A Trick of the Light (27 page)

And as he walked he thought about AA, and Lillian, and Suzanne. About the Chief Justice. About the artists and dealers, asleep in their beds in Three Pines.

But mostly he thought about the corrosive effect of secrets. Including his own.

He’d lied to Beauvoir. It wasn’t over. And he hadn’t let it go.

*   *   *

Jean Guy Beauvoir washed the beer glass then headed toward his bedroom.

Keep going, just keep going,
he begged himself.
Just a few more steps.

But he stopped, of course. As he’d done every night since that video had appeared.

Once on the Net it could never, ever be taken off. It was there forever. Forgotten, perhaps, but still there, waiting to be found again. To surface again.

Like a secret. Never really hidden completely. Never totally forgotten.

And this video was far from forgotten. Not yet.

Beauvoir sat heavily into the chair and brought his computer out of sleep. The link was on his favorites list, but intentionally mislabeled.

His eyes heavy with sleep and his body aching, Jean Guy clicked on it.

And up came the video.

He hit play. Then play again. And again.

Over and over he watched the video. The picture was clear, as were the sounds. The explosions, the shooting, the shouting, “Officer down, officer down.”

And Gamache’s voice, steady, commanding. Issuing clear orders, holding them together, keeping the chaos at bay as the tactical team had pressed deeper and deeper into the factory. Cornering the gunmen. So many more gunmen than they’d expected.

And over and over and over Beauvoir watched himself get shot in the abdomen. And over and over and over he watched something worse. Chief Inspector Gamache. Arms thrown out, back arching. Lifting off, then falling. Hitting the ground. Still.

And then the chaos closing in.

Finally exhausted, he pushed himself away from the screen and got ready for bed. Washing, brushing his teeth. Taking out the prescription medication he popped an OxyContin.

Then he slipped the other small bottle of pills under his pillow. In case he needed it in the night. It was safe there. Out of sight. Like a weapon. A last resort.

A bottle of Percocet.

In case the OxyContin wasn’t enough.

In his bed, in the dark, he waited for the painkiller to kick in. He could feel the day slip away. The worries, the anxieties, the images receded. As he hugged his stuffed lion and drifted toward oblivion one image drifted along with him. Not of himself being shot. Not even of seeing the Chief hit, and fall.

All that had faded, gobbled up by the OxyContin.

But one thought remained. Followed him to the edge.

Restaurant Milos. The phone number, now hidden in the desk drawer. Every week for the past three months he’d called the Restaurant Milos and made a reservation. For two. For Saturday night. The table at the back, by the whitewashed wall.

And every Saturday afternoon he canceled it. He wondered if they even bothered to take down his name anymore. Maybe they just pretended. As he did.

But tomorrow, he felt certain, would be different.

He’d definitely call her then. And she’d say yes. And he’d take Annie Gamache to Milos, with its crystal and white linen. She’d have the Dover sole, he’d have the lobster.

And she’d listen to him, and look at him with those intense eyes. He’d ask her all about her day, her life, her likes, her feelings. Everything. He wanted to know everything.

Every night he drifted off to sleep with the same image. Annie looking at him across the table. And then, he’d reach out and place his hand on hers. And she’d let him.

As he sank into sleep he placed one hand over the other. That was how it would feel.

And then, the OxyContin took everything. And Jean Guy Beauvoir had no more feelings.

FIFTEEN

Clara came down to breakfast. The place smelled of coffee and toasted English muffins.

When Clara had woken up, surprised she’d even fallen asleep, the bed was empty. It had taken her a moment to remember what had happened the night before.

Their fight.

How close she’d come to getting dressed and leaving him. Taking the car, driving to Montréal. Checking into a cheap hotel.

And then?

And then, something. The rest of her life, she supposed. She hadn’t cared.

But then Peter had finally told her the truth.

They’d talked into the night, and fallen asleep. Not touching, not yet. They were both too bruised for that. It was as though they’d been skinned and dissected. Deboned. Their innards brought out. Examined. And found to be rotten.

They didn’t have a marriage, they had a parody of a partnership.

But they’d also found that maybe, maybe, they could put themselves together again.

It would be different. Would it be better?

Clara didn’t know.

“Morning,” said Peter when she appeared, her hair sticking up on one side, a crust of sleep on her face.

“Morning,” she said.

He poured her a mug of coffee.

Once Clara had fallen asleep, and he’d heard the heavy breathing and a snort, he’d gone down to the living room. He found the newspaper. He found the glossy catalog for her show.

And he’d sat there all night. Memorizing the
New York Times
review. Memorizing the London
Times
review. So that he knew them by heart.

So that he too would have a choice of what to believe.

And then he’d stared at the reproductions of her paintings in the catalog.

They were brilliant. But then he already knew that. In the past, though, he’d looked at her portraits and seen flaws. Real or imagined. A brush stroke slightly off. The hands that could have been better. He’d deliberately concentrated on the minutiae so that he wouldn’t have to see the whole.

Now he looked at the whole.

To say he was happy about it would be a lie, and Peter Morrow was determined not to lie anymore. Not to himself. Not to Clara.

The truth was, it still hurt to see such talent. But for the first time since he’d met Clara he was no longer looking for the flaws.

But there was something else he’d struggled with all night. He’d told her everything. Every stinking thing he’d done and thought. So she’d know it all. So there was nothing hidden, to surprise either of them.

Except one thing.

Lillian. And what he’d said to her at the student art show so many years ago. The number of words he could count on his fingers. But each had been a bullet. And each had hit its target. Clara.

“Thanks,” said Clara, accepting the mug of rich, strong coffee. “Smells good.”

She too was determined not to lie, not to pretend everything was fine in the hope that fantasy might become reality. The truth was, the coffee did smell good. That at least was safe to say.

Peter sat down, screwing up his courage to tell her about what he’d done. He took a breath, closed his eyes briefly, then opened his mouth to speak.

“They’re back early.” Clara nodded out the window, where she’d been staring.

Peter watched as a Volvo pulled up and parked. Chief Inspector Gamache and Jean Guy Beauvoir got out and walked toward the bistro.

He closed his mouth and stepped back, deciding now wasn’t the time after all.

Clara smiled as she watched the two men out the window. It amused her that Inspector Beauvoir no longer locked their car. When they’d first come to Three Pines, to investigate Jane’s murder, the officers had made sure the car was always locked. But now, several years later, they didn’t bother.

They knew, she presumed, that people in Three Pines might occasionally take a life, but not a car.

Clara looked at the kitchen clock. Almost eight. “They must’ve left Montréal just after six.”

“Uh-huh,” said Peter, watching Gamache and Beauvoir disappear into the bistro. Then he looked down at Clara’s hands. One held the mug, but the other rested on the old pine table, a loose fist.

Did he dare?

He reached out and very slowly, so as not to surprise or frighten her, he placed his large hand on hers. Cupping her fist in his palm. Making it safe there, in the little home his hand created.

And she let him.

It was enough, he told himself.

No need to tell her the rest. No need to upset her.

*   *   *

“I’ll have,” said Beauvoir slowly, staring at the menu. He had no appetite, but he knew he had to order something. There were blueberry pancakes, crêpes, eggs Benedict, bacon and sausages and fresh, warm croissants on the menu.

He’d been up since five. Had picked up the Chief at quarter to six. And now it was almost seven thirty. He waited for his hunger to kick in.

Chief Inspector Gamache lowered the menu and looked at the waiter. “While he’s trying to decide, I’ll have a bowl of
café au lait
and some blueberry pancakes with sausages.”

“Merci,”
said the waiter, taking Gamache’s menu and looking at Beauvoir. “And you, monsieur?”

“It all looks so good,” said Beauvoir. “I’ll have the same thing as the Chief Inspector, thank you.”

“I thought for sure you’d have the eggs Benedict,” smiled Gamache, as the waiter left them. “I thought it was your favorite.”

“I made it for myself just yesterday,” said Beauvoir, and Gamache laughed. They both knew it was more likely he’d had a Super Slice for breakfast. In fact, just lately, Beauvoir had had just coffee and perhaps a bagel.

Through the window they could see Three Pines in the early morning sun. Not many were out yet. A few villagers walked dogs. A few sat on porches, sipping coffee and reading the morning paper. But most still slept.

“How’s Agent Lacoste doing, do you think?” the Chief Inspector asked once their
cafés
had arrived.

“Not bad. Did you speak with her last night? I asked her to run a few things by you.”

The two men sipped their coffees and compared notes.

Beauvoir looked at his watch as their breakfast arrived. “I asked her to meet us here at eight.” It was ten to, and he looked up to see Lacoste walking across the village green, a dossier in her hand.

“I like being a mentor,” said Beauvoir.

“You do it well,” said Gamache. “Of course, you had a good teacher. Benevolent, just. Yet firm.”

Beauvoir looked at the Chief Inspector with exaggerated puzzlement. “You? You mean you’ve been mentoring me all these years? That sure explains the need for therapy.”

Gamache looked down at his meal, and smiled.

Agent Lacoste joined them and ordered a cappuccino. “And a croissant,
s’il vous plaît,
” she called after the waiter. Then she placed her dossier on the table. “I read your report of the meeting last night, Chief, and did some digging.”

“Already?” asked Beauvoir.

“Well, I got up early and frankly I didn’t want to hang around the B and B with those artists.”

“Why not?” asked Gamache.

“I’m afraid I found them boring. I had dinner with Normand and Paulette last night, to see if I could get anything else out of them about Lillian Dyson but they seem to have lost interest.”

“What did you talk about?” asked Beauvoir.

“They spent most of dinner laughing about the
Ottawa Star
review of Clara’s show. They said it would put paid to her career.”

“But who cares what the
Ottawa Star
thinks?” asked Beauvoir.

“Ten years ago nobody, but now with the Internet it can be read around the world,” said Lacoste. “Insignificant opinions suddenly become significant. As Normand said, people only remember the bad reviews.”

“I wonder if that’s true,” said Gamache.

“Have you gotten anywhere tracing that review Lillian Dyson did?” asked Beauvoir.

“
He’s a natural, producing art like it’s a bodily function
?” Lacoste quoted, and wished it had been written about Normand or Paulette. Though, she thought for the first time, maybe it had. Maybe the “he” in the review was Normand. That might explain his bitterness, and his delight when someone else got a bad review.

Isabelle Lacoste shook her head. “No luck tracing that review. It was so long ago now, more than twenty years. I’ve sent an agent along to the archives at
La Presse.
We’ll have to go through the microfiche one at a time.”

“Bon.”
Inspector Beauvoir nodded his approval.

Lacoste tore her warm and flaky croissant in half. “I looked into Lillian Dyson’s sponsor, as you asked, Chief,” she said, then took a bite of her croissant before putting it down and picking up the dossier. “Suzanne Coates, age sixty-two. She’s a waitress over at Nick’s on Greene Avenue. Do you know it?”

Beauvoir shook his head, but Gamache nodded. “A Westmount institution.”

“As is Suzanne, apparently. I called this morning before coming here. Spoke to one of the other waitresses. A Lorraine. She confirmed that Suzanne had worked there for twenty years. But she got a little cagey when I asked what her hours were. Finally this Lorraine admitted they all cover for each other when they pick up extra cash working private parties. Suzanne’s supposed to be on the lunch shift, but wasn’t in Saturday. She worked yesterday, though, as usual. Her shift starts at eleven.”

“By ‘working private parties,’ that doesn’t mean—?” asked Beauvoir.

“Prostitution?” asked Lacoste. “The woman’s sixty-two. Though she was in the profession years ago. Two arrests for prostitution and one for break and enter. This was back in the early eighties. She was also charged with theft.”

Both Gamache and Beauvoir raised their brows. Still, it was a long time ago and a long way from those crimes to murder.

“I also found her tax information. Her declared income last year was twenty-three thousand dollars. But she’s heavily in debt. Credit card. She has three of them, all maxed out. She seems to consider it not so much a credit limit as a goal. Like most people in debt she’s juggling creditors, but it’s all about to come crashing down.”

“Does she realize it?” Gamache asked.

“Hard not to, unless she’s completely delusional.”