*
Gamache’s eyes adjusted to the dim interior of the bistro. It was warming up outside but still a fire burned in both stone hearths.
It was like walking into another world, with its own atmosphere and season. It was never too hot or cold in the bistro. It was the middle bear.
‘Salut, patron,’ said Gabri, waving from behind the long, polished wooden bar. ‘Back so soon? Did you miss me?’
‘We must never speak of our feelings, Gabri,’ said Gamache. ‘It would crush Olivier and Reine-Marie.’
‘Too true,’ laughed Gabri and coming around from the bar he offered the Chief Inspector a licorice pipe. ‘And I hear it’s always best to suppress emotions.’
Gamache put the licorice pipe in his mouth as though he was smoking it.
‘Very continental,’ said Gabri, nodding approval. ‘Very Maigret.’
‘Merci. The look I was going for.’
‘Not sitting outside?’ asked Gabri, gesturing toward the terrasse, with its round tables and cheery umbrellas. A few villagers were sipping coffees, a few had apéritifs.
‘No, I’m looking for someone.’
Armand Gamache pointed deeper into the bistro, to the table beside the fireplace. Sitting comfortably, looking perfectly at ease and at home was Denis Fortin, the gallery owner.
‘I have a question for you first, though,’ said Gamache. ‘Did Monsieur Fortin speak to you at Clara’s vernissage?’
‘In Montréal? Yes,’ laughed Gabri. ‘He sure did. He apologized.’
‘What did he say?’
‘He said, and I quote, “I’m very sorry for calling you a fucking queer.” End quote.’ Gabri gave Gamache a searching look. ‘I am one, you know.’
‘I’d heard the rumors. But not nice to be called one.’
Gabri shook his head. ‘Not the first time, and probably not the last. But you’re right. It never gets old. Always feels like a fresh wound.’
The two men were looking at the casual art dealer. Languid, relaxed.
‘How do you feel about him now?’ asked Gamache. ‘Should I have his drink tested?’
Gabri smiled. ‘Actually, I like him. Not many people who call me a fucking queer actually apologize. He gets marks for that. He also apologized to Clara for treating her so badly.’
So the gallery owner had been telling the truth, thought Gamache.
‘He was at the party Saturday night down here too. Clara invited him,’ said Gabri, following the Chief’s gaze. ‘I didn’t realize he stayed.’
‘He didn’t.’
‘So what’s he doing back?’
Gamache was wondering the same thing. He’d watched Denis Fortin arrive a few minutes earlier, and had come over to ask just that.
‘I didn’t expect to see you here,’ said Gamache, approaching Fortin, who’d risen from his seat.
They shook hands.
‘I didn’t expect to come down, but Monday the gallery’s closed and I got to thinking.’
‘About what?’
The two men sat in the armchairs. Gabri brought Gamache a lemonade.
‘You were saying that you got to thinking?’ said Gamache.
‘About what you’d said when you came to visit me yesterday.’
‘About the murder?’
Denis Fortin actually reddened. ‘Well, no. About François Marois and André Castonguay still being here.’
Gamache knew what the gallery owner meant, but needed him to say it out loud. ‘Go on.’
Fortin grinned. It was boyish and disarming. ‘We in the art world like to think we’re rebels, non-conformists. Free spirits. An intellectual and intuitive cut above the rest. But they don’t call it the “art establishment” for nothing. Fact is, most are followers. If one dealer is sniffing around an artist it won’t be long before others join him. We follow the buzz. That’s how phenomenons are created. Not because the artist is better than anyone else, but because the dealers have a pack mentality. Suddenly they all decide they want one particular artist.’
‘They?’
‘We,’ he said, reluctantly, and Gamache noticed again that flush of annoyance never far from Fortin’s skin.
‘And that artist becomes the next big thing?’
‘Can do. If it was just Castonguay I wouldn’t worry. Or even just Marois. But both of them?’
‘And why do you think they’re still here?’ Gamache asked. He knew why. Marois had told him. But again, he wanted to hear Fortin’s interpretation.
‘The Morrows, of course.’
‘Is that why you’re here?’
‘Why else?’
Fear and greed, Monsieur Marois had said. That was what roiled behind the glittery exterior of the art world. And that was what had taken a seat in the calm bistro.
Jean Guy Beauvoir picked up the ringing phone.
‘Inspector Beauvoir? It’s Clara Morrow.’
Her voice was low. A whisper.
‘What is it?’ Beauvoir also, instinctively, lowered his voice. Agent Lacoste, at her own desk, looked over.
‘There’s someone in our back garden. A stranger.’
Beauvoir got to his feet. ‘What’re they doing?’
‘Staring,’ whispered Clara. ‘At the place Lillian was killed.’
*
Agent Lacoste stood on the edge of the village green. Alert.
To her left, Inspector Beauvoir was quietly making his way around the Morrows’ cottage. To her right, Chief Inspector Gamache was walking softly on the lawn. Careful not to disturb whoever was back there.
Villagers paused as they walked their dogs. Conversations grew hushed and petered out, and soon Three Pines was standing still. Waiting and watching as well.
Lacoste’s job, she knew, was to save the villagers, if it came to that. If whoever was back there got past the Chief. Got past Beauvoir. Isabelle Lacoste was the last line of defense.
She could feel her gun in the holster on her hip, hidden beneath the stylish jacket. But she didn’t take it out. Not yet. Chief Inspector Gamache had drilled into them time and again, never, ever draw your gun unless you mean to use it.
And shoot to stop. Don’t aim for a leg, or arm. Aim for the body.
You don’t necessarily want to kill, but you sure as hell don’t want to miss. Because if a weapon was drawn it meant all else had failed. All hell had broken loose.
And again, unbidden, an image came to mind. Of leaning in as the Chief lay on the floor, trying to speak. His eyes glazed. Trying to focus. Of holding his hand, sticky with blood, and looking at his wedding ring, covered in it. So much blood on his hands.
She dragged her mind back, and focused.
Beauvoir and Gamache had disappeared. All she could see was the quiet little cottage in the sunshine. And all she could hear was her heart thudding, thudding.
Chief Inspector Gamache rounded the corner of the cottage, and stopped.
Standing with her back to him was a woman. He was pretty sure he knew who it was, but wanted to be certain. He was also pretty sure she was harmless, but also wanted to be certain, before he dropped his guard.
Gamache glanced to his left and saw Beauvoir standing there, also alert. But no longer alarmed. The Chief raised his left hand, a signal to Beauvoir to stay where he was.
‘Bonjour,’ said Gamache, and the woman leapt and yelped and spun around.
‘Holy shit,’ said Suzanne, ‘you scared the crap out of me.’
Gamache grinned slightly. ‘Désolé, but you scared the crap out of Clara Morrow.’
Suzanne looked over to the cottage and saw Clara standing in the kitchen window. Suzanne gave a little wave and an apologetic smile. Clara gave a hesitant wave back.
‘Sorry,’ said Suzanne. Just then she noticed Beauvoir, standing a few feet away, at the other side of the garden. ‘I really am harmless, you know. Foolish, perhaps. But harmless.’
Inspector Beauvoir glared at her. In his experience foolish people were never harmless. They were the worst. Stupidit
y accounted for as many crimes as anger and greed. But he relented, walking toward them and whispering to the Chief.
‘I’ll let Lacoste know it’s all right.’
‘Bon,’ said the Chief. ‘I’ll take it from here.’
Beauvoir looked over his shoulder at Suzanne and shook his head.
Foolish woman.
‘So,’ said Gamache when they were alone. ‘Why are you here?’
‘To see where Lillian died. I couldn’t sleep last night, the reality of it just kept getting stronger and stronger. Lillian was killed. Murdered.’
But she still looked as though she barely believed it.
‘I had to come down. To see where it’d happened. You said you’d be here and I wanted to offer my help.’
‘Help? How?’
Now it was Suzanne’s turn to look surprised. ‘Unless it was a mistake or a random attack, someone killed Lillian on purpose. Don’t you think?’
Gamache nodded, watching this woman closely.
‘Someone wanted Lillian dead. But who?’
‘And why?’ said the Chief.
‘Exactly. I might be able to help with the “why”.’
‘How?’
‘When?’ asked Suzanne and smiled. Then her smile drifted away as she turned to look back at the hole in the garden, surrounded by yellow, fluttering tape. ‘I knew Lillian better than anyone. Better than her parents. Probably better than she knew herself. I can help you.’
She stared into his deep brown eyes. She was defiant, prepared for battle. What she wasn’t prepared for was what she saw there. Consideration.
He was considering her words. Not dismissing them, not marshaling arguments. Armand Gamache was thinking about what she’d said, and he’d heard.
The Chief Inspector studied the energetic woman in front of him. Her clothing was too tight, and mismatched. Was this creative, or just clumsy dressing? Did she not see herself, or not care how she looked?
She looked foolish. Even declared herself to be that.
But she wasn’t. Her eyes were shrewd. Her words even shrewder.
She knew the victim better than anyone. She was uniquely placed to help. But was that the real reason she was there?
‘Hello,’ said Clara, tentatively. She was walking toward them from the kitchen door.
Suzanne immediately turned and stared, then she walked toward Clara, her hands out.
‘Oh, I am sorry. I should have knocked on your door and asked permission instead of just barging into your garden. I don’t know why I didn’t. My name’s Suzanne Coates.’
As the two women exchanged greetings and were talking Gamache looked from Suzanne back to the garden. To the prayer stick stuck in the ground. And he remembered what Myrna had found beneath that stick.
A beginner’s chip. From AA.
He’d assumed it belonged to the victim, but now he wondered. Did it in fact belong to the murderer? And did that explain why Suzanne was in the garden, unannounced?
Was she looking for the missing coin, her missing coin? Not realizing they already had it?
Clara and Suzanne had joined him and Clara was describing finding Lillian’s body.
‘Were you a friend of Lillian’s?’ asked Clara, when she’d finished.
‘Sort of. We had mutual friends.’
‘Are you an artist?’ asked Clara, eyeing the older woman and her getup.
‘Of sorts,’ laughed Suzanne. ‘Not in your league at all. I like to think of my work as intuitive, but critics have called them something else.’
Both women laughed.
Behind them, seen only by Gamache, the ribbons of the prayer stick fluttered, as though catching their laughter.
‘Well, mine have been called “something else” for years,’ admitted Clara. ‘But mostly they were called nothing at all. Not even noticed. This was my first show in living memory.’
The women compared artistic notes while Gamache listened. It was a chronicle of life as an artist. Of balancing ego and creation. Of battling ego and creation.
Of trying not to care. And caring too deeply.
‘I wasn’t at your vernissage,’ said Suzanne. ‘Too rarified for me. I’m more likely to be the one serving the sandwiches than eating them, but I hear it was magnificent. Congratulations. I plan to get to the show as soon as I can.’
‘We can go together,’ Clara offered. ‘If you’re interested.’
‘Thank you,’ said Suzanne. ‘Had I known you were this nice I’d have trespassed years ago.’
She looked around and fell silent.
‘What’re you thinking about?’ Clara asked.
Suzanne smiled. ‘I was actually thinking about contrasts. About violence in such a peaceful place. Something so ugly happening here.’
They all looked around then, at the quiet garden. Their eyes finally resting on the spot circled by yellow tape.
‘What’s that?’
‘It’s a prayer stick,’ said Clara.
All three stared at the ribbons, intertwined. Then Clara had an idea. She explained about the ritual then asked, ‘Would you like to attach a ribbon?’
Suzanne considered for a moment. ‘I’d like that very much. Thank you.’
‘I’ll be back in a few minutes.’ Clara nodded to both of them then walked toward the village.
‘Nice woman,’ said Suzanne, watching her go. ‘Hope she manages to stay that way.’
‘You have doubts?’ asked Gamache.
‘Success can mess with you. But then so can failure,’ she laughed again, then grew quiet.
‘Why do you think Lillian Dyson was murdered?’ he asked.
‘Why do you think I’d know?’
‘Because I agree with you. You knew her better than anyone. Better than she knew herself. You knew her secrets, and now you’re going to tell me.’
SEVENTEEN
‘Helloooo,’ called Clara. ‘Bonjour.’
She could hear voices, shouts. But they seemed tinny, far away. As though on TV. Then they stopped and there was silence. The place felt empty, though she knew it probably wasn’t.
She advanced a little further into the old railway station, past the shiny red fire truck, past their equipment. Clara saw her own helmet and boots. Everyone in Three Pines was a member of the volunteer fire department. And Ruth Zardo was the chief, since she alone was more terrifying than any conflagration. Given a choice between Ruth and a burning building, most would choose the building.
‘Oui, âllo?’
A man’s voice echoed through the large room and Clara, coming around the truck, saw Inspector Beauvoir at a desk looking in her direction.
He smiled and greeted her with a kiss on both cheeks.
‘Come, sit. What can I do for you?’ he asked.
His manner was cheery, energetic. But Clara had still been shocked to see him at the vernissage, and now. Haggard, tired. Thin even for the always wiry man. Like everyone else, she knew what he’d been through. At least, like everyone else, she knew the words, the story. But Clara realized she didn’t really ‘know’. Could never know.
‘I came for advice,’ she said, sitting in the swivel chair beside Beauvoir’s.
‘From me?’ His surprise was obvious, as was his delight.
‘From you.’ She saw this and was happy she hadn’t told him the reason she wasn’t asking Gamache was because he wasn’t alone. And Beauvoir was.
‘Coffee?’ Jean Guy gestured toward a full pot already brewed.
‘I’d love one, thanks.’
They got up and poured coffees into chipped white mugs, and each got a couple of Fig Newtons, then sat back down.
‘So, what’s the story?’ Beauvoir leaned back and looked at her. In a way that was all his own yet reminiscent of Gamache.
It was very comforting, and Clara was glad she’d decided to speak with this young Inspector.
‘It’s about Lillian’s parents. Mr and Mrs Dyson. I knew them, you know. Quite well at one stage. I was wondering if they’re
still alive.’
‘They are. We went to see them yesterday. To tell them about their daughter.’
Clara paused, trying to imagine what that was like, for both parties.
‘It must have been horrible. They adored her. She was their only child.’
‘It’s always horrible,’ admitted Beauvoir.
‘I liked them a lot. Even when Lillian and I fell out I tried to keep in touch but they weren’t interested. They believed what Lillian told them about me. It’s understandable, I guess.’ She sounded, though, less than convinced.
Beauvoir said nothing, but remembered the venom in Mr Dyson’s voice when he all but accused Clara of their daughter’s murder.
‘I was thinking of visiting them,’ said Clara. ‘Of telling them how sorry I am. What is it?’
The look on Beauvoir’s face had stopped her.
‘I wouldn’t do that,’ he said, putting his mug down and leaning forward. ‘They’re very upset. I think a visit from you wouldn’t help.’
‘But why? I know they believed the terrible things Lillian said, but maybe my going could ease some of that. Lillian and I were best friends growing up, don’t you think they’d like to talk about her with someone who loved her?’ Clara paused. ‘Once.’
‘Maybe, eventually. But not now. Give them time.’
It was, more or less, the advice Myrna had given her. Clara had gone to the bookstore for ribbon and the dried sage and sweetgrass cigar. But she’d also gone for advice. Should she drive into Montréal to visit the Dysons?
When Myrna had asked why she’d want to do such a thing, Clara had explained.
‘They’re old and alone,’ Clara had said, shocked her friend needed to be told. ‘This is the worst thing that could happen. I just want to offer them some comfort. Believe me, the last thing I want to do is drive in to Montréal and do this, but it just seems the right thing to do. To put all the hard feelings behind.’
The ribbon was twisted tight around Clara’s fingers, strangling them.
‘For you, maybe,’ Myrna had said. ‘But what about them?’
‘How do you know they haven’t let all that go?’ Clara unwound the ribbon, then fidgeted with it. Winding it. Worrying it. ‘Maybe they’re sitting there all alone, devastated. And I’m not going because I’m afraid?’