"It's hard to decide what provides the most pleasure in this enjoyable book: Gamache, a shrewd and kindly man constantly surprised by homicide; the village, which sounds at first like an ideal place to escape from civilization; or the clever and carefully constructed plot."– -Chicago Tribune"Cerebral, wise and compassionate, Gamache is destined for stardom. Don't miss this stellar debut."– -Kirkus Reviews (starred review)"Terrific. Like a virtuoso, Penny plays a complex variation on the theme of the clue hidden in plain sight."– -Publishers Weekly (starred review)"A gem of a book."– -Booklist (starred review)Extraordinary Praise for STILL LIFE"A stellar debut novel. The setting is entrancing… Well done!"– -Deadly Pleasures"A gem of a debut novel--clever, charming, with perceptively realized characters … and the enormously appealing Chief Inspector Armand Gamache. I can't wait for the next installment."– -Deborah Crombie, author of Water Like a Stone"An excellent, subtle plot full of understanding of the deeper places in human nature, and many wise observations that will enrich the reader long after the pages are closed."– -Anne Perry, author of Long Spoon Lane"Georges Simenon kept Maigret going for over a hundred books. It will be a delight for all of us who love detective fiction if Louise Penny can stay around long enough to do the same for Gamache."– -Reginald Hill, author of The Stranger House"Still Life is a masterpiece of a traditional drawing room mystery, repainted in the autumnal colors of the Canadian countryside. Louise Penny is a storytelling artist."– -Julia Spencer-Fleming, author of To Darkness and to Death"What a joy it is to discover a detective like Armand Gamache, strong, calm and charismatic, and at work on a good mystery in a believable setting."– -Peter Lovesey, author of The Circle"What a joy to read a crime novel written with such skill and integrity, strong on character and atmosphere … I couldn't put it down."– -Margaret Yorke, author of False Pretences"Still Life is a lovely, clever book and I hope I shall be reading a lot more by Louise Penny!"– -Ann Granger, author of That Way Murder Lies
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
My brothers, Rob and Doug, and their families have offered love and support without qualification.
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
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
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.
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.
