Now, sitting in the cool shade, he could feel the pain ease and the tension begin to slide away.
“What do you think?” asked Gamache.
“I can’t believe it was a coincidence that Lillian was killed here,” said Clara.
She twisted in her chair and saw movement through the deep green leaves. Agents, trying to piece together what happened.
Lillian had come here. On the night of the party. And been murdered.
That much was beyond dispute.
Beauvoir watched Clara turn in her seat. He agreed with her. It was strange.
The only thing that seemed to fit was that Clara herself had killed the woman. It was her home, her party, and her former friend. She had motive and opportunity. But Beauvoir didn’t know how many little pills he’d have to take to believe Clara was a killer. He knew most people were capable of murder. And, unlike Gamache who believed goodness existed, Beauvoir knew that was a temporary state. As long as the sun shone and there was poached salmon on the plate, people could be good.
But take that away, and see what happens. Take the food, the chairs, the flowers, the home. Take the friends, the supportive spouse, the income away, and see what happens.
The Chief believed if you sift through evil, at the very bottom you’ll find good. He believed that evil has its limits. Beauvoir didn’t. He believed that if you sift through good, you’ll find evil. Without borders, without brakes, without limit.
And every day it frightened him that Gamache couldn’t see that. That he was blind to it. Because out of blind spots terrible things appeared.
Someone had killed a woman not twenty feet from where they sat, having their genteel picnic. It was intentional, it was done with bare hands. And it was almost certainly no coincidence Lillian Dyson died here. In Clara Morrow’s perfect garden.
“Can we get a list of guests at your vernissage and the barbeque afterward?” Gamache asked.
“Well, we can tell you who we invited, but you’ll have to get the complete list from the Musée,” said Peter. “As for the party here in Three Pines last night…”
He looked at Clara, who grinned.
“We have no idea who came,” she admitted. “The whole village was invited and most of the countryside. People were told to just come and go as they pleased.”
“But you said some people from the Montréal opening came down,” said Gamache.
“True,” said Clara. “I can tell you who we invited. I’ll make a list.”
“Not everyone at the vernissage was invited down?” asked Gamache. He and Reine-Marie had been, as had Beauvoir. They hadn’t been able to make it, but he’d assumed it was an open invitation. Clearly it wasn’t.
“No. A vernissage is for working, networking, schmoozing,” said Clara. “We wanted this party to be more relaxed. A celebration.”
“Yeah, but—” said Peter.
“What?” asked Clara.
“André Castonguay?”
“Oh, him.”
“From the Galerie Castonguay?” asked Gamache. “He was there?”
“And here,” said Peter.
Clara nodded. She hadn’t admitted to Peter the only reason she’d invited Castonguay and some other dealers to the barbeque afterward was for him. In the hopes they’d give him a chance.
“I did invite a few big-wigs,” Clara said. “And a few artists. It was a lot of fun.”
She’d even enjoyed herself. It was amazing to see Myrna chatting with François Marois and Ruth trading insults with a few drunken artist friends. To see Billy Williams and the local farmers laughing and talking with elegant gallery owners.
And by the time midnight sounded, everyone was dancing.
Except Lillian, who was lying in Clara’s garden.
Ding, dong, thought Clara.
The witch is dead.
FIVE
Chief Inspector Gamache picked up the stack of papers just inside the yellow police cordon and handed them to Clara.
“I’m sure the critics loved your show,” he said.
“Why, oh why aren’t you an art critic instead of wasting your time in such a trivial profession?” Clara asked.
“Dreadful waste of a life, I agree,” smiled the Chief.
“Well,” she looked down at the papers, “I guess I can’t count on another body showing up. I might just have to read these now.”
She looked around. Peter had gone inside and Clara wondered if she should too. To read the reviews in peace and quiet. In secret.
Instead, she thanked Gamache and walked toward the bistro, hugging the heavy papers to her chest. She could see Olivier out on the terrasse, serving drinks. Monsieur Beliveau sat at a table, with its blue and white sun umbrella, sipping a Cinzano and reading the Sunday newspapers.
Indeed all the tables were taken, filled with villagers and friends enjoying a lazy Sunday brunch. As she appeared most eyes turned to her.
Then looked away.
And she felt a stab of rage. Not at these people, but at Lillian. Who’d taken the biggest day of Clara’s professional life and done this. So that instead of smiling and waving and commenting on the big celebrations, now people turned away. Clara’s triumph stolen, yet again, by Lillian.
She looked at the grocer, Monsieur Beliveau, who quickly dropped his eyes.
As did Clara.
When she raised them again a moment later she almost leapt out of her skin. Olivier was standing within inches of her, holding two glasses.
“Shit,” she exhaled.
“Shandies,” he said. “Made with ginger beer and pale ale, as you like them.”
Clara looked from him to the glasses then back to Olivier. A slight breeze picked at his thinning blond hair. Even with an apron around his slender body he managed to look sophisticated and relaxed. But Clara remembered the look they’d exchanged while kneeling in the corridor of the Musée d’Art Contemporain.
“That was fast,” she said.
“Well, they were actually meant for someone else, but I judged it was an emergency.”
“That obvious?” smiled Clara.
“Hard not to be, when a body appears at your place. I know.”
“Yes,” said Clara. “You do know.”
Olivier indicated the bench on the village green and they walked over to it. Clara dropped the heavy newspapers and they hit the bench with a thump, as did she.
Clara accepted a shandy from Olivier and they sat side-by-side, their backs to the bistro, to the people, to the crime scene. To the searching eyes and averted eyes.
“How’re you doing?” asked Olivier. He’d almost asked if she was all right, but of course she wasn’t.
“I wish I could say. Lillian alive in our back garden would have been a shock, but Lillian dead is inconceivable.”
“Who was she?”
“A friend from long ago. But no longer a friend. We had a falling out.”
Clara didn’t say more, and Olivier didn’t ask. They sipped their drinks and sat in the shade of the three huge pine trees that soared over them, over the village.
“How was it seeing Gamache again?” asked Clara.
Olivier paused to consider, then he smiled. He looked boyish and young. Far younger than his thirty-eight years. “Not very comfortable. Do you think he noticed?”
“I think it’s just possible,” said Clara, and squeezed Olivier’s hand. “You haven’t forgiven him?”
“Could you?”
Now it was Clara’s turn to pause. Not to reflect on her answer. She knew it. But on whether she should say it.
“We forgave you,” she finally said and hoped her tone was gentle enough, soft enough. That the words wouldn’t feel as barbed as they could. But still she felt Olivier stiffen, withdraw. Not physically, but there seemed an emotional step back.