest, most of them were starting to tire him. Yes, and when communicating with him, it happened that they yawned eloquently. They grew fat, went bald, and became boring. And he suspected that the same transformations were happening to him. He wasn't very upset that women rarely looked at him anymore, or that he was starting to think about changing his alpine skiing to cross-country skiing, or that his family doctor ordered an ultrasound of his prostate. He could accept all this. What bothered and awakened Sol Petrov at two o’clock in the morning was something else: the same voice that in childhood whispered to him that there were lions living under his bed, now confidently whispered that people were sick of him. Saul took deep breaths of the dark night air, trying to convince himself that the yawns his counterparts had yawned at lunch today were due to the wine they had drunk, or the magret de canard, or the enveloping warmth in the Montreal restaurant where they had arrived in their practical winter sweaters.

In her company he had already become cruel. I began to despise myself. But not with the same force with which he despised her.

“Does she really believe this?” - he asked himself.

Although CC de Poitiers had a serene, frozen appearance, it is unlikely that anyone would associate the word “calm” with her.

She offered her book to everyone, from leading New York publishing houses to postcard printers in the remote village of Sainte-Polycarp on the highway between Toronto and Montreal.

Was it his imagination or did she actually wince?

How long does it take for this world to explode? Saul hoped he would be nearby to see it happen. Close, but at a safe distance.

He wasn't blind or stupid - he noticed homeless men and women, noticed beaten and bruised faces that spoke of a long empty night and an even longer day ahead.

But deep down he believed that the world was a wonderful place. And his photographs reflected this, they captured the light, the shine, the hope. And the shadow that inevitably challenged the light.

The world was a cruel and unfeeling place.

And now Saul believed it.

He hated CC de Poitiers.

Sol stood up from the bed, leaving CC to stare at her book, her true lover. He looked at her - she either blurred before his eyes, then regained clarity. He tilted his head to his shoulder, thinking that he had probably drunk too much again. But her outline became blurry again, and then sharp again, as if he was looking through a prism at two different women: one beautiful, glamorous, cheerful, and the other, a pathetic dyed blonde, a complete bundle of nerves, bristling and rough. And dangerous.

- What's this? – Sol asked.

He pulled out a folder from the trash can. Its purpose was obvious - an artist's portfolio. It was beautifully and carefully bound and printed on special thick paper. Sol opened his portfolio and his breath caught.

The work seemed simple, but was actually very complex. Images and colors were layered on top of each other. Many hours and days must have been spent to achieve the desired effect.

Saul couldn't make out the signature. He flipped through the remaining pages and felt a smile slowly appear on his frozen face, as his hardened heart softened.

Maybe if he can get rid of CC, he'll go back to his job and do things like this.

He exhaled all the darkness that had accumulated within him.

- So do you like it? – CC waved her book in front of him.

Chapter two

- Who is this? – the voice of Madame Latour, the music teacher, rang out in the crowded, noisy room. – Who’s humming there?

- Was that you who sang?

Kree stared at her, afraid to say a word. Her mother warned her about this. She warned me that I should never sing in public.

But today her jubilant heart failed her: something like singing actually escaped her.

And yet, she participated in the celebration and was ready to show herself in all her glory, although this required a lot of effort.

- Hurry up. You'll be leaving soon.

But not this year.

She put on the suit and looked at herself in the mirror - from there a huge chiffon snowflake was looking at her. Yes, she admitted to herself, it was not a snowflake, but a whole snowdrift, but still it was a costume, and an excellent one at that. The other girls had help from their mothers, but Cree had to do everything herself. To surprise her mother, she told herself, trying to drown out the other voice.

She knew that her mother had always revered light. The Cree have said all their lives that this is what we all fight for. Hence the name – enlightenment. That's why smart people are spoken of as bright people. Why do people make great discoveries? Because enlightenment descends on them.

It was all so obvious.

Using glue, she applied glitter and now saw the results in front of her.

For the first time in her life, Cree knew that she was beautiful. And she knew that in a few short moments her mother would be thinking the same thing.

Clara Morrow looked out through the frosty windows of her living room at the village of Three Pines. Then she bent down and began to scrape the ice off the glass. “Now that we have some money,” she thought, “it might be worth replacing the windows.” Clara understood that this would be reasonable, but most of her decisions were hardly reasonable. But these decisions suited her lifestyle. And, looking at the snowy world that Three Pines represented, she knew that she liked to look at this world through the bizarre pattern of frost left by the cold on the old glass.

As she sipped her hot chocolate, she watched the warmly bundled residents stroll through the leisurely falling snow, waving their mittened hands in greeting, their words framed in puffs of breath like comic book characters. Some were heading to Bistro Olivier for café au lait, others wanted fresh bread or a patisserie from Sarah's bakery. Myrna's Books, New and Old, next to the bistro, was closed today. Monsieur Beliveau cleared the snow from the porch and approaches to his store and waved to Gabri, whose huge, imposing figure was moving across the village meadow from the small inn on the corner. To an outsider, the villagers would seem faceless, even sexless. During the Quebec winter, all people are alike. Everyone is hobbling around, wrapped in warm clothes, huge masses of goose down and “Thinsulatu”, which makes even the slender ones seem plump, and the plump ones look fat. Everyone looks the same. It's just that everyone's hats are different. Clara saw the bright green pom-pom on Ruth's cap, a nod to Wayne's multi-colored cap that Nellie had knitted on long autumn evenings. The children of the Leveque family, kicking a hockey puck across the frozen pond, wore caps of all shades of blue; little Rose was shaking so much in the net of the gate that even Clara could see how her pale blue cap was shaking. But the brothers loved her, and therefore every time, rushing to the goal, they pretended to fall and, instead of hitting the goal with a sharp blow, they simply quietly slid towards her along the ice, so that the breakthrough ended in a cheerful fight. It reminded Clara of one of the Courier & Ives lithographs she had spent hours looking at as a child, yearning to step outside the frame and be among the characters depicted.

“Maybe her car won’t start.”

Clara's husband Peter entered the room. Like his father, he looked like a Fortune 500 executive. But he spent his days hunched over an easel, his graying curly hair often streaked with oil paint as he painted out his abstract creations in excruciating detail. Collectors all over the world bought them for thousands of dollars, but since he worked slowly, he only managed to make one or two paintings a year, and therefore they languished in eternal poverty. Until recently. Clara's paintings, which depicted warlike female wombs and melting trees, had not yet found their buyer.

“She will come,” said Clara.

Peter looked at his wife with his blue, friendly eyes: gray was beginning to show through her once dark hair, although she was not yet fifty. Her figure began to gain fat in the waist and hips, and Clara began to say that it was time for her to resume attending Madeleine’s fitness class. Peter was experienced enough not to answer the question of whether it was really time for her.

– Are you sure I can’t go? - he asked more out of politeness than out of a real desire to squeeze into the mousetrap of Myrna’s car and shake on potholes all the way to the city.

- Of course you can’t. I buy Christmas gifts. And then, there won't be enough room in the car for Mirna, me, you and the gifts. We'd have to leave you in Montreal.

A tiny car drove up to the open gate, and a huge black woman got out. This was probably Clara's favorite part of traveling with Myrna, watching her get in and out of the car. Clara was absolutely sure that Myrna was larger than her car. In the summer, a whole crowd would gather to watch her squeeze inside, her dress riding up to her waist. But Myrna just laughed. In winter, everything was even funnier because Myrna wore a hot pink parka that almost doubled her size.

“I'm from the islands, baby,” she once said. - I'm cold".

“You’re from the island of Montreal,” Clara countered.

“That’s right,” Myrna agreed with a laugh. – Only from its southern outskirts. I like winter. This is the only time of the year when my skin is pink. What do you say? Could I get off?”

“Pass for whom?”

“For the white one?”

“Do you need this?”

Myrna looked at her best friend with suddenly serious eyes and smiled: “No. Nevermind". She seemed pleased and even a little surprised by her own answer.

And now the Quebec winter has again turned Myrna into a white woman with a plump pink face. Wearing layers of colorful scarves and a scarlet hat with an orange pompom, she strode heavily along the cleared path to their home.

They will be in Montreal soon. The drive is nothing - less than an hour and a half, even in the snow. Clara was looking forward to the shopping day, but the most important thing on her trip, on any trip to Montreal, was her secret. Her secret pleasure.

Clara was dying to see the Ogilvie window. This famous Montreal store had the most magical display in the world. In mid-November, the huge windows darkened and were covered with paper. And then the impatient wait began for the veil to be lifted from this festive miracle. When Clara was a child, this display interested her more than the Santa Claus parade. And as soon as she found out that the dark paper had finally been removed, she rushed to the city center straight to the magic window.

Here she is. Clara rushed to the display window as fast as she could, but stopped in a place where the display window itself was not yet visible. She closed her eyes, pulled herself together, took a step forward and opened her eyes. And I saw her. Clara's village. The place she would go when the disappointments and increasing cruelty became too much for the sensitive little girl. Whether in winter or summer, all she had to do was close her eyes, and she found herself where the bears were dancing, the ducks were skating, and the frogs in Victorian costumes were standing on the bridge with fishing rods. At night, when the ghoul hooted, snorted and scratched with its claws under the floor of her bedroom, she tightly closed her small blue eyes and, with an effort of will, was transported to a magical storefront and a village where the ghoul would never find her, because kindness guarded the entrance there.

And then something wonderful happened in her life - it couldn’t be more wonderful. She fell in love with Peter Morrow and agreed to put off taking over New York for a future time. Instead, she agreed to move to the tiny village he loved, south of Montreal. Clara did not know this area - she was a city girl, after all, but her love for Peter was so strong that she did not hesitate for a minute.

And then it happened: twenty-six years ago, a smart and cynical art college graduate stepped out of their little Volkswagen and began to cry.

Peter brought Clara to the enchanted village of her childhood. To the village that she forgot about when she grew up and imbued with the importance of her adulthood. Ultimately, it turned out that the Ogilvie Christmas display was real and it was called Three Pines. They bought a small house near the village meadow and began to live in it a life more magical than ever in her wildest dreams.

A few minutes later, sitting in the warmth of the car, Clara unzipped her parka and stared out the window at the snow-covered surroundings floating past. This Christmas was special for reasons both terrible and wonderful. Her dear friend and neighbor Jane Neal was murdered just over a year ago, after which it was discovered that she had bequeathed all her money to Clara. The previous Christmas, Clara felt too guilty to spend it. It seemed rude to her to be the beneficiary of Jane's death.

Myrna looked at her friend, her thoughts wandering around the same topic - the death of dear Jane Neal and the advice that she, Myrna, gave Clara after Jane's murder. Giving advice was a common thing for Mirna. She previously worked as a psychotherapist in Montreal - she worked until she realized that her clients did not want to recover at all. All they needed was pills and reassurance that their condition was not their fault.

And Myrna gave it all up. She loaded her little red car with books and clothes and, leaving the island of Montreal, headed south across the bridge towards the US border. I decided to sit on the Florida shore and think about what to do next.

But then fate and hunger intervened. Myrna was driving leisurely along picturesque country roads, enjoying the scenery, and suddenly, after just an hour, she really worked up an appetite. She followed a dirt road over the top of a hill and saw a village hidden between hills and forests. The village appeared so unexpectedly that the surprised Myrna stopped the car and got out. It was late spring and the sun was gaining strength. A stream emerged from under the old stone mill and rushed towards a white clapboard church, and then flowed meandering along the village. The village itself was shaped like a circle, with dirt roads leading off in four directions. In the center was a village meadow, surrounded by old houses, some of which were built in the Quebec style, with steep metal roofs and narrow bedrooms at the top. Other buildings were clapboarded and had wide open verandas. At least one house was built of flagstone, stone torn from the surrounding fields by pioneers fleeing the coming merciless winter.

In the meadow, Mirna saw a pond and three majestic pine trees soaring to the heavens.

Myrna pulled out her map of Quebec. After about two minutes, she carefully folded it and leaned against the car in surprise. The village was not on the map. The map showed points that had disappeared many decades ago. She showed tiny fishing villages, even entire settlements consisting of two houses and a chapel.

But this village was not on the map.

Myrna looked at the local residents: some were working in the garden, some were walking their dogs, some were sitting on a bench by the pond and reading. This village was probably a kind of Brigadoon. She appeared once every hundred years and only to those who needed to see her. But Myrna still hesitated. No, she probably doesn't have what she needs here. She was ready to turn around and head to Williamsburg, which was on the map, but at the last moment she decided to take a chance.

Three Pines had everything she needed.

They sold croissants and coffee with milk here. They sold steak and fries and the New York Times. There was a bakery, a bistro, a small hotel, and a department store. Peace, tranquility and laughter reigned here. There was great sorrow and great sorrow and the ability to accept both and be content with it. There was friendship and kindness here.

And here we found an empty space for a store with housing above. All this was waiting. It was waiting for her.

And Mirna settled here forever.

In just over an hour, Myrna had moved from a world of dissatisfaction to a world of satisfaction. And this happened six years ago. And now she sold old and new books to her friends and shared banal advice.

“For God’s sake, you either take a nap or get off the potty,” she gave Clara this advice. Jane died several months ago. You helped find her killer. You probably know that Jane would be upset if she knew that you weren't enjoying the money she left you. I should have left them with me. – Myrna shook her head in feigned bewilderment. “I wish I knew what to do with them.” In an instant, take a plane to Jamaica, settle down with some kind Rastafarian, pick up a good book...”

"Well, yes. Each has its own purpose. Rastaman, let's say, is good when it hardens. But it’s better not to deal with a hardcover book.”

Clara laughed. They both didn't like hardcover books. Not for the content, but for the cover. A hardcover book is uncomfortable to hold in your hands, especially in bed.

“Unlike a Rastafarian,” Myrna said.

So Myrna convinced her friend to come to terms with Jane's death and start spending money, which is what Clara was going to do that day. Finally, the back seat would be filled with heavy, colorful paper bags with string handles and embossed store names like Holt Renfrew or Ogilvie. Not a single yellow plastic bag from Dollar Frame. Although Clara secretly admired this store.

Peter sat at home by the window and looked out at the street, encouraging himself to do something constructive. Go to the studio, sit down at the easel. Suddenly he noticed that on one of the windows, a heart-shaped gap had formed in the frost. He smiled and looked through the heart at the street: Three Pines were going about their leisurely business. Then he looked up at the huge structure of the old house on the hill. Old Hadley House. The temperature outside began to drop, and before his eyes, his heart began to feel like ice again.

A Rastafarian is a follower of the Rastafarian religious movement that originated in Jamaica. The basis of Rastafarianism is love for one's neighbor and rejection of Western society. Rastafarians consider Emperor Haile Selassie I of Ethiopia to be their god, wear dreadlocks and smoke hemp.

Louise Penny

Deadly cold

Publishing house AZBUKA®

Dedicated to my brother Doug and his family -

Mary, Brian, Roslyn and Charles,

who showed me what it's like

real courage. Namaste

Chapter first

If CC de Poitiers knew that she would be killed, she would probably have bought her husband Richard a gift for Christmas. She probably would have even gone to the holiday at the school where her daughter studied - Miss Edwards Girls' School, or the "ass" school, as CC liked to say, teasing her enormous daughter. If CC had known the end was near, she would have stayed at work rather than spending time in the cheapest room the Ritz Hotel in Montreal had to offer. But she only knew of one end nearby, and it belonged to a man named Sol.

- Well, what do you think? Do you like it?

She set the book on her white belly.

“I like the photograph,” Sol said, realizing that this insulted her.

He took this photo himself. He knew that she was waiting and even asking for some kind of encouragement from him, but he no longer wanted to pat her on the head. And he also asked himself how long he could stay near CC de Poitiers without turning into her. Not in the physical sense, of course. She was forty-eight, several years younger than him. She was slim, lithe and in good shape, with incredibly white teeth and incredibly blonde hair. Touching her was like touching a block of ice. There was a peculiar beauty and fragility about it that seemed attractive to him. However, there was also danger. If CC breaks, splits, then he will be torn to shreds.

At fifty-two, Sol Petrov was just beginning to notice that his friends were no longer as brilliant, not as smart, not as slender as they once were. To be honest, most of them were starting to tire him. Yes, and when communicating with him, it happened that they yawned eloquently. They grew fat, went bald, and became boring. And he suspected that the same transformations were happening to him. He wasn't very upset that women rarely looked at him anymore, or that he was starting to think about changing his alpine skiing to cross-country skiing, or that his family doctor ordered an ultrasound of his prostate. He could accept all this. What bothered and awakened Sol Petrov at two o’clock in the morning was something else: the same voice that in childhood whispered to him that there were lions living under his bed, now confidently whispered that people were sick of him. Saul took deep breaths of the dark night air, trying to convince himself that the yawns his counterparts had yawned at lunch today were due to the wine they had drunk, or the magret de canard, or the enveloping warmth in the Montreal restaurant where they had arrived in their practical winter sweaters.