A Trick of the Light

TWENTY-FIVE

“Jean Guy?” Gamache knocked.

There was no answer.

He waited a moment then turned the handle. It was unlocked and he walked in.

Beauvoir lay in the brass bed, covers around him, sleeping soundly. Even snoring slightly.

Gamache stared down at him, then looked into the open door of the bathroom. Keeping an eye on Beauvoir he walked over, and into the bathroom, quickly scanning the washstand. There, beside the deodorant and toothpaste, was a pill bottle.

Glancing into the mirror and seeing Beauvoir still asleep, the Chief picked it up. There was Beauvoir’s name, and the prescription for fifteen OxyContin.

It called for Beauvoir to take a pill each night, as needed. Gamache opened the bottle and dumped the pills into his palm. There were seven left.

But when was the prescription filled? The Chief replaced the pills, put the cap back on and looked at the bottom of the label. The date was typed in very small numerals. Gamache reached into his pocket for his reading glasses, and putting them on he picked up the pill bottle again.

Beauvoir groaned.

Gamache froze, and stared into the mirror. Very slowly he lowered the bottle, and removed his glasses.

Beauvoir, in the mirror, shifted in bed.

Gamache backed out of the bathroom. One pace, two. Then he stopped at the foot of the bed.

“Jean Guy?”

More moaning, clearer, stronger this time.

A chilly, damp breeze was blowing into Beauvoir’s room, fluttering the white cotton curtains. It had begun to drizzle and the Chief could hear the muffled tap of rain on leaves, and smell the familiar scent of wood fires from the village homes.

He closed the window then turned back to the bed. Beauvoir had burrowed into his pillow.

It was just after seven A.M. and Agent Lacoste had called. She was in her car, turning off the autoroute. She’d found something in the archives.

Gamache wanted his Inspector part of the discussion when she arrived.

He himself had returned to the B and B, showered, shaved and changed.

“Jean Guy?” he whispered again, lowering his head so that he was face-to-face with his slightly drooling Inspector.

Beauvoir pried his heavy lids open and looked through slits at Gamache, a goofy smile on Beauvoir’s face. Then his eyes flew open and the smile turned into a gasp as he jerked his head away from the Chief’s.

“Don’t worry,” said Gamache, standing up. “You were a perfect gentleman.”

It took a moment for the bleary Beauvoir to grasp what the Chief meant and then he chuckled.

“Did I at least buy you champagne?” he asked, wiping the crusty sleep from his eyes.

“Well, you made a nice pot of coffee.”

“Last night?” Beauvoir asked, sitting up in bed. “Here?”

“No, at the Incident Room.” Gamache looked at him, searching. “Remember?”

Beauvoir looked blank, then shook his head. “Sorry. I’m still half asleep.”

He rubbed his face, trying to remember.

Gamache dragged a chair up to the side of the bed and sat.

“What time is it?” Beauvoir asked, looking around.

“Just past seven.”

“I’ll get up.” And Jean Guy grabbed at the duvet.

“No. Not yet.” Gamache’s voice was soft, but certain, and Beauvoir’s hand stopped then fell back to the bedding.

“We need to talk about last night,” said the Chief.

Gamache watched Beauvoir, still exhausted. There was a puzzled look on the Inspector’s face.

“Did you mean what you said?” asked Gamache. “Is that how you feel? Because if it is you need to tell me now, in the light of day. We need to talk about it.”

“Do I believe what?”

“What you said last night. That I wanted the video released, that in your opinion I’m as bad as the hacker.”

Beauvoir’s eyes widened. “Did I say that? Last night?”

“You don’t remember?”

“I remember watching the video, getting upset. But I can’t remember why. Did I really say that?”

“You did.” The Chief peered at Beauvoir. He seemed sincerely shocked.

But was this better? It meant Beauvoir might not believe what he’d said, but it would also mean his Inspector couldn’t remember. Was in a sort of blackout.

Chief Inspector Gamache studied Beauvoir for a moment. Beauvoir, feeling the scrutiny, reddened.

“I’m so sorry,” he said again. “Of course I don’t think that. I can’t believe I said it. I’m sorry.”

And he looked it.

Gamache held up his hand, “I know you are. I’m not here to punish you. I’m here because I think you need help—”

“—I don’t. I’m fine, I really am.”

“You’re not. You’re losing weight, you’re stressed. You’re testy. You let your anger show last night in the interrogation of Madame Coates. Lashing out at the Chief Justice was reckless.”

“He started it.”

“This isn’t a school yard. Suspects push us all the time. We need to stay calm. You let yourself be thrown off balance.”

“Fortunately, you were there to right me,” said Beauvoir.

Gamache regarded him again, not missing the slight acid in the words. “What’s wrong, Jean Guy? You need to tell me.”

“I’m just tired.” He rubbed his face. “But I am getting better. Stronger.”

“You’re not. You were for a while but now you’re getting worse. You need more help. You need to go back to the Sûreté counselors.”

“I’ll consider it.”

“You’ll more than consider it,” said Gamache. “How many OxyContin pills do you take?”

Beauvoir had a protest on his lips, but silenced it.

“What the prescription says.”

“And what’s that?” The Chief’s face was stern, his eyes sharp.

“One pill every night.”

“Do you take more?”

“No.”

The two men stared at each other, Gamache’s deep brown eyes unyielding.

“Do you?” he repeated.

“No,” said Beauvoir, adamant. “Listen, we deal with enough junkies, I don’t want to turn into that.”

“And you think that’s what the junkies wanted?” demanded Gamache. “You think that’s what Suzanne and Brian and Pineault expected to happen? No one starts out with that as the goal.”

“I’m just tired, a little stressed. That’s all. I need the pills to take the edge off the pain, to sleep, but nothing more. I promise.”

“You’ll go back to counseling, and I’ll be monitoring it. Understand?” Gamache got up and carried the chair back to the corner of the room. “If there’s really nothing wrong the counselor will tell me. But if there is, you need more help.”

“Like what?” Beauvoir looked shocked.

“Whatever the counselor and I decide. This isn’t a punishment, Jean Guy.” Gamache’s voice softened. “I still go to counseling myself. And still I have bad days. I know what you’re going through. But no two of us were hurt the same way, and no two of us will get better the same way.”

Gamache regarded Beauvoir for a moment. “I know how horrible this is for you. You’re a private man, a good man. A strong man. Why else would I have chosen you, of the hundreds of agents? You’re my second in command because I trust you. I know how smart and brave you are. And you need to be brave now, Jean Guy. For me, for the department. For yourself. You need to get help to get better. Please.”

Beauvoir closed his eyes. And then he did remember. Last night. Seeing the video over and over, as though for the first time. Seeing himself hit.

And Gamache leaving. Turning his back. Leaving him to die alone.

He opened his eyes and saw the Chief looking at him, with much the same expression as in the factory.

“I’ll do it,” said Beauvoir.

Gamache nodded. “Bon.”

And he left. As he had that dreadful day. As he always would, Beauvoir knew.

Gamache would always leave him.

Jean Guy Beauvoir reached under his pillow and removing the tiny bottle, he shook a pill into the palm of his hand. By the time he was shaved and dressed and downstairs he was feeling just fine.

“What did you find?” asked Chief Inspector Gamache.

They were having breakfast at the bistro, since they needed to talk and didn’t want to share the B and B dining room, or their information, with the other guests.

The waiter had brought them frothy bowls of café au lait.

“I found this.” Agent Lacoste placed the photocopies of the article on the wooden table and stared out the window while Chief Inspector Gamache and Inspector Beauvoir read.

The drizzle had turned into a Scotch mist and clung to the hills surrounding the village so that Three Pines felt particularly intimate. As though the rest of the world didn’t exist. Only here. Quiet and peaceful.

A log fire crackled in the grate. Just enough to take the chill off.

Agent Lacoste was exhausted. She wished she could take her bowl of café au lait and a croissant, and curl up on the large sofa by the fireplace. And read one of the well-worn paperbacks from Myrna’s shop. An old Maigret. Read and nap. Read and nap. In front of the fireplace. While the outside world and worries receded into the mist.

But the worries were in here, she knew. Trapped in the village with them.

Inspector Beauvoir was the first to look up, meeting her eyes.

“Well done,” he said, tapping the article with his fingers. “Must have taken all night.”

“Just about,” she admitted.

They looked over to the Chief, who seemed to be taking an unusually long time to read what was a short, sharp review.

Finally he lowered the page and took off his reading glasses just as the waiter arrived with their food. Toast and home-made confiture for Beauvoir. Pear and spiced blueberry crêpes for Lacoste. She’d kept herself awake on the drive down from Montréal by imagining what breakfast she’d have. This won. A bowl of porridge with raisins, cream and brown sugar was placed in front of the Chief.

He poured the brown sugar and cream on top then picked up the photocopy again.

Lacoste, seeing this, also laid her knife and fork down. “Is that it, do you think, Chief? Why Lillian Dyson was murdered?”

He took a deep breath. “I do. We need to confirm, to backfill some of the dates and information, but I think we have a motive. And we know there was opportunity.”

When they’d finished breakfast Beauvoir and Lacoste went back to the Incident Room. But Gamache had something he still needed to do in the bistro.

Pushing open the swinging door to the kitchen he found Olivier standing by the counter, chopping strawberries and cantaloupe.

“Olivier?”

Olivier startled and dropped the knife. “For God’s sake, don’t you know enough not to do that to someone with a sharp knife?”

“I came in to talk to you.”

The Chief Inspector closed the door behind him.

“I’m busy.”

“So am I, Olivier. But we still need to talk.”

The knife sliced through the strawberries, leaving thin wafers of fruit and a small stain of red juice on the chopping block.

“I know you’re angry at me, and I know you have every right to be. What happened was unforgivable, and my only defense is that it wasn’t malicious, it wasn’t done to harm you—”

“But it did.” Olivier slammed the knife down. “Do you think prison is less horrible because you didn’t do it maliciously? Do you think, when those men surrounded me in the yard that I thought, Oh, well, this’ll be OK because that nice Chief Inspector Gamache didn’t wish me harm?”

Olivier’s hands shook so badly he had to grip the edges of the counter.

“You have no idea what it feels like to know the truth will come out. To trust the lawyers, the judges. You. That I’ll be let go. And then to hear the verdict. Guilty.”

For a moment Olivier’s rage disappeared, to be replaced by wonder, shock. That single word, that judgment. “I was guilty, of course, of many things. I know that. I’ve tried to make it up to people. But—”

“Give them time,” said Gamache quietly. He stood across the counter from Olivier, his shoulders square, his back straight. But he too grasped the wooden counter. His knuckles white. “They love you. It would be a shame not to see that.”

“Don’t lecture me about shame, Chief Inspector,” snarled Olivier.

Gamache stared at Olivier, then nodded. “I am sorry. I just wanted you to know that.”

“So that I could forgive you? Let you off the hook? Well, maybe this is your prison, Chief Inspector. Your punishment.”

Gamache considered. “Perhaps.”

“Is that it?” Olivier asked. “Are you finished?”

Gamache took a deep breath and exhaled. “Not quite. I have another question, about Clara’s party.”

Olivier picked up his knife, but his hand was still shaking too hard to use it.

“When did you and Gabri hire the caterers?”

“As soon as we decided to throw the party, three months ago I guess.”

“Was the party your idea?”

“It was Peter’s.”

“Who made up the guest list?”

“We all did.”

“Including Clara?” Gamache asked.

Olivier gave a curt nod.

“So a lot of people would’ve known about it weeks in advance,” said the Chief.

Olivier nodded again, no longer looking at Gamache.

“Merci, Olivier,” he said, and lingered a moment, looking at the blond head, bowed over the chopping block. “Do you think, maybe, we’ve ended up in the same cell?” asked Gamache.

When Olivier didn’t respond Gamache walked toward the door then hesitated. “But I wonder who the guards are. And who has the key.”

Gamache watched him for a moment, then left.

All morning and into the afternoon Armand Gamache and his team gathered information.

At one o’clock the phone rang. It was Clara Morrow.

“Are you and your people free for dinner?” she asked. “It’s so miserable we thought we’d poach a salmon and see who can come over.”

“Isn’t poaching illegal?” asked Gamache, confused as to why she’d be telling him this.

Clara laughed. “Not poached like that. Poached as in cooked.”

“Frankly, either way would’ve been fine,” admitted Gamache.

“Great. It’ll be very relaxed. En famille.”

Gamache smiled at the French phrase. It was one Reine-Marie often used. It meant “come as you are,” but it meant more than that. She didn’t use it for every relaxed occasion and with every guest. It was reserved for special guests, who were considered family. It was a particular position, a compliment. An intimacy offered.

“I accept,” he said. “And I’m sure the other two will be delighted as well. Merci, Clara.”

Armand Gamache called Reine-Marie then showered and looked longingly at his bed.

The room, like all the others in Gabri and Olivier’s B and B, was surprisingly simple. But not Spartan. It was elegant and luxurious, in its way. With crisp white bed linen, and a duvet filled with goose down. Hand-stitched Oriental carpets were thrown onto wide plank pine floors, which were original from when the B and B had been a coaching inn. Gamache wondered how many fellow travelers had rested in that very room. A pause in their difficult and dangerous journey. He wondered, briefly, where they’d come from and where they were going.

And if they made it.

The B and B was far less magnificent than the inn and spa on the hill. And he supposed he could have stayed there. But as he got older he yearned for less and less. Family, friends. Books. Walks with Reine-Marie and Henri, their dog.

And a full night’s sleep in a simple bedroom.

Now, as he sat on the edge of the bed and put his socks on, he longed to just flop back, to feel his body hit the soft duvet, and sink in. To close his heavy lids, and let go.

Sleep.

But there was still a distance to go in his journey.

The Sûreté officers walked through mist and drizzle across the village green and arrived at Clara and Peter’s home.

“Come on in,” said Peter with a smile. “No keep your shoes on. Ruth’s here and I think she walked through every mud puddle on her way over.”

They looked at the floor and sure enough, there were muddy shoe prints.

Beauvoir was shaking his head. “I expected to see a cloven hoof.”

“Perhaps that’s why she keeps her shoes on,” said Peter. The Sûreté officers rubbed their shoes as clean as they could on the welcome mat.

The home smelled of salmon and fresh bread, with slight hints of lemon and dill.

“Dinner won’t be long,” said their host as he led them through the kitchen and into the living room.

Within minutes Beauvoir and Lacoste had glasses of wine. Gamache, already tired, asked for water. Lacoste wandered over to the two artists, Normand and Paulette. Beauvoir chatted with Myrna and Gabri. Mostly, Gamache suspected, because they were as far from Ruth as possible.

Gamache’s eyes swept the room. It was habit now. Noticing where everyone was, and what they were doing.

Olivier was by the bookcases, his back to the room. Apparently fascinated by the books, but Gamache suspected he’d seen those shelves many times.

François Marois and Denis Fortin were standing together, though not talking. Gamache wondered where the other one was. André Castonguay.

And then he found him. In a corner of the room, talking with Chief Justice Pineault while a few steps away young Brian was watching.

What was the look on Brian’s face, Gamache wondered. It took an effort to dig below the tattoos, the swastika, the raised finger, the “fuck you.” And see other expressions. Brian was certainly alert, watchful. Not the detached youth of the evening before.

“You must be kidding,” said Castonguay, his voice raised. “You can’t tell me you like it.”

Gamache wandered a little closer, while everyone else glanced over, then wandered a little further away. Except Brian. He stood his ground.

“I don’t just like it, I think it’s amazing,” Pineault was saying.

“Waste of time,” said the art dealer, his voice thick. He clutched an almost empty glass of red wine.

Gamache maneuvered closer and noticed the two men were standing in front of one of Clara’s paintings. A study, really, of hands. Some clutching, some fists, some just opening, or closing, depending on your perception.

“It’s all just bullshit,” said Castonguay, and Pineault made a subtle gesture to try to get the art dealer to lower his voice. “Everyone says it’s so great, but you know what?”

Castonguay leaned toward Pineault, and Gamache focused on Castonguay’s lips, hoping to make out what the art dealer was about to whisper.

“People who think that are idiots. Morons. Wet brains.”

Gamache needn’t have worried about hearing. Everyone heard. Castonguay shouted his opinion.

Again the circle around the dealer grew. Pineault scanned the room, looking for Clara, Gamache supposed. Hoping she wasn’t hearing what one of her guests was saying about her work.

Then the Chief Justice’s gaze settled back on Castonguay, his eyes hard. Gamache had seen that look often in court. Rarely directed at him, mostly directed at some poor trial lawyer who’d transgressed.

Had Castonguay been a Death Star, his head would have exploded.

“I’m sorry to hear that, André,” said Pineault, his voice polar. “Maybe one day you’ll feel as I do.”

The Chief Justice turned and walked away.

“Feel?” demanded Castonguay to Pineault’s retreating back. “Feel? Jeez, maybe you should try using your brains.”

Pineault hesitated, his back to Castonguay. The entire room was quiet now, watching. Then the Chief Justice continued walking away.

And André Castonguay was left all alone.

“He needs to hit bottom,” said Suzanne.

“I’ve hit many bottoms,” said Gabri. “And I find it helps.”

Gamache looked around the room for Clara, but fortunately she wasn’t there. Almost certainly in the kitchen preparing dinner. Wonderful aromas drifted through the open door, almost masking the stink of Castonguay’s words.

“So,” said Ruth, turning her back on the swaying art dealer and focusing on Suzanne. “I hear you’re a drunk.”

“Very true,” said Suzanne. “In fact, I come from a long line of drunks. They’d drink anything. Lighter fluid, pond scum, one of my uncles swore he could turn urine into wine.”

“Really?” said Ruth, perking up. “I can turn wine into urine. Did he perfect the process?”

“Not surprisingly, he died before I was born but my mother had a still and would ferment everything. Peas, roses. Lamps.”

Ruth looked disbelieving. “Come on. Peas?”

Still, she looked ready to try. She took a swig of her drink and inclined it toward Suzanne. “Bet your mother never tried this.”

“What is it?” asked Suzanne. “If it’s a distilled Oriental carpet, she did that too. Tasted like my grandfather, but got the job done.”

Ruth looked impressed, but shook her head. “It’s my special blend. Gin, bitters, and the tears of little children.”

Suzanne didn’t seem surprised.

Armand Gamache decided not to join that conversation.

Just then Peter called, “Dinner!” and the guests filed into the kitchen.

Clara had lit candles around the large room, and vases of flowers had been placed along the center of the long pine table.

As Gamache took his seat he noticed that while the three art dealers seemed to travel together, so did the three AA members. Suzanne, Thierry and Brian.

“What’re you thinking?” Myrna asked, taking a seat on his right. She handed him a basket of warm baguettes.

“Groups of threes.”

“Really? Last time we were together you were thinking of Humpty Dumpty.”

“Christ,” muttered Ruth, on his other side, “this murder’ll never be solved.”

Gamache looked at the old poet. “Guess what I’m thinking now.”

She stared back at him, her cold blue eyes narrowing, her face flint. Then she laughed. “Quite right too,” she said, grabbing some bread. “I’m all that, and more.”

The platter, with the whole poached salmon, was being passed in one direction, while spring vegetables and salad were going in the other. Everyone helped themselves.

“So, groups of threes,” Ruth nodded to the art dealers. “Like Curly, Larry and Moe over there?”

François Marois laughed but André Castonguay looked bleary and peeved.

“There’s a long tradition of groups of threes,” said Myrna. “Everyone thinks in terms of couples, but actually threes are very common. Mystical even. The holy trinity.”

“Three Graces,” said Gabri, helping himself to vegetables. “Like in your painting, Clara.”

“The Three Fates,” said Paulette.

“There’s ‘three on a match,’” said Denis Fortin. “Ready. Aim.” He looked at Marois. “Fire. But we’re not the only ones to move in threes,” said Fortin.

Gamache looked at him inquiringly.

“You do too,” said Fortin, looking from Gamache, to Beauvoir to Lacoste.

Gamache laughed. “I hadn’t thought of that, but it’s true.”

“Three blind mice,” said Ruth.

“Three pines,” said Clara. “Maybe you’re the three pines. Keeping us safe.”

“Sure made a balls-up of that,” said Ruth.

“Stupid conversation,” muttered Castonguay, and knocked his fork to the floor. He glared at it, a stupid look on his face. The room grew quiet.

“Never mind,” said Clara cheerfully. “We have plenty.”

She got up but Castonguay reached out to grab her as she passed.

“I’m not hungry,” he said, his voice loud and querulous.

Missing Clara, his hand hit Agent Lacoste beside him. “Sorry,” he mumbled.

Peter, Gabri and Paulette began speaking at once. Loudly, cheerfully.

“Don’t want any,” snapped Castonguay as Brian offered him the salmon. Then the gallery owner seemed to focus on the young man. “Jeez, who invited you?”

“The same person who invited you,” said Brian.

Peter, Gabri and Paulette spoke even more loudly. More cheerfully.

“What’re you?” slurred Castonguay, trying to focus on Brian. “Christ, don’t tell me you’re an artist too. You look fucked up enough to be one.”

“I am,” said Brian. “I’m a tattoo artist.”

“What?” demanded Castonguay.

“It’s all right, André,” said François Marois, in a soothing voice, and it seemed to work. Castonguay swayed a bit in his chair and stared down at his plate, mesmerized.

“Who wants seconds?” asked Peter, brightly.

No one put their hand up.