The Long Way Home (8 page)

“A remarkable collection,” he congratulated her. And his admiration was sincere. Madame Finney had an eye for art.

“Thank you.” She inclined her head slightly, acknowledging the compliment and the truth. “Peter used to sit in front of them for hours as a child.”

“But you’ve put up none of his own works.”

“No. He hasn’t yet earned the right to be hung beside them.” She tilted her head toward the wall. “One day perhaps.”

“And what would he have to do to earn a spot?” Gamache asked.

“Ah, the age-old question, Chief Inspector? Where does genius come from?”

“Was that what I was asking?”

“Of course you were. I don’t surround myself with mediocrity. When Peter paints a masterpiece I’ll hang it. With the others.”

The works on the wall had taken on a different complexion. A. Y. Jackson, Emily Carr, Tom Thomson. They seemed imprisoned. Hung until dead. As a reminder to a disappointing son. Peter had sat in front of them as a boy, and dreamed of one day joining them. Gamache could almost see the boy, in proper shorts and immaculate hair, sitting cross-legged on the carpet. Staring up at these works of genius. And longing to create a painting so fine it would warrant space in his mother’s home.

And failing.

The walls, the works, now seemed to close in on Gamache and he wanted to leave. But couldn’t. Not yet.

Madame Finney glared at him. How many had looked into those eyes, Gamache wondered. Within sight of the guillotine, the smoldering stake, the noose.

“All the works on your walls are landscapes,” Gamache pointed out, his eyes not leaving hers. “Most painted in Québec villages. These artists found inspiration there, were able to create their best works there. Are you suggesting that muses are confined to large cities? That creation isn’t possible in the countryside?”

“Don’t try to make a fool of me,” she snapped, the veneer cracking. “Every artist is different. I’m his mother. I know Peter. Some might thrive in the middle of nowhere, but Peter needs stimulation. She knew that, and she deliberately isolated him. Crippled him, instead of supporting and encouraging him and his art.”

“As you do?” Gamache asked.

Monsieur Finney’s pilgrim eyes came to an abrupt halt and he stared at the Chief. There was silence.

“I believe I’ve been more supportive of my son than your own parents were of you,” Madame Finney said.

“My parents didn’t have the chance, madame, as you know. They died when I was a child.”

Her eyes never left his face. “I can’t help but wonder how they’d have felt about your choice of career. A police officer.” She shook her head in disappointment. “And one whose own colleagues tried to murder him. That can’t be considered a success. In fact, weren’t you actually shot by one of your own inspectors? That is what happened, isn’t it?”

“Irene,” said Monsieur Finney, a warning in the normally docile voice.

“To be fair, madame, I also shot one of my colleagues. Perhaps it was karma.”

“Killed him, as I remember.” She glared at Gamache. “In the woods, outside that village. I’m surprised it doesn’t haunt you every time you walk by. Unless, of course, you’re proud of what you did.”

How did this happen? Gamache wondered. He was in the cave after all. Dragged there by a smiling, twinkling creature. And eviscerated.

And she wasn’t finished with him yet.

“I wonder how your mother and father would have felt about your decision to quit. To run away and hide in that village. Peter’s off painting, you say? At least he’s still trying.”

“You’re quite right,” he said. “I’ll never know how my parents would have felt about my life.”

He held out his hand. She took it and he bent down so that his face was next to her ear. He could feel her silken hair on his cheek and smell her scent of Chanel No. 5 and baby powder.

“But I know my parents loved me,” he whispered, then pulled back so that his eyes locked on to hers. “Does Peter?”

Gamache straightened up, nodded to Monsieur Finney, and walked back down the dark corridor to the front door.

“Wait.”

The Chief paused at the door and turned to see Finney hobbling toward him.

“You’re worried about Peter, aren’t you?” the older man said.

Gamache studied him, then nodded. “Was there a place he went to as a child? A place that might have been special? A favorite place?” He thought for a moment. “A safe place?”

“You mean a real place?”

“Well, yes. When people are in turmoil they sometimes go back to a place where they were once happy.”

“And Peter’s in turmoil, you think?”

“I do.”

Finney thought, then shook his head. “I’m sorry but nothing comes to mind.”

“
Merci
,” Gamache said. He shook hands with Finney, then left, trying to keep his pace measured. Trying not to speed up. Speed up. Speed away from this house. He could almost hear Emily Carr and A. Y. Jackson and Clarence Gagnon calling him back. Begging to be taken with him. Begging to be appreciated, and not valued simply for their appreciation.

Once in his car, Gamache took a deep breath, then pulled out his phone and found a message from Beauvoir. Jean-Guy had come into Montréal with him, and Gamache had dropped him at SQ headquarters.

Lunch?
the text asked.

Mai Xiang Yuan, Chinatown,
Gamache wrote back.

Within moments his device trilled. Jean-Guy would meet him there.

A short while later, over dumplings, they compared notes.

EIGHT

Jean-Guy Beauvoir tore a small hole in the top of a dumpling and dripped in tamari sauce. Then, using a spoon, he put the whole thing in his mouth.

“Mmmmmm.”

Gamache watched, pleased to see Jean-Guy’s appetite so strong.

Then he picked up a round shrimp and cilantro dumpling with his chopsticks and ate it.

Beauvoir watched and noted that the Chief’s hand didn’t tremble. Not much. Not anymore.

The hole-in-the-wall restaurant in Chinatown was filling with customers.

“Some din,” said Jean-Guy, raising his voice over the lunch noise.

Gamache laughed.

Beauvoir wiped his chin with a thin paper napkin and looked over at his notebook, splayed open on the laminate table beside his bowl.

“Okay, here’s the thing,” he said. “I did a quick search on Peter’s credit cards and his bank card. When he left Clara, he stayed in a hotel in Montréal for a week or so. A suite at the Crystal.”

“A suite?” asked Gamache.

“Not the largest one, though.”

“So he packed his hair shirt after all,” said Gamache.

“Well, yes. Is cashmere considered hair?”

Gamache smiled. By Morrow standards the elegant Hotel Le Crystal was probably the equivalent of the rack. It wasn’t the Ritz.

“And then?” asked Gamache.

“Air Canada to Paris. A geographical?” asked Beauvoir.

The Chief thought about that. “Perhaps.”

The investigators knew that people who took off were running from unhappiness. Loneliness. Failure. They ran, thinking the problem was one of location. They thought they could start fresh somewhere else.

It rarely worked. The problem was not geographical.

“Where did he stay in Paris?”

“The Hotel Auriane. In the 15th arrondissement.”

“
Vraiment?
” asked Gamache, a little surprised. He knew Paris well. Their son Daniel, his wife, Roslyn, and their grandchildren lived in Paris, in the 6th arrondissement in an apartment the size of a pie plate.

“Not what you expected,
patron
?” asked Jean-Guy, who, at dinner parties, pretended to know Paris, but didn’t. He also pretended not to know east-end Montréal. But did.

With Gamache he’d long since given up the pretense.

“Well, the 15th is nice,” said Gamache, thinking about it. “Residential. Lots of families.”

“Not exactly the artistic hub.”

“No,” said Gamache. “How long did he stay?”

Beauvoir consulted his notes. “At the hotel? A few days. Then he rented a furnished apartment, for four months. He left just before his lease was up.”

“And from there?”

“His credit card shows a TGV ticket, one way, to Florence. Then, after a couple of weeks, on to Venice,” said Beauvoir. “He was covering a lot of territory.”

Yes, thought Gamache. The hounds were nipping at Peter Morrow’s heels. Gamache caught a whiff of desperation in this flight across Europe. There didn’t seem to be a plan.

And yet it couldn’t be a complete coincidence that the cities Peter chose were famous for inspiring artists.

“All I have so far are the credit card and bank records,” said Beauvoir. “We know that he flew from Venice to Scotland—”

“Scotland?”

Beauvoir shrugged. “Scotland. From there he came back to Canada. Toronto.”

“Is that where he is now?”

“No. Guess where he went from Toronto.”

Gamache gave Beauvoir a stern look. After his visit with Peter’s mother and stepfather, he wasn’t in the mood for guessing games.

“Quebec City.”

“When was that?” Gamache asked.

“April.”

Gamache did a quick calculation. Four months ago. Gamache put down his cup of green tea and stared at Beauvoir.

“In Quebec City he took three thousand dollars from his bank account.”

Beauvoir looked up from his notebook and slowly closed it.

“And then, no more. He disappeared.”

*   *   *

Clara and Myrna sat in the Gamaches’ living room. The fireplace was lit and Gamache was pouring drinks. A cold front had rolled in and brought with it chilly temperatures and a soft drizzle.

The fire wasn’t really necessary. It was more for cheer than heat.

Annie had arranged to have dinner with her friend Dominique at the bistro, leaving her parents and her husband to talk with Clara.

“Here you go,” said Gamache, handing Myrna and Clara glasses of Scotch.

“I think you should leave the bottle,” said Clara.

She had the look of a frightened flier staring at the flight attendants during takeoff. Trying to read their expressions.

Are we safe? Are we going down? What’s that smell?

Gamache sat next to Reine-Marie while Beauvoir dragged the wing chair over from the corner. Closing their small circle.

“This is what we found out,” said Gamache. “It isn’t much yet, and it’s far from conclusive.”

Clara didn’t like the sound of that. The attempt to pacify, to reassure. It meant that reassurance was necessary. It meant something was wrong.

It meant that smell was smoke and the sound was an engine failing.

Armand and Jean-Guy told them about their day. On hearing about the visit to Peter’s mother, Clara took a deep, deep breath.

Across from her, Myrna listened, absorbing the information, in case Clara missed some vital pieces.

“When Peter left here he went to Montréal for a few days, then flew to Paris,” said Jean-Guy. “Then he moved on to Florence, then Venice.”

Clara nodded to show she was following him. So far, so good.

“From Venice, Peter flew to Scotland,” said Beauvoir.

Clara stopped nodding. “Scotland?”

“Why would Peter go to Scotland?” Myrna asked.

“We hoped you could tell us,” Gamache said to Clara.

“Scotland,” Clara repeated softly to herself and stared into the fire. Then she shook her head. “Where in Scotland?”

“It’s easier to see on a map. Let me show you.” Gamache rocked out of the deep sofa and returned a minute later with an atlas. He splayed it open on the coffee table and found the page.

“He flew into Glasgow.”

Armand pointed.

They leaned in.

“From there Peter took a bus.” He traced a line from Glasgow south. South. Along a winding road. Past towns named Bellshill, Lesmahagow, Moffat.

And then he stopped.

Clara leaned closer to the map.

“Dumfries?” she asked.

Her brows were drawn together, trying to either read the word or make sense of it, or both. Finally she sat back and looked at Gamache, who was watching her.

“Are you sure?” asked Clara.

“Pretty sure,” said Beauvoir.

There was a pause.

“Is it possible it wasn’t Peter? That someone stole his credit card?” Clara asked. “And his passport?”

She met Armand’s eyes. Not looking away from what that question implied. No living man would lose his documents, or have them stolen, without reporting it. If they were taken, it was from a dead man.

“It’s possible,” Gamache admitted. “But unlikely. They’d have to have his codes and look exactly like him. Security and Customs agents look closely at passport photos now.”

“But it’s still a possibility?” Clara asked.

“Remote. We have agents looking into it,” Beauvoir admitted. “We’re going on the most likely scenario that it was actually Peter.”

“But how likely is it that Peter left Venice for Dumfries?” asked Myrna.

“I agree,” conceded Gamache. “It’s odd. Unless Peter had a particular interest in Scotland.”

“Not that he ever mentioned,” said Clara. “Though he does like Scotch.”

Myrna smiled. “Maybe it’s that simple. Paris for great wine, Florence for Campari, and Venice for…”

She paused, stumped.

“The Bellini,” said Reine-Marie. “We had one in Harry’s Bar, where it was invented. Remember, Armand?”

“We sat at the bar at quaiside watching the vaporetti go by,” he said. “It was named after the color of a robe in a Bellini painting. Pink.”

“Pink?” Jean-Guy mouthed to Gamache.

“Are you suggesting Peter’s drinking his way across Europe?” asked Clara. “The Ruth Zardo Grand Tour.”

“Don’t look at me,” said Gamache. “It’s not my theory.”

“Then what is your theory?” Clara asked.

His smile faded, and he took a deep breath. “I don’t have one. It’s too early. But I do know one thing, Clara. As strange as all this seems, there’s a reason Peter went to these places. We just have to work it out.”

Clara leaned forward again, staring at the dot on the map. “Is he still there?”

Beauvoir shook his head. “He went to Toronto—”

“He’s in Toronto?” Clara interrupted. “Why didn’t you tell me this to begin with?” But on seeing their expressions, she stopped. “What is it?”