A Trick of the Light (7 page)

Clara shook her head and passed the picture to Peter. Around the circle of friends the photo circulated, to the same reaction.

Nothing.

“The coroner’s ready to move the body,” said Beauvoir.

Gamache nodded and placed the photo in his pocket. Beauvoir and Lacoste and the others would have their own copies, he knew. Excusing themselves they walked back to the body.

Two assistants stood by a stretcher, waiting to lift the woman onto it and take her to the waiting van. The photographer also waited. All looking at Chief Inspector Gamache. Waiting for him to give the order.

“Do you know how long she’s been dead?” Beauvoir asked the coroner, who’d just stood up and was moving her stiff legs.

“Between twelve and fifteen hours,” said Dr. Harris.

Gamache checked his watch and did the math. It was now eleven thirty on Sunday morning. That meant she was alive at eight thirty last night and dead by midnight. She never saw Sunday.

“No apparent sexual assault. No assault at all, except the broken neck,” said Dr. Harris. “Death would’ve been immediate. There was no struggle. I suspect he stood behind her and twisted her neck.”

“As simple as that, Dr. Harris?” asked the Chief Inspector.

“I’m afraid so. Especially if the victim wasn’t tensing. If she was relaxed and caught off guard there’d be no resistance. Just a quick twist. A snap.”

“But do most people know how to break someone’s neck?” asked Agent Lacoste, brushing off her slacks. Like most Québécoise she was petite and managed a casual elegance even while dressed for the country.

“It doesn’t take much, you know,” said Dr. Harris. “A twist. But it’s possible the killer had a fall-back plan. To throttle her, if the twist didn’t work.”

“You make it sound like a business plan,” said Lacoste.

“It might have been,” said the coroner. “Cold, rational. It might not be physically hard to snap someone’s neck, but believe me, it would be very difficult emotionally. That’s why most people are killed with guns or a club to the head. Or even a knife. Let something else do the actual killing. But to do it with your own hands? Not in a fight but in a cold and calculated act? No.” Dr. Harris turned back to the dead woman. “It would take a very special person to do that.”

“And by ‘very special’ you mean?” Gamache asked.

“You know what I mean, Chief Inspector.”

“But I want you to be clear.”

“Someone who either didn’t care at all, was psychotic. Or someone who cared very, very deeply. Who wanted to do it with his bare hands. To literally take the life, himself.”

Dr. Harris stared at Gamache, who nodded.

“Merci.”

He glanced at the coroner’s assistants and at a signal they lifted the body onto a stretcher. A sheet was placed over the dead woman and she was carried away, never to be in the sun again.

The photographer started snapping pictures and the forensics team moved in. Collecting evidence from beneath the body. Including the clutch purse. The contents were carefully cataloged, tested, photographed, printed then brought to Beauvoir.

Lipstick, foundation, Kleenex, car keys, house keys and a wallet.

Beauvoir opened it and read the driver’s license then handed it to the Chief Inspector.

“We have a name, Chief. And an address.”

Gamache glanced at the driver’s license, then at the four villagers, watching him. He walked back across the lawn to join them.

“We know who the dead woman is.” Gamache consulted the driver’s license. “Lillian Dyson.”

“What?” exclaimed Clara. “Lillian Dyson?”

Gamache turned to her. “You know her?”

Clara stared at Gamache in disbelief then looked beyond her garden, across the meandering Rivière Bella Bella, and into the woods.

“Surely not,” she whispered.

“Who was she?” Gabri asked but Clara seemed to have fallen into a stupor, staring bewildered into the forest.

“Can I see her picture?” she finally asked.

Gamache handed her the driver’s license. It wasn’t the best photo, but certainly better than the one taken that morning. Clara examined it, then took a long, deep breath, and held it for a moment before exhaling.

“It could be her. The hair’s different. Blond. And she’s a lot older. Heavier. But it might be her.”

“Who?” demanded Gabri again.

“Lillian Dyson, of course,” said Olivier.

“Well I know that,” Gabri turned to, and on, his partner. “But who’s she?”

“Lillian was—”

Peter stopped as Gamache raised his hand. Not in a threat, but an instruction. To stop talking. And Peter did.

“I need to hear it from Clara first,” said the Chief Inspector. “Would you like to speak in private?”

Clara thought for a moment, then nodded.

“What? Without us?” asked Gabri.

“I’m sorry,
mon beau
Gabri,” said Clara. “But I’d rather speak to them quietly.”

Gabri looked hurt, but accepted. The two men left, walking around the corner of the home.

Gamache caught Agent Lacoste’s eye and nodded then he looked at the two Adirondack chairs in front of them. “Could we find two more chairs?”

With Peter’s help two more Adirondack chairs were brought over and the four of them sat in a circle. Had there been a campfire in the center it might have felt like a ghost story.

And in a way, it was.

FOUR

Gabri and Olivier returned to the bistro in time for the lunch hour rush. The place was packed, but all conversation, all activity stopped when the two men entered.

“Well,” demanded Ruth into the silence. “Who kakked?”

That broke the dam and a flood of questions followed.

“Was it someone we know?”

“I heard it was someone from the inn and spa.”

“A woman.”

“Must have been someone from the party. Did Clara know her?”

“Was it a villager?”

“Was it murder?” Ruth demanded.

And while she’d broken the silence, now she created it. All questions stopped and eyes swung from the old poet to the two owners of the bistro.

Gabri turned to Olivier.

“What should we say?”

Olivier shrugged. “Gamache didn’t tell us to be quiet.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” snapped Ruth, “just tell us. And get me a drink. Better still, get me a drink, then tell us.”

There was a round of debate and Olivier raised his arms. “OK, OK. We’ll tell you what we know.”

And he did.

The body was a woman named Lillian Dyson. That was met with silence, then a small buzz as people compared notes. But there were no shrieks, no sudden faints, no rending of shirts.

No recognition.

She was found in the Morrows’ garden, Olivier confirmed.

Murdered.

There was a long pause after the word.

“Must be something in the water,” muttered Ruth, who paused neither for life nor death. “How was she killed?”

“Broken neck,” said Olivier.

“Who was this Lillian?” someone at the back of the crowded bistro asked.

“Clara seems to know her,” said Olivier. “But she never mentioned her to me.”

He looked over at Gabri, who shook his head.

In doing that he noticed that someone else had slipped in after them and was standing quietly by the door.

Agent Isabelle Lacoste had been watching the whole thing, sent there by Chief Inspector Gamache, who understood that the two men would give away all they knew. And the Chief wanted to know whether someone in the bistro, on hearing it, would then give themselves away.

*   *   *

“Tell me,” said Gamache.

He was leaning forward in his chair, elbows resting on his knees. One hand held the other lightly. In a new, but necessary, gesture.

Beside him, Inspector Beauvoir had his notebook and pen out.

Clara sat back in the deep wooden chair and held on to the wide warm armrests, as though bracing herself. But instead of hurtling forward, she was plunging backward.

Back through the decades, out the door of their home and out of Three Pines. Back to Montréal. Into art college, into the classes, into the student shows. Clara Morrow slammed backward out of college and into high school, then elementary school. And nursery school.

Before skidding to a stop in front of the little girl with the shining red hair next door.

Lillian Dyson.

“Lillian was my best friend growing up,” said Clara. “She lived next door and was two months older than me. We were inseparable. But were opposites, really. She grew fast and tall and I didn’t. She was smart, clever in school. I kinda plodded along. I was good at some things, but sort of froze up in the classroom. I got nervous. Kids started picking on me early, but Lillian always protected me. Nobody messed with Lillian. She was a tough kid.”

Clara smiled at the memory of Lillian, her orange hair gleaming, staring down a bunch of girls who were being mean to Clara. Daring them. Clara standing behind her. Longing to stand beside her friend, but not having the courage. Not yet.

Lillian, the precious only child.

The precious friend.

Lillian the pretty one, Clara the character.

They were closer than sisters. Kindred spirits, they told each other in flowery notes they wrote back and forth. Friends forever. They made up codes and secret languages. They’d pricked their fingers and solemnly smeared their blood together. There, they’d declared. Sisters.

They loved the same boys from TV shows and kissed posters and cried when the Bay City Rollers broke up and
The Hardy Boys
was canceled.

All this she told Gamache and Beauvoir.

“What happened?” the Chief asked quietly.

“How do you know anything happened?”

“Because you didn’t recognize her.”

Clara shook her head. What happened? How to explain it.

“Lillian was my best friend,” Clara repeated, as though needing to hear it again herself. “She saved my childhood. It would’ve been miserable without her. I still don’t know why she chose me as a friend. She could’ve had anyone. Everyone wanted to be Lillian’s friend. At least, at first.”

The men waited. The midday sun beat down on them, making it increasingly uncomfortable. But still they waited.

“But there was a price for being Lillian’s friend,” said Clara at last. “It was a wonderful world she created. Fun and safe. But she always had to be right, and she always had to be first. That was the price. It seemed fair at first. She set the rules and I followed. I was pretty pathetic anyway, so it was never an issue. It never seemed to matter.”

Clara took a deep breath. And exhaled.

“And then, it did seem to matter. In high school things began to change. I didn’t see it at first, but I’d call Lillian on Saturday night to see if she’d like to go out, to a movie or something, and she’d say she’d get back to me, but didn’t. I’d call again, to find she’d gone out.”

Clara looked at the three men. She could see that while they were following the words they weren’t necessarily following the emotions. How it felt. Especially that first time. To be left behind.

It sounded so small, so petty. But it was the first hairline fracture.

Clara hadn’t realized it at the time. She thought maybe Lillian’d forgotten. And besides, she had a right to go out with other friends.

Then, one weekend, Clara had arranged to go out with a new friend herself.

And Lillian had gone ballistic.

“It took months for her to forgive me.”

Now she saw it in Jean Guy’s face. A look of revulsion. For the way Lillian had treated her, or the way she’d taken it? How to explain it to him? How did she explain it to herself?

At the time it had seemed normal. She loved Lillian. Lillian loved her. Had saved her from the bullies. She’d never hurt Clara. Not on purpose.

If there was bad blood it must have been Clara’s fault.

Then everything would shift. All was forgiven and Lillian and Clara would be best friends again. Clara was invited back into the shelter that was Lillian.

“When did you first suspect?” Gamache asked.

“Suspect what?”

“That Lillian was not your friend.”

It was the first time she’d heard the words out loud. Said so clearly, so simply. Their relationship had always seemed so complex, fraught. Clara the needy, clumsy one. Dropping their friendship, breaking it. Lillian the strong, self-reliant one. Forgiving her. Picking up the pieces.

Until, one day.

“It was near the end of high school. Most girls fell out over boys or cliques, or just misunderstandings. Hurt feelings. Teachers and parents think those classrooms and hallways are filled with students but they’re not. They’re filled with feelings. Bumping into each other. Hurting each other. It’s horrible.”

Clara moved her arms off the Adirondack chair. They were baking in the sun. Now she folded them across her stomach.

“Things were going well for Lillian and me. There didn’t seem the wild ups and downs anymore. Then one day in art class our favorite teacher complimented me on a piece I’d done. It was the only class I was any good in, the only one I really cared about, though I did quite well in English and history. But art was my passion. And Lillian’s too. We’d bounce ideas off each other. I see now we were really muses for each other, though I didn’t know the term then. I even remember the piece the teacher liked. It was a chair with a bird perched on it.”

Clara had turned to Lillian, happy. Eager to catch her friend’s eye. It had been a small compliment. A tiny triumph. She’d wanted to share it with the only other person who’d understand.

And she had. But. But. In that instant before the smile appeared on Lillian’s face Clara had caught something else. A wariness.

And then the supportive, happy smile. So fast Clara almost convinced herself her own insecurity had seen something not really there.

That once again, it was her fault.

But looking back, Clara knew that the fissure had widened. Some cracks let the light in. Some let the darkness out.

She’d had a brief glance at what was inside Lillian. And it wasn’t nice.

“We went on to art college together and shared an apartment. But by then I’d learned to downplay any compliments I got about my work. And spent a lot of time telling Lillian how terrific her work was. And it was. Of course, like all of our stuff, it was evolving. We were experimenting. At least, I was. I sort of figured that was the point of art college. Not to get it right, but to see what was possible. To really be out there.”