A Trick of the Light

NINE

For the second time that day Armand Gamache stood from crouching beside this flower bed.

The first time he’d been staring at a dead woman, this time he’d been staring at a prayer stick. Its bright, cheerful ribbons fluttering in the slight breeze. Catching, according to Myrna, currents of good energy. If she was right, there was a lot around, as the ribbons flapped and danced.

He straightened up, brushing his knees. Beside him, Inspector Beauvoir was glowering at the spot where the coin had been found.

Where he’d missed it.

Beauvoir was in charge of the crime scene investigation, and had personally searched the area directly around the body.

“You found it just here?” the Chief pointed to the mounded earth.

Myrna and Clara had joined them. Beauvoir had called Agent Lacoste and she arrived that moment with a crime scene kit.

“That’s right,” said Myrna. “In the flower bed. It was buried and caked with dirt. Hard to see.”

“I’ll take that,” said Beauvoir, grabbing the crime scene kit, annoyed at what he took to be a patronizing tone in Myrna’s voice. As though she needed to make excuses for his failure. He bent down to examine the earth.

“Why didn’t we find it before?” asked the Chief.

It wasn’t a criticism of his team. Gamache was genuinely perplexed. They were professional and thorough. Still, mistakes happened. But not, he thought, missing a silver coin sitting in a flower bed two feet from the dead body.

“I know how it was missed,” said Myrna. “Gabri could tell you too. Anyone who gardens could tell you. We’d weeded yesterday morning and mulched the earth in the beds so that it’d be fresh and dark and show off the flowers. Gardeners call it ‘fluffing’ the garden. Making the earth soft. But when we do that the ground becomes very crumbly. I’ve lost whole tools in there. Laid them down and they sort of tumble into a crevice and get half buried.”

“This is a flower bed,” said Gamache, “not the Himalayas. Could something really be swallowed up in there?”

“Try it.”

The Chief Inspector walked to the other side of the flower bed. “Did you mulch here too?” he asked.

“Everywhere,” said Myrna. “Go on. Try it.”

Gamache knelt and dropped a one dollar coin into the flower bed. It sat on top of the earth, clearly visible. Picking it back up, he rose and looked at Myrna.

“Any other suggestions?”

She gave the dirt a filthy look. “It’s probably settled now. If it was freshly turned it’d work.”

She got a trowel from Clara’s shed and dug around, turning the earth, fluffing it up.

“OK, try it now.”

Gamache knelt again, and again dropped the coin into the flower bed. This time it slid over onto its side, down a small crevice.

“See,” said Myrna.

“Well, yes, I do see. I see the coin,” said Gamache. “I’m afraid I’m not convinced. Could it have been there for a while? It might’ve fallen into the bed years ago. It’s made of plastic so it wouldn’t rust or age.”

“I doubt it,” said Clara. “We would’ve found it long ago. They sure would’ve found it yesterday when they weeded and mulched, don’t you think?”

“I’ve given up thinking,” said Myrna.

They walked back to where Beauvoir was working.

“Nothing more, Chief,” he said, standing abruptly and slapping his knees free of dirt. “I can’t believe we missed it the first time.”

“Well, we have it now.” Gamache looked at the coin in the evidence bag Lacoste was holding. It wasn’t money, wasn’t currency of any country. At first he’d wondered if it might be from the Middle East. What with the camel. After all, Canadian currency had a moose on it, why shouldn’t Saudi currency have a camel?

But the words were English. And there was no mention of a denomination.

Just the camel on one side and the prayer on the other.

“You’re sure it doesn’t belong to you or Peter?” he asked Clara.

“I’m sure. Ruth briefly claimed it, but Myrna said it couldn’t possibly belong to her.”

Gamache turned to the large, caftaned woman beside him, his brows raised.

“And how do you know that?”

“Because I know what it is and I know Ruth would never have one. I assumed you recognized it.”

“I have no idea what it is.” They all looked again at the coin sitting in the Baggie.

“May I?” Myrna asked and when Gamache nodded Lacoste handed her the bag. Myrna looked through the plastic.

“God,” she read. “Grant me the serenity,

To accept the things I cannot change,

Courage to change the things I can,

And wisdom to know the difference.”

“It’s a beginner’s chip,” she said. “From Alcoholics Anonymous. It’s given to people who’re just getting sober.”

“How do you know that?” the Chief asked.

“Because when I was in practice I suggested a number of clients join AA. Some of them later showed me what they called their beginner’s chip. Just like that.” She gestured to the bag back in Lacoste’s hand. “Whoever dropped it is a member of AA.”

“I see what you mean about Ruth,” said Beauvoir.

Gamache thanked them and watched as Clara and Myrna walked back to the house, to join the others.

Beauvoir and Agent Lacoste were talking, going over notes and findings. Inspector Beauvoir would be giving her some instructions, Gamache knew. Leads to follow while they were in Montréal.

He wandered around the garden. One mystery was solved. The coin was an AA beginner’s chip.

But who dropped it? Lillian Dyson as she fell? But even if she did his experiment showed it would just sit on the earth. They’d have seen it right away.

Did her killer lose it? But, if he was going to break her neck with his bare hands he wouldn’t be holding a coin. Besides, the same thing held true for the killer. If he dropped it, why didn’t they find it? How did it get buried?

The Chief Inspector stood quietly in the warm, sunny garden and imagined a murder. Someone sneaking up behind Lillian Dyson in the dark. Grabbing her around the neck, and twisting. Quickly. Before she could call out, cry out. Struggle.

But she would have done something. She’d have flailed her arms out, even for a moment.

And he saw clearly that he’d made a mistake.

Walking back to the flower bed he called Beauvoir and Lacoste, who quickly joined him.

From his pocket he again brought out the one dollar coin. Then he tossed it into the air and watched as it fell to the freshly turned soil, sat briefly on top of a chunk of dirt, then slipped off to be buried by earth that crumbled in after it.

“My God, it did bury itself,” said Lacoste. “Is that what happened?”

“I think so,” said the Chief, watching as Lacoste picked the coin back up and handed it to him. “When I first tried it I was kneeling down, close to the dirt. But if it fell during the murder it would have dropped from a standing position. Higher up. With greater force. I think when the murderer grasped her neck her arms shot out, almost a spasm, and the coin was flung away from her body. It would have hit with enough impact to dislodge the loose earth.”

“That’s how it got buried and how we missed it,” said Agent Lacoste.

“Oui,” said Gamache, turning to leave. “And it means that Lillian Dyson had to have been holding it. Now, why would she be standing in this garden holding an AA beginner’s chip?”

But Beauvoir suspected the Chief was also thinking something else. That Beauvoir had fucked up. He should have seen the coin and not have it found by four crazy women worshiping a stick. That wasn’t going to sound good in court, for any of them.

The women had left, the Sûreté officers had left. Everyone had left and now Peter and Clara were finally alone.

Peter took Clara in his arms and hugging her tight he whispered, “I’ve been waiting all day to do this. I heard about the reviews. They’re fantastic. Congratulations.”

“They are good, aren’t they,” said Clara. “Yipppeee. Can you believe it?”

“Are you kidding?” asked Peter, breaking from the embrace and striding across the kitchen. “I had no doubt.”

“Oh, come on,” laughed Clara, “you don’t even like my work.”

“I do.”

“And what do you like about them?” she teased.

“Well, they’re pretty. And you covered up most of the numbers with the paint.” He’d been poking in the fridge and now he turned around, a bottle of champagne in his hand.

“My father gave this to me on my twenty-first birthday. He told me to open it when I’d had a huge personal success. To toast myself.” He unwrapped the foil around the cork. “I put it in the fridge yesterday before we left, so we could toast you.”

“No wait, Peter,” said Clara. “We should save that.”

“What? For my own solo show? We both know that won’t happen.”

“But it will. If it happened for me, it—”

“—can happen for anyone?”

“You know what I mean. I really think we should wait—”

The cork popped.

“Too late,” said Peter with a huge smile. “We had a call while you were out.”

He carefully poured their glasses.

“From who?”

“André Castonguay.” He handed her a glass. Time enough later to tell her about all the other calls.

“Really? What did he want?”

“Wanted to talk to you. To us. To both of us. Santé.”

He tipped his glass and clinked hers. “And congratulations.”

“Thank you. Do you want to meet with him?”

Clara’s glass hung in the air, not quite touching her lips. Her nose felt the giddy popping of the champagne bubbles. Finally released. Like her, they’d waited years and years, decades, for this moment.

“Only if you do,” said Peter.

“Can we wait? Let all of this settle down a bit?”

“Whatever you’d like.”

But she could hear the disappointment in his voice.

“If you feel strongly, Peter, we can meet with him. Why don’t we? I mean, he’s right here now. Might as well.”

“No, no, that’s OK.” He smiled at her. “If he’s serious he’ll wait. Honestly, Clara, this is your time to shine. And neither Lillian’s death nor André Castonguay can take that away.”

More bubbles popped, and Clara wondered if they were popping on their own or had been pricked by tiny, almost invisible needles like the one Peter had just used. Reminding her, even as they toasted her success, of the death. The murder, in their own garden.

She tipped the glass up and felt the wine on her lips. But over the flute she was staring at Peter, who suddenly looked less substantial. A little hollow. A little like a bubble himself. Floating away.

I was much too far out all my life, she thought as she drank. And not waving, but drowning.

What were the lines just before that? Clara slowly lowered her glass to the counter. Peter had taken a long sip of the champagne. More of a swig, really. A deep, masculine, almost aggressive gulp.

Nobody heard him, the dead man,

But still he lay moaning.

Those were the lines, thought Clara, as she stared at Peter.

The champagne on her lips was sour, the wine turned years before. But Peter, who’d taken a huge gulp, was smiling.

As though nothing was wrong.

When had he died? Clara wondered. And why hadn’t she noticed?

“No, I understand,” said Inspector Beauvoir.

Chief Inspector Gamache looked across at Beauvoir in the driver’s seat. Eyes staring ahead at the traffic as they approached the Champlain Bridge into Montréal. Beauvoir’s face was placid, relaxed. Noncommittal.

But his grip was tight on the wheel.

“If Agent Lacoste is going to be promoted to inspector I want to see how she’ll handle the added responsibility,” said Gamache. “So I gave the dossier to her.”

He knew he didn’t have to explain his decisions. But he chose to. These weren’t children he was working with, but thoughtful, intelligent adults. If he didn’t want them to behave like children he’d better not treat them like that. He wanted independent thinkers. And he got them. Men and women who’d earned the right to know why a decision was taken.

“This is about giving Agent Lacoste more authority, that’s all. It’s still your investigation. She understands that, and I need you to understand that as well, so there’s no confusion.”

“Got it,” said Beauvoir. “I just wish you’d mentioned it to me beforehand.”

“You’re right, I should have. I’m sorry. In fact, I’ve been thinking it makes sense for you to supervise Agent Lacoste. Act as a mentor. If she’s going to be promoted to inspector and become your second in command you’ll have to train her.”

Beauvoir nodded and his grip loosened on the wheel. They spent the next few minutes discussing the case and Lacoste’s strengths and weaknesses before lapsing into silence.

As he watched the graceful span of the bridge across the St. Lawrence River approach, Gamache’s mind turned elsewhere. To something he’d been considering for a while now.

“There is something else.”

“Oh?” Beauvoir glanced over to his boss.

Gamache had been planning to speak to Beauvoir about this quietly. Perhaps over dinner that night, or a walk on the mountain. Not when they were hurtling down the autoroute at 120 kilometers an hour.

Still, the opening was there. And Gamache took it.

“We need to talk about how you’re doing. There’s something wrong. You aren’t getting better, are you.”

It was not a question.

“I’m sorry about the coin. It was stupid—”

“I’m not talking about the coin. That was just a mistake. It happens. God knows it’s just possible I’ve made a few in my life.”

He saw Beauvoir smile.

“Then what are you talking about, sir?”

“The painkillers. Why’re you still taking them?”

There was silence in the car as Québec whizzed by their windows.

“How’d you know about that?” asked Beauvoir, finally.

“I suspected. You carry them with you, in your jacket pocket.”

“Did you look?” asked Beauvoir, an edge to his voice.

“No. But I’ve watched you.” As he did now. His second in command had always been so lithe, so energetic. Cocky. He was full of life and full of himself. It could annoy Gamache. But mostly he’d watched Beauvoir’s vitality with pleasure and some amusement, as Jean Guy threw himself headlong into life.

But now the young man seemed drained. Dour. As though every day was an effort. As though he was dragging an anvil behind him.

“I’ll be fine,” said Beauvoir, and heard how empty that sounded. “The doctor and therapists say I’m doing well. Every day I feel better.”

Armand Gamache didn’t want to pursue it. But he had to.

“You’re still in pain from your wounds.”

Again, this wasn’t a question.

“It’ll just take time,” said Beauvoir, glancing over to his Chief. “I really am feeling much better, all the time.”

But he didn’t look it. And Gamache was concerned.

The Chief Inspector was silent. He himself had never been in better shape, or at least, not for many, many years. He was walking more now, and the physiotherapy had brought back his strength and agility. He went to the gym at Sûreté Headquarters three times a week. At first it had been humiliating, as he’d struggled to lift weights about the size of honey-glazed doughnuts, and to stay on the elliptical for more than a few minutes.

But he’d kept at it, and kept at it. And slowly his strength had not just returned, but surpassed where he’d been before the attack.

There were still some residual effects, physically. His right hand trembled when he was tired or overstressed. And his body ached when he first woke up, or got up after sitting for too long. There were a few aches and pains. But not nearly as much as the emotional, which he struggled with every day.

Some days were very good. And some, like this, were not.

He’d suspected Jean Guy was struggling, and he knew recovery was never a straight line. But Beauvoir seemed to be slipping further and further back.

“Is there something I can do?” he asked. “Do you need time off to focus on your health? I know Daniel and Roslyn would love to have you visit them in Paris. Maybe that would help.”

Beauvoir laughed. “Are you trying to kill me?”

Gamache grinned. It would be hard to imagine what could ruin a trip to Paris, but a week in the small flat with his son, daughter-in-law and two young grandchildren sure took a run at it. He and Reine-Marie now rented a flat close-by when they visited.

“Merci, patron. I’d rather hunt cold-blooded killers.”

Gamache laughed. The skyline of Montréal was looming in the foreground now, across the river. And Mont Royal rose in the middle of the city. The huge cross on top of the mountain was invisible now, but every night it sprang to life, lit as a beacon to a population that no longer believed in the church, but believed in family and friends, culture and humanity.

The cross didn’t seem to care. It glowed just as bright.

“The separation from Enid can’t have helped,” said the Chief.

“Actually it did,” said Beauvoir, slowing for the traffic on the bridge. Beside him Gamache was gazing at the skyline. As he always did. But now the Chief turned to look at him.

“How’d it help?”

“It’s a relief. I feel free. I’m sorry it hurt Enid, but it’s one of the best things to come out of what happened.”

“How so?”

“I feel like I was given another chance. So many died, but when I didn’t I took a look at my life and realized how unhappy I was. And it wasn’t going to get better. It wasn’t Enid’s fault, but we were never really well suited. But I was afraid to change, to admit I made a mistake. Afraid to hurt her. But I just couldn’t take it anymore. Surviving the raid gave me the courage to do what I should have done years ago.”

“The courage to change.”

“Pardon?”

“It was one of the lines from that prayer on the coin,” said Gamache.

“Yeah, I guess so. Whatever it was, I could just see my life stretching ahead getting worse and worse. Don’t get me wrong, Enid’s wonderful—”

“We’ve always liked her. A lot.”

“And she likes you, as you know. But she’s not the one for me.”

“Do you know who is?”

“No.”

Beauvoir glanced at the Chief. Gamache was now looking out the windshield, his face thoughtful, then he turned to Beauvoir.

“You will,” said the Chief.

Beauvoir nodded, deep in thought. Then he finally spoke.

“What would you have done, sir? If you’d been married to someone else when you met Madame Gamache?”

Gamache looked at Beauvoir, his eyes keen. “I thought you said you hadn’t met the one for you.”

Beauvoir hesitated. He’d given the Chief the opening, and Gamache had taken it. And now looked at him. Waiting for an answer. And Beauvoir almost told him. Almost told the Chief everything. Longed to open his heart and expose it to this man. As he’d told Armand Gamache about everything else in his life. About his unhappiness with Enid. They’d talked about that, about his own family, about what he wanted, and what he didn’t want.

Jean Guy Beauvoir trusted Gamache with his life.

He opened his mouth, the words hovering there, just at the opening. As though a stone had rolled back and these miraculous words were about to emerge. Into the daylight.

I love your daughter. I love Annie.

Beside him Chief Inspector Gamache waited, as though he had all the time in the world. As though nothing could be more important than Beauvoir’s personal life.

The city, with its invisible cross, got bigger and bigger. And then they were over the bridge.

“I haven’t met anyone,” said Beauvoir. “But I want to be ready. I can’t be married. It wouldn’t have been fair to Enid.”

Gamache was quiet for a moment. “Nor would it be fair to your lover’s husband.”

It wasn’t a rebuke. Wasn’t even a warning. And Beauvoir knew then if Chief Inspector Gamache had suspected he’d have said something. He’d not play games with Beauvoir. The way Beauvoir was with Gamache.

No, this wasn’t a game. Nor was it a secret, really. It was just a feeling. Unfulfilled. Not acted upon.

I love your daughter, sir.

But those words were swallowed too. Returned to the dark to join all the other unsaid things.

They found the apartment block in the Notre-Dame-de-Grâce quartier of Montréal. Squat and gray, it might have been designed by Soviet architects in the 1960s.

The grass had been peed white by dogs, and lumps of poop sat on it. The flower beds were overgrown with strangled bushes and weeds. The concrete walk to the front door was cracked and heaved.

Inside, it smelled of urine and resonated with the distant echoes of doors slamming and people shouting at each other.

Monsieur and Madame Dyson lived on the top floor. The handrail on the concrete stairs was sticky and Beauvoir quickly took his hand off of it.

Up they walked. Three flights. Not pausing for breath but not racing either. They took measured steps. Once at the top they found the door to the Dyson apartment.

Chief Inspector Gamache raised his hand, and paused.

To give the Dysons one more second of peace before shattering their lives? Or to give himself one more moment before facing them?

Rap. Rap.

It opened a crack, a security chain across a fearful face.

“Oui?”

“Madame Dyson? My name is Armand Gamache. I’m with the Sûreté du Québec.” He already had his ID out and now showed it to her. Her eyes dropped to it, then back up to the Chief’s face. “This is my colleague Inspector Beauvoir. May we speak with you?”

The thin face was obviously relieved. How many times had she opened the door a crack, to see kids taunting her? To see the landlord demanding rent? To see unkindness take human form?

But not this time. These men were with the Sûreté. They wouldn’t hurt her. She was of a generation who still believed that. It was written all over her worn face.

The door closed, the chain was lifted and the door swung open.

She was tiny. And in an armchair sat a man who looked like a puppet. Small, stiff, sunken. He struggled to get up, but Gamache walked swiftly over to him.

“No, please, Monsieur Dyson. Je vous en prie. Stay seated.”

They shook hands and he reintroduced himself, speaking slowly, clearly, more loudly than normal.

“Tea?” Madame Dyson asked.

Oh, no no no, thought Beauvoir. The place smelled of liniment and slightly of urine.

“Yes, please. How kind of you. May I help?” Gamache went with her into the kitchen, leaving Beauvoir alone with the puppet. He tried to make small-talk but ran out after commenting on the weather.

“Nice place,” he finally said and was treated to Monsieur Dyson looking at him as though he was an idiot.

Beauvoir scanned the walls. There was a crucifix above the dining table, and a smiling Jesus surrounded by light. But the rest of the walls were taken up with photographs of one person. Their daughter Lillian. Her life radiated out from the smiling Jesus. Her baby pictures closest to Him, then she got older and older as the pictures wrapped around the walls. Sometimes alone, sometimes with others. The parents too aged, from a young, beaming couple holding their first born, their only born, in front of a neat, compact home. To first Christmas, to gooey birthdays.

Beauvoir scanned the walls for a photo of Lillian and Clara then realized if there had been one it would have been taken down long ago.

There were pictures of a gap-toothed little girl with gleaming orange hair holding a huge stuffed dog, and a little later standing beside a bike with a big bow. Toys, gifts, presents. Everything a little girl could want.

And love. No, not just love. Adoration. This child, this woman, was adored.

Beauvoir felt something stir inside. Something that seemed to have crawled into him while he’d lain in his own blood on the floor of that factory.

Sorrow.

Since that moment death had never been the same, and neither, it must be said, had life.

He didn’t like it.

He tried to remember Lillian Dyson forty years after this picture was taken. Too much makeup, hair dyed a straw blond. Bright red look-at-me dress. Almost a mockery. A parody of a person.

But try as Beauvoir might it was too late. He saw Lillian Dyson now as a young girl. Adored. Confident. Heading into the world. A world her parents knew needed to be kept out, with chains.

But still, they’d opened the door a crack, and a crack was enough. If there was something malevolent, malicious, murderous on the other side, a crack was all it needed.

“Bon,” came the Chief’s voice behind him and Beauvoir turned to see Gamache carrying a tin tray with a teapot, some milk, sugar and fine china cups. “Where would you like me to put this?”

He sounded warm, friendly. But not jovial. The Chief wouldn’t want to trick them. Would not want to give the impression they were there with riotous good news.

“Just here, please.” Madame Dyson hurried to clear the TV guide and remote off a faux-wood table by the sofa, but Beauvoir got there first, scooping them up and handing them to her.

She met his eyes and smiled. Not a wide smile, but a softer, sadder version of her daughter’s. Beauvoir knew now where Lillian had gotten her smile.

And he suspected these two elderly people knew why they were there. Probably not the exact news. Not that their only daughter was dead. Murdered. But the look Madame Dyson had just given him told Jean Guy Beauvoir that she knew something was up. Amiss.

And she was being kind anyway. Or was she just trying to keep whatever news they had at bay? Keep them silent for one more precious minute.

“A bit of milk and sugar?” she asked the puppet.

Monsieur Dyson sat forward.

“This is a special occasion,” he pretended to confide in their visitors. “Normally she doesn’t offer milk.”

It broke Beauvoir’s heart to think these two pensioners probably couldn’t afford much milk. That what little they had was being offered now, to their guests.

“Gives me gas,” explained the old man.

“Now, Papa,” said Madame Dyson, handing the cup and saucer to the Chief to hand to her husband. She too pretended to confide in their company. “It is true. I figure you have about twenty minutes from the first sip.”

Once they all had their cups and were seated Chief Inspector Gamache took a sip and placed the delicate bone china cup on its saucer and leaned toward the elderly couple. Madame Dyson reached out and took her husband’s hand.

Would she still call him “Papa” after today, Beauvoir wondered. Or was that the very last time? Would it be too painful? That must have been what Lillian called him.

Would he still be a father, even if there were no more children?

“I have some very bad news,” said the Chief. “It’s about your daughter, Lillian.”

He looked them in the eyes as he spoke, and saw their lives change. It would forever be dated from this moment. Before the news and after the news. Two completely different lives.

“I’m afraid she’s dead.”

He spoke in short, declarative sentences. His voice calm, deep. Absolute. He needed to tell them quickly, not drag it out. And clearly. There could be no doubt.

“I don’t understand,” said Madame Dyson, but her eyes said she understood fully. She was terrified. The monster every mother feared had squirmed in through that crack. It had taken her child, and was now sitting in her living room.

Madame Dyson turned to her husband, who was struggling to sit further forward. Perhaps to stand up. To confront this news, these words. To beat them back, out of his living room, out of his home, away from his door. To beat those words until they were lies.

But he couldn’t.

“There’s more,” said the Chief Inspector, still holding their eyes. “Lillian was murdered.”

“Oh, God, no,” said Lillian’s mother, her hand flying to her mouth. Then it slipped to her chest. Her breast. And rested there, limp.

Both of them stared at Gamache, and he looked at them.

“I’m very sorry to have to bring you this news,” he said, knowing how weak it sounded but also knowing to not say it would be even worse.

Madame and Monsieur Dyson were gone now. They’d crossed over to that continent where grieving parents lived. It looked the same as the rest of the world, but wasn’t. Colors bled pale. Music was just notes. Books no longer transported or comforted, not fully. Never again. Food was nutrition, little more. Breaths were sighs.

And they knew something the rest didn’t. They knew how lucky the rest of the world was.

“How?” Madame Dyson whispered. Beside her her husband was enraged, so angry he couldn’t speak. But his face was contorted and his eyes blazed. At Gamache.

“Her neck was broken,” said the Chief. “It was very fast. She didn’t even see it coming.”

“Why?” she asked. “Why would anyone kill Lillian?”

“We don’t know. But we’ll find out who did this.”

Armand Gamache cupped his large hands toward her. An offering.

Jean Guy Beauvoir noticed the tremble in the Chief’s right hand. Very slight.

This too was new, since the factory.

Madame Dyson dropped her tiny hand from her breast into Gamache’s hands and he closed them, holding hers like a sparrow.

He said nothing then. And neither did she.

They sat in silence, and would sit there for as long as it took.

Beauvoir looked at Monsieur Dyson. His rage had turned to confusion. A man of action in his younger days now imprisoned in an easy chair. Unable to save his daughter. Unable to comfort his wife.

Beauvoir got up and offered the elderly man his own arms. Monsieur Dyson stared at them, then swung both hands to Beauvoir’s arm and grabbed on. Beauvoir lifted him to a standing position and supported him while the old man turned to his wife. And put out his arms.

She stood and walked into them.

They held each other and held each other up. And wept.

Eventually they parted.

Beauvoir had found tissues and gave each a handful. When they were able Chief Inspector Gamache asked them some questions.

“Lillian lived in New York for many years. Can you tell us anything about her life there?”

“She was an artist,” her father said. “Wonderful. We didn’t visit her often but she came home every couple of years or so.”

It sounded vague, to Gamache. An exaggeration.

“She made a living as an artist?” he asked.

“Absolutely,” Madame Dyson said. “She was a big success.”

“She was married once?” the Chief asked.

“Morgan was his name,” said Madame Dyson.

“No, not Morgan,” said her husband. “But close. Madison.”

“Yes, that’s it. It was a long time ago and they weren’t married long. We never met him but he wasn’t a nice man. Drank. Poor Lillian was taken in by him completely. Very charming, but they so often are.”

Gamache noticed Beauvoir taking out his notebook.

“You say he drank?” asked the Chief. “How do you know?”

“Lillian told us. She finally kicked him out. But that was long ago.”

“Do you know if he ever stopped drinking?” asked Gamache. “Perhaps joined Alcoholics Anonymous?”

They looked lost. “We never met him, Chief Inspector,” she repeated. “I suppose he might have, before he died.”

“He died?” asked Beauvoir. “Do you know when?”

“Oh, a few years ago now. Lillian told us. Probably drank himself to death.”

“Did your daughter talk about any particular friends?”

“She had a lot of friends. We spoke once a week and she was always off to parties or vernissages.”

“Did she talk about any by name?” Gamache asked. They shook their heads. “Did she ever mention a friend named Clara, back here in Québec?”

“Clara? She was Lillian’s best friend. Inseparable. She used to come by for supper when we lived in the house.”

“But they didn’t stay close?”

“Clara stole some of Lillian’s ideas. Then she dropped Lillian as a friend. Used her and threw her away as soon as she had what she wanted. Hurt Lillian terribly.”

“Why did your daughter go to New York?” asked Gamache.

“She felt the art scene here in Montréal wasn’t very supportive. They didn’t like it when she criticized their work, but that was her job, after all, as a critic. She wanted to go someplace where artists were more sophisticated.”

“Did she talk about anyone in particular? Someone who might have wished her ill?”

“Back then? She said everyone did.”

“And more recently? When did she come back to Montréal?”

“October sixteenth,” said Monsieur Dyson.

“You know the exact date?” Gamache turned to him.

“You would too, if you had a daughter.”

The Chief nodded. “You’re right. I do have a daughter and I’d remember the day she returned home.”

The two men looked at each other for a moment.

“Did Lillian tell you why she returned?” Gamache did a quick calculation. It would have been about eight months earlier. Shortly after that she’d bought her car and begun going to art shows around town.

“She just said she was missing home,” said Madame Dyson. “We thought we were the luckiest people alive.”

Gamache paused to let her gather herself. Both Sûreté officers knew there was a small window after telling loved ones the news before they were completely overcome. Before the shock wore off and the pain began.

That moment was fast approaching. The window was slamming shut. They had to make each question count.

“Was she happy in Montréal this time?” Gamache asked.

“I’ve never seen her happier,” said her father. “I think she might’ve found a man. We asked but she always laughed and denied it. But I’m not so sure.”

“Why do you say that?” Gamache asked.

“When she came for dinner she’d always leave early,” said Madame Dyson. “By seven thirty. We kidded her that she was off on a date.”

“And what did she say to that?”

“She just laughed. But,” she hesitated, “there was something.”

“What do you mean?”

Madame Dyson took another deep breath as though trying to keep herself going, long enough to help this police officer. To help him find whoever had killed their daughter.

“I don’t know what I mean, but she never used to leave early, then suddenly she did. But she wouldn’t tell us why.”

“Did your daughter drink?”

“Drink?” asked Monsieur Dyson. “I don’t understand the question. Drink what?”

“Alcohol. We found something at the site that might have come from Alcoholics Anonymous. Do you know if your daughter belonged to AA?”

“Lillian?” Madame Dyson looked astonished. “I’ve never seen her drunk in my life. She used to be the designated driver at parties. She’d have a few drinks sometimes, but never many.”

“We don’t even keep alcohol in the house,” said Monsieur Dyson.

“Why not?” Gamache asked.

“We just lost interest, I suppose,” said Madame Dyson. “There were other things to spend our pensions on.”

Gamache nodded and got up. “May I?” He indicated the pictures on the walls.

“Please.” Madame Dyson joined him.

“Very pretty,” he said as they gazed at the photographs. Lillian aged as they walked around the modest room. From cherished newborn to adored teen and into a lovely young woman, with hair the color of a sunset.

“Your daughter was found in a garden,” he said, trying to make it sound not too gruesome. “It belonged to her friend Clara.”

Madame Dyson stopped and stared at the Chief Inspector. “Clara? But that’s not possible. Lillian would never have gone there. She’d meet the devil before she’d meet that woman.”

“Did you say Lillian was killed at Clara’s home?” demanded Monsieur Dyson.

“Oui. In her backyard.”

“Then you know who killed Lillian,” said Monsieur Dyson. “Have you arrested her?”

“I haven’t,” said Gamache. “There are other possibilities. Is there anyone else your daughter talked about since her return to Montréal? Anyone who might wish her harm?”

“No one as obvious as Clara,” snapped Monsieur Dyson.

“I know this is difficult,” said Gamache quietly, calmly. He waited a moment before speaking again. “But you need to think about my question. It’s vital. Did she talk about anyone else? Anyone she’d had an upset with recently?”

“No one,” said Madame Dyson, eventually. “As we said, she never seemed happier.”

Chief Inspector Gamache and Beauvoir thanked the Dysons for their help and gave them their cards.

“Please call,” said the Chief, standing at the door. “If you remember anything, or if you need anything.”

“Who do we speak to about—” Madame Dyson began.

“I’ll have someone come over and talk with you about arrangements. Is that all right?”

They nodded. Monsieur Dyson had fought to his feet and stood beside his wife, staring at Gamache. Two men, two fathers. But standing now a continent apart.

As they walked down the stairs, their steps echoing against the walls, Gamache wondered how two such people could produce the woman Clara had described.

Wretched, jealous, bitter, mean.

But then, the Dysons thought the same about Clara.

There was a lot to wonder about.

Madame Dyson had been certain her daughter would never go to Clara Morrow’s home. Not knowingly.

Had Lillian Dyson been tricked into it? Lured there not realizing it was Clara’s place? But if so, why was she killed, and why there?