Then he had a thought.
“Excusez-moi,” he said and walking swiftly back across the lawn he spoke to Beauvoir briefly then returned more slowly, thinking.
“I read the report on the drive down, but I’d like to hear from you myself how she was found.”
“Peter and Olivier saw her first,” said Clara. “I was sitting in that chair.” She waved toward the yellow Adirondack chair, one of two. A coffee mug still sat on the wooden arm. “While the guys went to Knowlton to pick up the papers. I was waiting for them.”
“Why?” asked the Chief Inspector.
“The reviews.”
“Ahh, of course. And that would explain—” He waved toward the stack of papers sitting on the grass, within the yellow police cordon.
Clara looked at them too. She wished she could say she’d forgotten all about the reviews in the shock of the discovery, but she hadn’t. The New York Times, the Toronto Globe and Mail and the London Times were piled on the ground where Peter had dropped them.
Beyond her reach.
Gamache looked at Clara, puzzled. “But if you were that anxious, why not just go online? The reviews would’ve been up hours ago, non?”
It was the same question Peter had asked her. And Olivier. How to explain it?
“Because I wanted to feel the newspaper in my hands,” she said. “I wanted to read my reviews the same way I read reviews of all the artists I love. Holding the paper. Smelling it. Turning the pages. All my life I’ve dreamed of this. It seemed worth the extra hour’s wait.”
“So you were alone in the garden for about an hour this morning?”
Clara nodded.
“From when to when?” Gamache asked.
“From around seven thirty this morning until they returned about eight thirty.” Clara looked at Peter.
“That’s right,” said Peter.
“And when you got back, what did you see?” Gamache turned to Peter and Olivier.
“We got out of the car and since we knew Clara was in the garden we decided to just walk around there.” Peter pointed to the corner of the house, where an old lilac held on to the last flowers of the season.
“I was following Peter when he suddenly stopped,” said Olivier.
“I noticed something red on the ground as we came around the house,” Peter picked up the story. “I think I assumed it was one of the poppies, fallen over. But it was too big. So I slowed down and looked over. That’s when I saw it was a woman.”
“What did you do?”
“I thought it was one of the guests who might’ve had too much to drink and passed out,” said Peter. “Slept it off in our garden. But then I could see that her eyes were open and her head—”
He tilted his, but of course he couldn’t achieve that angle. No living person could. It was a feat reserved for the dead.
“And you?” Gamache asked Olivier.
“I asked Clara to call the police,” he said. “Then I called Gabri.”
“You say you have guests?” Gamache asked. “People from the party?”
Gabri nodded. “A couple of the artists who came down from Montréal for the party decided to stay at the B and B. A few are also staying up at the inn and spa.”
“Was this a last-minute booking?”
“At the B and B it was. They made it sometime during the party.”
Gamache nodded and turning away he gestured toward Agent Isabelle Lacoste, who quickly joined him, listened as the Chief murmured instructions, then walked rapidly away. She spoke to two young Sûreté agents, who nodded and left.
It always fascinated Clara to see how easily Gamache took command, and how naturally people took his orders. Never barked, never shouted, never harsh. Always put in the most calm, even courteous manner. His orders were couched almost as requests. And yet not a person mistook them for that.
Gamache turned back to give the four friends his full attention. “Did any of you touch the body?”
They looked at each other, shaking their heads, then back to the Chief.
“No,” said Peter. He was feeling more certain now. The ground had firmed up, filled in with facts. With straightforward questions and clear answers.
Nothing to be afraid of.
“Do you mind?” Gamache started walking toward the Adirondack. Even had they minded, it wouldn’t have mattered. He was going there and they were welcome to join him.
“Before they came back, when you were sitting here alone, you didn’t notice anything strange?” he asked as they walked. It seemed obvious that had Clara seen a body in her garden she’d have said something earlier. But it wasn’t just the body he wanted to know about. This was Clara’s garden, she knew it well, intimately. Perhaps something else was wrong. A plant broken, a shrub disturbed.
Some detail his investigators might miss. Something so subtle she herself might have missed it, until he asked her directly.
And, to her credit, she didn’t come back with a smart-ass reply.
But Gabri did. “Like the body?”
“No,” said the Chief, as they arrived at the chair. He turned and surveyed the garden from there. It was true that at this angle the dead woman was hidden by the flower beds. “I mean something else.”
He turned thoughtful eyes on Clara.
“Is there anything unusual about your garden this morning?” He shot a warning glance at Gabri, who put a finger to his mouth. “Anything small? Some detail off?”
Clara looked around. The back lawn was dotted with large flower beds. Some round, some oblong. Tall trees along the riverbank threw dappled shade, but most of it was in bright noonday sun. Clara scanned her garden, as did the others.
Was there something different? It was so hard to tell now, what with all the people, the newspapers, the activity, the yellow police tape. The newspapers. The body. The newspapers.
Everything was different.
She turned back to Gamache, her eyes asking for help.
Gamache hated to give it, hated to suggest in case he led her to see something that wasn’t really there.
“It’s possible the murderer hid back here,” he finally said. “Waiting.”
He left it at that. And he could see Clara understood. She turned back to her garden. Had a man intent on murder waited here? In her private sanctuary?
Had he hidden himself in the flower beds? Crouching behind the tall peony? Had he peered out from the morning glory climbing the post? Had he knelt behind the growing phlox?
Waiting?
She looked at each and every perennial, each shrub. Looking for something knocked down, knocked askew, a limb twisted, a bud broken off.
But it was perfect. Myrna and Gabri had worked days on the garden, getting it immaculate for the party. And it was. Last night. And it was that morning.
Except for the police, like pests, crawling all over it. And the bright body. A blight.
“Do you see anything?” she asked Gabri.
“No,” he said. “If the murderer hid back here it wasn’t in one of the flower beds. Maybe behind a tree?” He waved toward the maples but Gamache shook his head.
“Too far away. It would take him too long to make it across the lawn and around the flower beds. She’d have seen him coming.”
“So where did he hide?” Olivier asked.
“He didn’t,” said Gamache, sitting in the Adirondack chair. From there the body was also hidden. No, Clara couldn’t see the dead woman.
The Chief Inspector hauled himself up. “He didn’t hide. He waited in plain sight.”
“And she walked right up to him?” Peter asked. “She knew him?”