A Trick of the Light

NINETEEN

Clara Morrow sat in the car, staring at the decrepit old apartment building. It was a far cry from the pretty little home the Dysons had lived in when Clara knew them.

For the whole drive in she’d been remembering her friendship with Lillian. The mind-numbing Christmas job they got together sorting mail. Then later, as lifeguards. That’d been Lillian’s idea. They’d taken the lifesaving courses and passed their swim exams together. Helping each other. Sneaking out behind the life preserver shed for smokes, and tokes.

They’d been on the school volleyball and track teams together. They’d spotted each other at gymnastics.

There was barely a good memory from Clara’s childhood that didn’t include Lillian.

And Mr. and Mrs. Dyson were always there too. As kindly supporting characters. In the background, like the Peanuts parents. Rarely seen, but somehow there were always egg salad sandwiches, and fruit salad and warm chocolate chip cookies. There was always a pitcher of bright pink lemonade.

Mrs. Dyson had been short, rotund, with thinning hair always in place. She’d seemed old but Clara realized she was younger than Clara was now. And Mr. Dyson had been tall, wiry, with curly red hair. That looked, in the bright sunshine, like rust on his head.

No. There was no doubt, and Clara was appalled at herself for ever questioning it. This was the right thing to do.

After giving up on an elevator she climbed the three flights, trying not to notice the stale smells of tobacco and dope and urine.

She stood in front of their closed door. Staring. Catching her breath from an exertion not wholly physical.

Clara closed her eyes and conjured up little Lillian, standing in green shorts and a T-shirt, framed by her door. Smiling. Inviting little Clara in.

Then Clara Morrow knocked on the door.

“Chief Justice,” said Gamache, offering his hand.

“Chief Inspector,” said Thierry Pineault, taking it and shaking.

“There can be too many chiefs after all,” said Suzanne. “Let’s grab a table.”

“We can join Inspector Beauvoir,” said Gamache, ushering them toward his Inspector, who’d gotten up and was indicating his table.

“I’d rather we sat over here,” said Chief Justice Pineault. Suzanne and Gamache paused. Pineault was indicating a table shoved up against the brick building, in the least attractive area.

“More discreet,” Pineault explained, seeing their puzzled expressions. Gamache raised a brow but agreed, waving Beauvoir over. Chief Justice Pineault sat first, his back to the village. Gabri took their orders.

“Will this bother you?” Gamache asked, pointing to the beers Beauvoir had brought over.

“Not at all,” said Suzanne.

“I tried to call you this morning,” said Gamache.

Gabri put their drinks on the table and whispered to Beauvoir, “Who’s this other guy?”

“The Chief Justice of Québec.”

“Of course he is.” Gabri shot Beauvoir an annoyed look and left.

“And what did my secretary say?” asked Pineault, taking a sip of his Perrier and lime.

“Only that you were working from home,” said Gamache.

Pineault smiled. “I am, sort of. I’m afraid I didn’t specify which home.”

“You’ve decided to come down to the one in Knowlton?”

“Is this an interrogation, Chief Inspector? Should I get a lawyer?”

The smile was still in place but neither man was under any illusion. Close questioning the Chief Justice of Québec was a risky thing to do.

Gamache smiled back. “This is a friendly conversation, Mr. Justice. I’m hoping you can help.”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake, Thierry. Just tell the man what he wants to know. Isn’t that why we’re here?”

Gamache regarded Suzanne across the table. Their lunches had arrived and she was shoveling terrine of duck into her mouth. It was a gesture not of greed, but of fear. She all but had her arm around her plate. Suzanne didn’t want someone else’s food. She wanted just her own. And she was willing to defend it, if need be.

But, between mouthfuls, Suzanne had asked an interesting question.

Why, if not to help his investigation, was Thierry Pineault there?

“Oh, I’m here to help,” Pineault said, casually. “It was an instinctive reaction, I’m afraid, Chief Inspector. A lawyer’s reaction. My apologies.”

Gamache noticed something else. While the Chief Justice seemed happy to challenge him, the head of homicide for the Sûreté du Québec, he never challenged Suzanne, the sometime artist and full-time waitress. In fact he took her little mocking jabs, her criticisms, her flamboyant gestures, all with great equilibrium. Was it manners?

The Chief didn’t think so. He had the impression the Chief Justice was somehow cowed by Suzanne. As though she had something on him.

“I asked him to bring me down,” said Suzanne. “I knew he’d want to help.”

“Why? I know Suzanne here cared about Lillian. Did you too, sir?”

The Chief Justice turned clear, cool eyes on Gamache. “Not in the manner you’re imagining.”

“I’m not imagining anything. Just asking.”

“I’m trying to help,” said Pineault. His voice was stern, his eyes hard. Gamache was used to this, from court appearances. From high-level Sûreté conferences.

And he recognized it for what it was. Chief Justice Thierry Pineault was pissing on him. It was delicate, sophisticated, genteel, mannerly. But it was still piss.

The problem with a pissing contest, as Gamache knew, was that what should have remained private became public. Chief Justice Pineault’s privates were on display.

“And how do you think you can help, sir? Do you know something I don’t?”

“I’m here because Suzanne asked me, and because I know where Three Pines is. I drove her down. That’s my help.”

Gamache looked from Thierry to Suzanne, now ripping up a piece of fresh baguette, smearing it with butter and popping it in her mouth. Could she really command the Chief Justice like that? Treat him like a chauffeur?

“I asked Thierry for help because I knew he’d be calm. Sensible.”

“And he’s the Chief Justice?” asked Beauvoir.

“I’m an alcoholic, not an idiot,” said Suzanne with a smile. “It seemed an advantage.”

It was an advantage, thought Gamache. But why did she feel she needed one? And why had Chief Justice Pineault chosen this table, away from the others? The worst table on the terrace, and then quickly taken the seat facing the wall.

Gamache glanced around. Was the Chief Justice hiding? He’d arrived and gone straight into the bookstore, coming out only when Suzanne returned. And now he sat with his back to everyone. Where he couldn’t see anything, but neither could he be seen.

Gamache’s eyes swept around the village, taking in what Chief Justice Pineault was missing.

Ruth on the bench, feeding the birds and every now and then glancing into the sky. Normand and Paulette, the middling artists, on the verandah of the B and B. A few villagers were carrying string bags of groceries home from Monsieur Béliveau’s general store. And then there were the other bistro patrons, including André Castonguay and François Marois.

Clara stood in the hallway, staring at the door, slammed in her face. The sound still echoed off the walls, along the corridors, down the stairwell, and finally out the door. Spilling into the bright sunshine.

Her eyes wide, her heart pounding. Her stomach sour.

Clara thought she might throw up.

“Ah, there you are,” said Denis Fortin, standing in the doorway of the bistro. He had the great pleasure of seeing André Castonguay jump and almost knock over his white wine.

François Marois, however, did not jump. He barely reacted.

Like a lizard, thought Fortin, sunning himself on a rock.

“Tabernac,” exclaimed Castonguay. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“May I?” asked Fortin, and took a seat at their table before either man could deny him.

They’d always denied him a seat at their table. For decades. The cabal of art dealers and gallery owners. Old men now. As soon as Fortin had decided to stop being an artist and had opened his own gallery they’d closed ranks. Against the interloper, the newcomer.

Well, he was there now. More successful than any of them. Except, maybe, these two men. Of all the members of the art establishment in Québec, the only two whose opinion he cared about were Castonguay and Marois.

Well, one day they’d have to acknowledge him. And it might as well be today.

“I’d heard you were here,” he said, signaling to the waiter for another round.

Castonguay, he saw, was well into the white wine. Marois, though, was sipping an iced tea. Austere, cultured, restrained. Cool. Like the man.

He himself had switched to a micro-brewery beer. McAuslan. Young, golden, impertinent.

“What’re you doing here?” Castonguay repeated, the emphasis on “you,” as though Fortin had to explain himself. And he almost did, in an instinctive reaction. A need to appease these men.

But Fortin stopped himself and smiled charmingly.

“I’m here for the same reason you are. To sign the Morrows.”

That brought a reaction from Marois. Slowly, so slowly, the art dealer turned his head and, looking directly at Fortin, he slowly, so slowly lifted his brows. In anyone else it might have been comical. But from Marois, the results were terrifying.

Fortin felt himself grow cold, as though he’d looked at the Gorgon’s Head.

He swallowed hard and continued to stare, hoping if he’d been turned to stone it was at least with a look of casual disdain on his face. He feared, though, his face had a whole other expression.

Castonguay sputtered with laughter.

“You? Sign the Morrows? You had your shot and you blew it.” Castonguay grabbed his glass and took a great draught.

The waiter brought more drinks and Marois put out his hand to stop him. “I think we’ve had enough.” He turned to Castonguay. “Perhaps time for a little walk, don’t you think?”

But Castonguay didn’t think. He took the glass. “You’ll never sign the Morrows, and do you know why?”

Fortin shook his head and could have kicked himself for even reacting.

“Because they know you for what you are.” He was speaking loudly now. So loudly conversation around them died.

At the back table everyone looked around, except Thierry Pineault. He kept his face to the wall.

“That’s enough, André,” said Marois, laying a hand on the other man’s arm.

“No, it’s not enough.” Castonguay turned to François Marois. “You and I worked hard for what we have. Studied art, know technique. We might disagree, but it’s at least an intelligent discussion. But this one,” his arm jerked in Fortin’s direction, “all he wants is a quick buck.”

“And all you want, sir,” said Fortin, getting to his feet, “is a bottle. Who is worse?”

Fortin gave a stiff little bow and walked away. He didn’t know where he was going. Just away. From the table. From the art establishment. From the two men staring at him. And probably laughing.

“People don’t change,” said Beauvoir, squashing his burger and watching the juices ooze out.

Chief Justice Pineault and Suzanne had left, walking over to the B and B. And now, finally, Inspector Beauvoir could discuss murder, in peace.

“You think not?” asked Gamache. On his plate were grilled garlic shrimp and quinoa mango salad. The barbeque was working overtime for the hungry lunch crowd, producing char-grilled steaks and burgers, shrimp and salmon.

“They might seem to,” said Beauvoir, picking his burger up, “but if you were a nasty piece of work growing up, you’ll be an asshole as an adult and you’ll die pissed off.”

He took a bite. Where once this burger, with bacon and mushrooms, caramelized onions and melting blue cheese, would have sent him into raptures, now it left him feeling slightly queasy. Still, he forced himself to eat, to appease Gamache.

Beauvoir noticed the Chief watching him eat and felt a slight annoyance, but that quickly faded. Mostly he didn’t care. After his conversation with Myrna he’d taken himself off to the bathroom and popped a Percocet, staying there, his head in his hands, until he could feel the warmth spread, and the pain ebb and drift away.

Across the table Chief Inspector Gamache took a forkful of grilled garlic shrimp and the quinoa mango salad with genuine enjoyment.

They’d both looked up when André Castonguay had raised his voice.

Beauvoir had even gone to get up, but the Chief had stopped him. Wanting to see how this would play out. Like the rest of the patrons, they watched Denis Fortin walk stiffly away, his back straight, his arms at his side.

Like a little soldier, Gamache had thought, reminded of his son Daniel as a child, marching around the park. Either into or away from a battle. Resolute.

Pretending.

Denis Fortin was retreating, Gamache knew. To nurse his wounds.

“I suspect you don’t agree?” said Beauvoir.

“That people don’t change?” asked Gamache, looking up from his plate. “No, I don’t agree. I believe people can and do.”

“But not as much as the victim appeared to change,” said Beauvoir. “That would be very chiaroscuro.”

“Very what?” Gamache lowered his knife and fork and stared at his second in command.

“It means a bold contrast. The play of light and dark.”

“Is that so? And did you make up that word?”

“I did not. Heard it at Clara’s vernissage and even used it a few times. Such a snooty crowd. All I had to do was say ‘chiaroscuro’ a few times and they were convinced I was the critic for Le Monde.”

Gamache picked his knife and fork back up and shook his head. “So it could’ve meant anything and you still used it?”

“Didn’t you notice? The more ridiculous the statement the more it was accepted. Did you see their faces when they realized I wasn’t with Le Monde?”

“Very schadenfreude of you,” said Gamache and wasn’t surprised to see the suspicious look on Beauvoir’s face. “So you looked up ‘chiaroscuro’ this morning. Is that what you do when I’m not around?”

“That and Free Cell. And porn, of course, but we only do that on your computer.”

Beauvoir grinned and took a bite of his burger.

“You think the victim was very chiaroscuro?” asked Gamache.

“I don’t actually. Just said that to show off. I think it’s all bullshit. One moment she’s a bitch, the next she’s this wonderful person? Come on. That’s crap.”

“I can see how they’d mistake you for a formidable critic,” said Gamache.

“Fucking right. Listen, people don’t change. You think the trout in the Bella Bella are there because they love Three Pines? But maybe next year they’ll go somewhere else?” Beauvoir jerked his head toward the river.

Gamache looked at his Inspector. “What do you think?”

“I think the trout have no choice. They return because they’re trout. That’s what trout do. Life is that simple. Ducks return to the same place every year. Geese do it. Salmon and butterflies and deer. Jeez, deer are such creatures of habit they wear a trail through the woods and never deviate. That’s why so many are shot, as we know. They never change. People are the same. We are what we are. We are who we are.”

“We don’t change?” Gamache took a piece of fresh asparagus.

“Exactly. You taught me that people, that cases, are basically very simple. We’re the ones who complicate it.”

“And the Dyson case? Are we complicating it?”

“I think so. I think she was killed by someone she screwed. End of story. A sad story, but a simple one.”

“Someone from her past?” Gamache asked.

“No, that’s where I think you’re wrong. The people who knew the new Lillian after she stopped drinking say she’d become a decent person. And the people who knew the old one, before she stopped drinking, say she was a bitch.”

Beauvoir was holding up both hands, one was clutching the massive burger, the other held a french fry. Between them was space, a divide.

“And I’m saying the old and new are the same person.” He brought his hands together. “There’s only one Lillian. Just as there’s only one me. Only one you. She might have gotten better at hiding it after she joined AA, but believe me, that bitter, nasty, horrible woman was still there.”

“And still hurting people?” the Chief asked.

Beauvoir ate the fry and nodded. This was his favorite part of an investigation. Not the food, though in Three Pines that was never a hardship. He could remember other cases, in other places, when he and the Chief had gone days with barely anything to eat, or shared cold canned peas and Spam. Even that, he had to admit, had been fun. In retrospect. But this little village produced bodies and gourmet meals in equal proportion.

He liked the food, but what he mostly loved were the conversations with the Chief. Just the two of them.

“One theory is that Lillian Dyson came here to make amends to someone,” said Gamache. “To apologize.”

“If she did I bet she wasn’t sincere.”

“So why would she have been here, if she wasn’t sincere?”

“To do what it was in her nature to do. To screw someone.”

“Clara?” Gamache asked.

“Maybe. Or someone else. She had lots to choose from.”

“And it went wrong,” said Gamache.

“Well, it sure didn’t go right, for her anyway.”

Was the answer so simple? Gamache wondered. Was Lillian Dyson just being true to who she really was?

A selfish, destructive, hurtful person. Drunk or sober.

The same person, with the same instincts and nature.

To hurt.

“But,” said Gamache, “how’d she know about this party? It was a private party. By invitation only. And we all know Three Pines is hard to find. How did Lillian know about the party, and how’d she find it? And how did the murderer know she’d even be here?”

Beauvoir took a deep breath, trying to think, then shook his head.

“I got us this far, Chief. It’s your turn to do something useful.”

Gamache sipped his beer and grew quiet. So quiet, in fact, that Beauvoir became concerned. Maybe he’d upset the Chief with his flippant remark.

“What is it?” Beauvoir asked. “Something wrong?”

“No, not really.” Gamache looked at Beauvoir, as though trying to make up his mind about something. “You say people don’t change, but you and Enid loved each other once, right?”

Beauvoir nodded.

“But now you’re separated, on your way to a divorce. So what happened?” Gamache asked. “Did you change? Did Enid? Something changed.”

Beauvoir looked at Gamache with surprise. The Chief was genuinely perturbed.

“You’re right,” admitted Beauvoir. “Something changed. But I don’t think it was us really. I think we just realized that we weren’t the people we pretended to be.”

“I’m sorry?” asked Gamache, leaning forward.

Beauvoir collected his scattered thoughts. “I mean, we were young. I think we didn’t know what we wanted. Everyone was getting married and it seemed like fun. I liked her. She liked me. But I don’t think it was ever really love. And I think I was pretending, really. Trying to be someone I wasn’t. The man Enid wanted.”

“So what happened?”

“After the shootings, I realized I had to be the man I was. And that man didn’t love Enid enough to stay.”

Gamache was quiet for a few moments, immobile, thinking.

“You spoke to Annie Saturday night, before the vernissage,” said Gamache finally.

Beauvoir froze. The Chief went on, not needing a reply.

“And you saw her and David together at the party.”

Beauvoir willed himself to blink. To breathe. But he couldn’t. He wondered how long before he passed out.

“You know Annie well.”

Beauvoir’s brain was shrieking. Wanting this to be over, for the Chief to just say what was on his mind. Gamache finally looked up, directly at Beauvoir. His eyes, far from angry, were imploring.

“Did she tell you about her marriage?”

“Pardon?” Beauvoir barely whispered.

“I thought she might have said something to you, asked your advice or something. Knowing about you and Enid.”

Beauvoir’s head swam. None of this was making sense.

Gamache leaned back and exhaled deeply, throwing his balled-up napkin onto his plate. “I feel such a fool. We’d had little signs that things weren’t well. David canceling dinners together, showing up late, like on Saturday night. Leaving early. They weren’t as demonstrative as before. Madame Gamache and I had talked about it, but thought it might just be their relationship evolving. Less in each other’s pockets. And couples grow apart, then come back together again.”

Beauvoir felt his heart start again. With a mighty thump.

“Are Annie and David growing apart?”

“She didn’t say anything to you?”

Beauvoir shook his head. His brain sloshing about in there. With only one thought now. Annie and David were growing apart.

“Had you noticed anything?”

Had he? How much was real and how much was imagined, exaggerated? He remembered Annie’s hand on David’s arm. And David not caring. Not listening. Distracted.

Beauvoir had seen all that, but had been afraid to believe it was anything other than a shame. Affection wasted on a man who didn’t care. His own jealousy speaking, and not the truth. But now—

“What’re you saying, sir?”

“Annie came over last night for dinner and to talk. She and David are having a difficult time.” Gamache sighed. “I’d hoped she’d said something to you. For all your arguing, I know Annie’s like a little sister to you. You’ve known her since she was, what?”

“Fifteen.”

“Has it been that long?” asked Gamache, with amazement. “Not a happy year for Annie. Her first crush, and it had to be on you.”

“She had a crush on me?”

“Didn’t you know? Oh yes. Madame Gamache and I had to hear about it every time you visited. Jean Guy this and Jean Guy that. We tried to tell her what a degenerate you were but that just seemed to add to the attraction.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

Gamache looked at him with amusement. “You’d have wanted to know? You were already teasing her, it would’ve been intolerable. Besides, she begged us not to tell you.”

“But now you have.”

“A confidence broken. I trust you not to tell her.”

“I’ll do my best. What’s the problem with David?” Beauvoir looked down at his half-eaten burger, as though it had suddenly done something fascinating.

“She won’t be specific.”

“Are they separating?” he asked, hoping he sounded politely disinterested.

“I’m not sure,” said Gamache. “There’s so much happening in her life, so many changes. She’s taken another job, as you know. In the Family Court office.”

“But Annie hates children.”

“Well, she’s not very good with them, but I don’t think she hates them. She adores Florence and Zora.”

“She has to,” said Beauvoir. “They’re family. She’s probably depending on them, in her old age. She’ll be bitter Auntie Annie, with the stale chocolates and the doorknob collection. And they’ll have to look after her. So she can’t drop them on their heads now.”

Gamache laughed while Beauvoir remembered Annie with the Chief’s first granddaughter, Florence. Three years ago. When Florence had been an infant. It might have been the first time his feelings for Annie had breached the surface. Shocking him with their size and ferocity. Crashing down. Swamping in. Capsizing him.

But the moment itself had been so tiny, so delicate.

There was Annie. Smiling, cradling her niece. Whispering to the tiny little girl.

And Beauvoir had suddenly realized he wanted children. And he wanted them with Annie. No one else.

Annie. Holding their own daughter or son.

Annie. Holding him.

He felt his heart tug, as tethers he never knew existed were released.

“We suggested she try to work it out with David.”

“What?” asked Beauvoir, shocked back to the present.

“We just don’t want to see her make a mistake.”

“But,” said Beauvoir, his mind racing. “Maybe she’s already made the mistake. Maybe David’s the mistake.”

“Maybe. But she has to be sure.”

“So what did you suggest?”

“We told her we’d support whatever she decided, but we did gently suggest couple’s counseling,” said the Chief, putting his large, expressive hands on the wooden table and trying to hold Beauvoir’s eyes. But all he saw was his daughter, his little girl, in their living room Sunday night.

She’d swung from sobbing to raging. From hating David, to hating herself, to hating her parents for suggesting counseling.

“Is there something you’re not telling us?” Gamache had finally asked.

“Like what?” Annie had demanded.

Her father had been quiet for a moment. Reine-Marie sat beside him on the sofa, looking from him to their daughter.

“Has he hurt you?” Gamache had asked. Clearly. His eyes firmly on his daughter. Searching for the truth.

“Physically?” Annie asked. “Has he hit me, do you mean?”

“I do.”

“Never. David would never do that.”

“Has he hurt you in other ways? Emotionally? Is he abusive?”

Annie shook her head. Gamache held his daughter’s eyes. He’d peered into the faces of so many suspects trying to glean the truth. But never did anything feel so important.

If David had abused his daughter—

He could feel the rage roil up, just at the thought. What would he do if he found out the man had actually—

Gamache had pulled himself back from that precipice and nodded. Accepting her answer. He’d sat beside her then, and folded her into his arms. Rocking her. Feeling her head in the hollow by his shoulder. Her tears through his shirt. Just as he’d done when she’d cried for Humpty Dumpty. But this time she was the one who’d had a great fall.

Eventually Annie pulled away and Reine-Marie handed her some tissues.

“Would you like me to shoot David?” Gamache had asked as she blew her nose with a mighty honk.

Annie laughed, catching her breath in snags. “Maybe just knee cap him.”

“I’ll move it to the very top of my to-do list,” said her father. Then he bent down so that they were eye to eye, his face serious now. “Whatever you decide to do, we’re behind you. Understand?”

She nodded, and wiped her face. “I know.”

Like Reine-Marie, he wasn’t necessarily shocked, but he was perplexed. There seemed something Annie wasn’t telling them. Something that didn’t quite add up. Every couple had difficult periods. He and Reine-Marie argued at times. Hurt each other’s feelings, at times. Never intentionally, but when people lived that close it was bound to happen.

“Suppose you and Dad had been married to different people when you met,” Annie finally asked, looking them square in the face. “What would you have done?”

They were silent, staring at their daughter. It had been, thought Gamache, exactly the same question Beauvoir had recently asked.

“Are you saying you’ve met someone else?” Reine-Marie asked.

“No,” Annie shook her head. “I’m saying the right person is out there for David and for me. And holding on to something wrong isn’t going to fix it. This will never be right.”

Later, when he and Reine-Marie were alone, she’d asked him the same question.

“Armand,” she’d asked, taking off her reading glasses as they lay in bed, each with their own books. “What would you have done if you’d been married when we met?”

Gamache lowered his book and stared ahead. Trying to imagine it. His love for Reine-Marie had been so immediate and so complete it was difficult seeing himself with anyone else, never mind married.

“God help me,” he finally said, turning to her. “I’d have left her. A terrible, selfish decision, but I’d have made a rotten husband after that. All your fault, you hussy.”

Reine-Marie had nodded. “I’d have done the same thing. Brought little Julio Jr. and Francesca with me, of course.”

“Julio and Francesca?”

“My children by Julio Iglesias.”

“Poor man, no wonder he sings so many sad songs. You broke his heart.”

“He’s never recovered.” She smiled.

“Perhaps we can introduce him to my ex,” said Gamache. “Isabella Rossellini.”

Reine-Marie snorted and picked up her book, but lowered it again.

“Not still thinking about Julio, I hope.”

“No,” she’d said. “I was thinking about Annie and David.”

“Do you think it’s over?” he’d asked.

She’d nodded. “I think she’s found someone else but doesn’t want to tell us.”

“Really?” She’d surprised him, but now he thought it might be true.

Reine-Marie nodded. “I think he might be married. Maybe someone at her law firm. That might explain why she’s changing jobs.”

“God, I hope not.”

But he also knew there was nothing he could do either way. Except be there to help pick up the pieces. But that image reminded him of something.

“Well, gotta get back to work,” said Beauvoir, rising. “The porn doesn’t look itself up.”

“Wait,” said Gamache. And seeing his Chief’s face Beauvoir sank back into his chair.

Gamache sat silently, his forehead furrowed. Thinking. Beauvoir had seen that look many times. He knew Chief Inspector Gamache was following a lead in his head. A thought, that led to another, that led to another. Into the darkness, not so much an alley as a shaft. Trying to find the thing most deeply hidden. The secret. The truth.

“You said the raid on the factory was what finally made you decide to separate from Enid.”

Beauvoir nodded. That much was the truth.

“I wonder if it had the same effect on Annie.”

“How so?”

“It was a shattering experience, for everyone,” said the Chief. “Not just us. But our families too. Maybe, like you, it made Annie reexamine her life.”

“Then why wouldn’t she tell you that?”

“Maybe she didn’t want me to feel responsible. Maybe she doesn’t even realize it herself, not consciously.”

Then Beauvoir remembered his conversation with Annie, before the vernissage. How she’d asked him about his separation. And made a vague allusion to the raid, and the fall-out.

She’d been right of course. It was the final push he’d needed.

He’d shut her down, refused to discuss it out of fear he’d say too much. But had she really been wanting to talk about her own turmoil?

“How would you feel if that’s what happened?” Beauvoir asked his Chief.

Chief Inspector Gamache sat back, his face slightly troubled.

“It might be a good thing,” suggested Beauvoir, quietly. “It would be good, wouldn’t it, if something positive came out of what happened? Maybe Annie can find real love now.”

Gamache looked at Jean Guy. Drawn, tired, too thin. He nodded.

“Oui. It would be good if something positive came out of what happened. But I’m not sure the end of my daughter’s marriage could be considered a good thing.”

But Jean Guy Beauvoir disagreed.

“Would you like me to stay?” he asked.

Gamache roused himself from his reverie. “I’d like you to actually do some work.”

“Well, I do have to look up ‘schnaugendender.’”

“Look up what?”

“That word you used.”

“‘Schadenfreude,’” smiled Gamache. “Don’t bother. It means being happy for the misfortunes of others.”

Beauvoir paused at the table. “I think that describes the victim pretty well. But Lillian Dyson took it the next step. She actually created the misfortune. She must’ve been a very happy person.”

But Gamache thought differently. Happy people didn’t drink themselves to sleep every night.

Beauvoir left and the Chief Inspector sipped his coffee and read from the AA book, noting passages underlined and comments in the margins, losing himself in the archaic but beautiful language of this book that so gently described the descent into hell and the long climb back out. Eventually he closed the book over his finger and stared into space.

“May I join you?”

Gamache was startled. He got to his feet, bowing slightly, and pulled out a chair. “Please do.”

Myrna Landers sat, putting her éclair and café au lait on the bistro table. “You looked lost in thought.”

Gamache nodded. “I was thinking about Humpty Dumpty.”

“So the case is almost solved.”

The Chief smiled. “We’re getting closer.” He looked at her for a moment. “May I ask you a question?”

“Always.”

“Do you think people change?”

Myrna, the éclair on its way to her mouth, paused. Lowering the pastry she looked at the Chief Inspector with clear, searching eyes.

“Where did that come from?”

“There’s some debate over whether the dead woman had changed, whether she was the same person everyone knew twenty years ago, or if she was different.”

“What makes you think she’d changed?” Myrna asked, then took a bite.

“That coin you found in the garden? You were right, it’s from AA and it belonged to the dead woman. She’d stopped drinking for eight months now,” said the Chief. “People who knew her in AA describe a completely different person than Clara does. Not just slightly different, but completely. One is kind and generous, the other is cruel and manipulative.”

Myrna frowned and thought, taking a sip of her café au lait.

“We all change. Only psychotics remain the same.”

“But isn’t that more growth than change? Like harmonics, but the note remains the same.”

“Just a variation on a theme?” asked Myrna, interested. “Not really change?” She considered. “I think that’s often the case. Most people grow but they don’t become totally different people.”

“Most. But some do?”

“Some, Chief Inspector.” She watched him closely. Saw the familiar face, clean-shaven. The graying hair curling slightly around his ears. And the deep scar by his temple. Below that scar his eyes were kindly. She’d been afraid they might have changed. That when she next looked into them they’d have hardened.

They hadn’t. Nor had he.

But she didn’t kid herself. He might not look it, but he’d changed. Anyone who came out of that factory alive came out different.

“People change when they have no choice. It’s change or die. You mentioned AA. Alcoholics only stop drinking when they hit bottom.”

“What happens then?”

“What you’d expect after a great fall.” She looked at him now, understanding dawning. A great fall. “Like Humpty Dumpty.”

He nodded his head slightly.

“When people hit bottom,” she continued, “they can lie there and die, most do. Or they can try to pick themselves up.”

“Put the pieces back together,” said Gamache. “Like our friend Mr. Dumpty.”

“Well he had the help of all the King’s horses and all the King’s men,” said Myrna, with mock earnestness. “And even they couldn’t put Mr. Dumpty together again.”

“I’ve read the reports,” agreed the Chief.

“Besides, even if they succeeded, he’d just fall again.” Now she really did look serious. “The same person will just keep doing the same stupid thing, over and over. So if you put all the pieces back exactly as they were, why would you expect your life to be different?”

“Is there another option?”

Myrna smiled at him. “You know there is. But it’s the hardest. Not many have the stomach for it.”

“Change,” said Gamache.

Maybe, he thought, that was the point of Humpty Dumpty. He wasn’t meant to be put together again. He was meant to be different. After all, an egg on a wall would always be in peril.

Maybe Humpty Dumpty had to fall. And maybe all the King’s men had to fail.

Myrna drained her mug and rose. He rose too.

“People do change, Chief Inspector. But you need to know something.” She lowered her voice. “It’s not always for the better.”

“Why don’t you go and say something to him?” Gabri asked, as he put the tray of empty glasses on the counter.

“I’m busy,” said Olivier.

“You’re cleaning glasses, one of the waiters can do that. Speak to him.”

Both men looked out the leaded glass window, at the large man sitting alone at the table. A coffee and a book in front of him.

“I will,” said Olivier. “Just don’t push me.”

Gabri took the dishtowel and started drying the glasses as his partner washed the suds off. “He made a mistake,” said Gabri. “He apologized.”

Olivier looked at his partner, with his cheery white and red heart-shaped apron. The one he’d begged Gabri not to buy for Valentine’s Day two years ago. Had begged him not to wear. Had been ashamed of, and prayed no one they knew from Montréal visited and saw Gabri in such a ridiculous outfit.

But now Olivier loved it. Didn’t want him to change it.

Didn’t want him to change anything.

As he washed the glasses he saw Armand Gamache take a sip of his coffee and get to his feet.

Beauvoir walked over to the sheets of paper tacked to the walls of the old railway station. Uncapping the Magic Marker he waved it under his nose as he read what was written. It was all in neat, black columns.

Very soothing. Legible, orderly.

He read and reread their lists of evidence, of clues, of questions. Adding some gathered by their investigations so far that day.

They’d interviewed most of the guests at the party. Not surprisingly, none had admitted to wringing Lillian Dyson’s neck.

But now, staring at the sheets, something occurred to him.

All other thoughts left his mind.

Was it possible?

There were others at the party. Villagers, members of the art community, friends and family.

But someone else was there. Someone mentioned a number of times but never remarked upon. And never interviewed, at least not in depth.

Inspector Beauvoir picked up the phone and dialed a Montréal number.