World of Curiosities

CHAPTER 27

Fiona Arsenault guided Harriet out the back door of the B&B and into the garden.

“Come. Sit. What’s wrong?”

They were alone.

“Where’s Sam?” Harriet looked around, hoping, but not hoping, to see him there. Hoping he’d take her in his arms and wipe away her tears. And reassure her. She’d made the right choice.

“He’s having lunch with one of the cops.”

“Gamache?”

“No, the other one. The younger one. Beauvoir.”

Harriet took a few shuddering breaths and calmed herself.

The garden was private and peaceful. The old lilac bushes were thick with blooms, the crab apples were full of bright pink flowers. Some petals had already fallen, creating what looked like pink snow on the grass.

It felt a world away from the turmoil in Harriet’s head.

“I’m thinking of staying here.”

“Of course, but why?”

“My aunt says Sam’s sick. Mentally.”

Fiona smiled. “Well, he’s my brother, so of course I’m going to agree with that.”

Harriet looked at her, then gave one unexpected laugh.

“Brothers,” said Fiona, “are a pain in the ass. And Sam more than most. He’s taking his sweet time growing up. I grew up too quickly. Had to. I can see how people like your aunt, like Monsieur Gamache, might misinterpret Sam’s immaturity. But believe me, he’s okay. He cares a lot about you. You’re the first woman he’s felt that way about.”

“So you don’t think Sam is … unwell?”

“Do you? ’Cause if you do, you really shouldn’t be with him. For your sake, but also for his.”

“No, no, I like him, a lot. I think Auntie Myrna put things in my head.”

“She loves you. She just got the wrong end of the stick. She has a lot of respect for Monsieur Gamache, and for good reason, so she listens to him. And I think there’s a chance she’s overprotective of you. I’m sure she doesn’t mean to keep you away from other relationships. She just enjoys having you to herself.”

That had not occurred to Harriet, but it made sense. Auntie Myrna was clearly, now that she could see it, trying to come between her and Sam. Was she jealous?

“It’s a generational thing,” Fiona continued. “They get scared of anyone who’s a little different. I’m sure they don’t want to hurt you, or Sam. We just have to stick together, and they’ll come around.”

Harriet gripped Fiona’s hand. She hadn’t had that many women friends, that many friends period. Now she saw what she’d been missing.

“Tell me about psychopaths.”

“You know as much as I do, Armand.”

“I doubt that’s true. I’ve met a few but never spent much time with them. You have. You had to try to treat them.”

“That’s just it, there is no treating them.” Myrna put down her mug of tea. “The best I could manage was not letting them fuck with me. It was exhausting. They’re smart, often charming. ‘Beguiling’ is the word that comes to mind.”

“Nice word.”

“For lovers, maybe. Not for a psychopath. Then it’s horrifying. You can feel yourself slipping under their spell, even as you try to resist. They get in your head.” She stared at him. “I think you know what I’m talking about.”

When he remained silent, she continued.

“They’re incredibly manipulative. They know what you want to hear, and they say it. They know what you’re missing in your life, even if you don’t. And they pretend to give it to you. They see things you don’t. They know things you don’t. They’re terrifying.”

“You talk about them as though they’re a different species.”

“Just about. If emotions are what makes us human, then yes, they’re a different species. They feign emotions but don’t actually feel them.”

“What motivates them?”

“Getting what they want. That’s it. They are purely focused on that.”

“And if someone refuses or gets in their way?”

“They’ll be moved aside, one way or another. Often, they’re brought on side, only because it’s easier, less messy, more fun. They’re adept at making something untrue appear reasonable. They could make someone believe red curtains are bright blue. Then swear to it.”

“What if the person refuses to see the bright blue curtains?”

“That’s where you come in.”

For a moment, her answer puzzled him. And then he, the head of homicide for the Sûreté, understood.

“They’re smart, often brilliant,” said Myrna. “Cunning, certainly. Their thoughts and actions are uncluttered by any question of morality. Uncluttered by the existence of others. They’re not only the most important person in the universe, they’re the only one. Everyone else only exists in relation to themselves.”

“Like a black hole.”

Myrna considered and nodded. “In a way, yes.”

“And what happens if they’re ignored?”

Myrna was silent before saying, “They’d go crazy.”

What fresh horror would that be, Gamache wondered. A lunatic going crazy.

“What would that look like?” he asked.

“I think you’ve seen what it looks like. If they’re denied, they’re like an angry child. An upset, frustrated child will throw toys and dishes, breaking everything they can get their hands on. A psychopath, ignored and frustrated, breaks people.”

Sam stared at the image of the Gamaches’ bedroom on the phone, then at Beauvoir.

He’d never seen the cop angry. Frustrated at times, annoyed, perhaps. It was hard for Sam to distinguish the difference.

But anger he recognized by the lines down faces that looked so much like cracks. He saw crevices deepening on the cop’s face. Yes, Beauvoir was very angry.

Sam shook his head and dropped his eyes. “I didn’t take those.”

“Look at me.” When Sam did not, Beauvoir repeated, raising his voice. “Look. At. Me.”

Sam raised his eyes.

“What’s this picture doing on your phone?”

“When someone sends a photo, it’s automatically saved to my phone. That’s what happened.”

Beauvoir put the device on the table with such force, other patrons in the bistro looked over. “What’s it doing up?”

“Okay. While I waited for you, I was looking at the pictures.”

“Pictures? There’re more?”

Sam picked up his phone and offered it to Jean-Guy. “I have nothing to hide. Scroll along.”

Jean-Guy did. Sure enough, there were other shots of the house. Then he stopped at the picture of the picture. The one from Christmas the year before.

He and Annie had the same framed photo, a gift from Armand and Reine-Marie. It showed the whole family, and Ruth, in front of the tree.

His hand clasped the phone, tight. Overcome with anger over this violation.

“I didn’t take it, I swear, Monsieur Beauvoir. Fiona sent it to me.”

“Why would she do that?” Jean-Guy’s voice was almost a snarl. “And not just this one, but the others, of the whole house.”

“I don’t know. I think she’s angry at me, angry that she spent all those years in prison. And I didn’t. She wanted to hurt me.”

“But how could these pictures hurt you?”

Sam looked Beauvoir straight in the face. “You’ve always had a family, haven’t you? You’ve always belonged. I never have. She sent me those pictures as a message. She’s welcome in their home, in their lives, and I’m not. I’m out here. You don’t know her. She can be wonderful, but she can also be cruel.” He examined Beauvoir. “But maybe you do know that.”

He took a deep breath and stared again at the family photo. Like a starving child looking into a pastry shop, or a sinner glimpsing Paradise.

“Don’t laugh, but part of me even wishes that Monsieur Gamache had arrested me. At least in prison I’d have people around. I’d have, I don’t know, predictability. Stability. I’m tired of moving from place to place. I just want to stop, you know? I want someplace to go. I just want someone to care if I was home safe, even if that home is a cell. And that someone is a cop. And then, maybe, when I got out, Monsieur Gamache would take me in too.”

Jean-Guy did not laugh. He’d heard it before. Prisoners who didn’t want to be released. Men and women who reoffended so they could go back. Home. They weren’t free, but they were safe.

“I came here hoping maybe, maybe, the Gamaches would finally see me. Really see me. As I am now. Not as a screwed-up child but as a man, trying to do his best. Maybe, I thought, maybe Fiona and I could reconnect. Become a family again.” He mumbled something and Beauvoir had to ask him to repeat it.

“I thought maybe the Gamaches would invite me over for dinner.” He dropped his head and spoke to the table. “I stare at the pictures Fiona sent and pretend it’s my home. My family. I sit at the dinner table and listen as they talk about their day. And they ask me about mine. I even said to Fiona the other night that I hoped one day to meet the grandchildren. I know I won’t, but in my dreams the kids and I toss Frisbees on the village green while the Sunday roast is cooking. I’m sorry. This’s pathetic. I’m pathetic. Oh, shit.”

He dropped his head.

Jean-Guy understood. He’d been raised in a large family, but Sam was wrong about belonging. Just because there were people around didn’t mean you felt a part of it. For as long as Jean-Guy could remember, he’d always felt like a stranger. An outsider. Until he’d been invited one evening back to the Chief Inspector’s home for Sunday dinner.

He’d never really left. Not in his heart. At night, in his little apartment, Agent Beauvoir would close his eyes and smell the roast and relive that dinner. And know such a place existed. Such a thing existed. And that maybe, one day, he would not have to leave.

Yes. He understood.

Beauvoir pushed the phone across to Sam. “Erase those pictures, now. While I watch.”

“Yessir.” And Sam did.

Jean-Guy nodded and smiled and said, “Don’t worry. You’ll have a family of your own one day. It’ll be all right.”

Ça va bien aller.

It was, he remembered, exactly what he’d said to the ten-year-old Sam as the boy slobbered on his brand-new jacket.

Jean-Guy had rubbed the child’s back and repeated those words until the crying stopped.

It’ll be all right. It’ll be all right.

But it wasn’t.

“You came up here for a reason, Armand,” said Myrna. “Not just for Earl Grey.”

It took Armand a moment to remember. “Did the Special Handling Unit in the penitentiary try art therapy?”

She raised her brows. “What brought on that question?” Then she glanced toward the hole in the wall and had her answer. “Forget I asked. We tried everything. Forming choirs. Teaching them dog training. You don’t want to know how that went. Sports. Like lunatics ourselves, we kept trying and failing. And yes, including art therapy.” Myrna examined him. “You’ve been to the SHU. It’s a madhouse. Literally. All anyone wants is to prevent a catastrophe. A riot. Bedlam.”

“A breakout.”

“That, thankfully, has never happened, nor could it.”

“Did it work?”

“Art therapy with psychopaths? Jesus, that sounds like a really bad reality show. Though”—she paused—“I might actually watch that.”

They both spent a moment imagining …

“Did it work? Not even close. Two of them stabbed each other. One died.”

“So it was discontinued?”

“I left, so I don’t know. I hope so, but there comes a point where the guards and workers are as deranged as the prisoners. Rational decisions are few and far between. It’s brutal.”

Gamache got up. “I’m asking a few people over to the Old Train Station—”

“Your Incident Room.”

“Oui. I need some help with the painting.”

“To move it?”

“No. To decode it.”