“God,” she read. “Grant me the serenity,
To accept the things I cannot change,
Courage to change the things I can,
And wisdom to know the difference.”
“It’s a beginner’s chip,” she said. “From Alcoholics Anonymous. It’s given to people who’re just getting sober.”
“How do you know that?” the Chief asked.
“Because when I was in practice I suggested a number of clients join AA. Some of them later showed me what they called their beginner’s chip. Just like that.” She gestured to the bag back in Lacoste’s hand. “Whoever dropped it is a member of AA.”
“I see what you mean about Ruth,” said Beauvoir.
Gamache thanked them and watched as Clara and Myrna walked back to the house, to join the others.
Beauvoir and Agent Lacoste were talking, going over notes and findings. Inspector Beauvoir would be giving her some instructions, Gamache knew. Leads to follow while they were in Montréal.
He wandered around the garden. One mystery was solved. The coin was an AA beginner’s chip.
But who dropped it? Lillian Dyson as she fell? But even if she did his experiment showed it would just sit on the earth. They’d have seen it right away.
Did her killer lose it? But, if he was going to break her neck with his bare hands he wouldn’t be holding a coin. Besides, the same thing held true for the killer. If he dropped it, why didn’t they find it? How did it get buried?
The Chief Inspector stood quietly in the warm, sunny garden and imagined a murder. Someone sneaking up behind Lillian Dyson in the dark. Grabbing her around the neck, and twisting. Quickly. Before she could call out, cry out. Struggle.
But she would have done something. She’d have flailed her arms out, even for a moment.
And he saw clearly that he’d made a mistake.
Walking back to the flower bed he called Beauvoir and Lacoste, who quickly joined him.
From his pocket he again brought out the one dollar coin. Then he tossed it into the air and watched as it fell to the freshly turned soil, sat briefly on top of a chunk of dirt, then slipped off to be buried by earth that crumbled in after it.
“My God, it did bury itself,” said Lacoste. “Is that what happened?”
“I think so,” said the Chief, watching as Lacoste picked the coin back up and handed it to him. “When I first tried it I was kneeling down, close to the dirt. But if it fell during the murder it would have dropped from a standing position. Higher up. With greater force. I think when the murderer grasped her neck her arms shot out, almost a spasm, and the coin was flung away from her body. It would have hit with enough impact to dislodge the loose earth.”
“That’s how it got buried and how we missed it,” said Agent Lacoste.
“Oui,” said Gamache, turning to leave. “And it means that Lillian Dyson had to have been holding it. Now, why would she be standing in this garden holding an AA beginner’s chip?”
But Beauvoir suspected the Chief was also thinking something else. That Beauvoir had fucked up. He should have seen the coin and not have it found by four crazy women worshiping a stick. That wasn’t going to sound good in court, for any of them.
The women had left, the Sûreté officers had left. Everyone had left and now Peter and Clara were finally alone.
Peter took Clara in his arms and hugging her tight he whispered, “I’ve been waiting all day to do this. I heard about the reviews. They’re fantastic. Congratulations.”
“They are good, aren’t they,” said Clara. “Yipppeee. Can you believe it?”
“Are you kidding?” asked Peter, breaking from the embrace and striding across the kitchen. “I had no doubt.”
“Oh, come on,” laughed Clara, “you don’t even like my work.”
“I do.”
“And what do you like about them?” she teased.
“Well, they’re pretty. And you covered up most of the numbers with the paint.” He’d been poking in the fridge and now he turned around, a bottle of champagne in his hand.
“My father gave this to me on my twenty-first birthday. He told me to open it when I’d had a huge personal success. To toast myself.” He unwrapped the foil around the cork. “I put it in the fridge yesterday before we left, so we could toast you.”
“No wait, Peter,” said Clara. “We should save that.”
“What? For my own solo show? We both know that won’t happen.”
“But it will. If it happened for me, it—”
“—can happen for anyone?”
“You know what I mean. I really think we should wait—”
The cork popped.
“Too late,” said Peter with a huge smile. “We had a call while you were out.”
He carefully poured their glasses.
“From who?”
“André Castonguay.” He handed her a glass. Time enough later to tell her about all the other calls.
“Really? What did he want?”
“Wanted to talk to you. To us. To both of us. Santé.”
He tipped his glass and clinked hers. “And congratulations.”
“Thank you. Do you want to meet with him?”
Clara’s glass hung in the air, not quite touching her lips. Her nose felt the giddy popping of the champagne bubbles. Finally released. Like her, they’d waited years and years, decades, for this moment.
“Only if you do,” said Peter.
“Can we wait? Let all of this settle down a bit?”
“Whatever you’d like.”
But she could hear the disappointment in his voice.
“If you feel strongly, Peter, we can meet with him. Why don’t we? I mean, he’s right here now. Might as well.”
“No, no, that’s OK.” He smiled at her. “If he’s serious he’ll wait. Honestly, Clara, this is your time to shine. And neither Lillian’s death nor André Castonguay can take that away.”
More bubbles popped, and Clara wondered if they were popping on their own or had been pricked by tiny, almost invisible needles like the one Peter had just used. Reminding her, even as they toasted her success, of the death. The murder, in their own garden.
She tipped the glass up and felt the wine on her lips. But over the flute she was staring at Peter, who suddenly looked less substantial. A little hollow. A little like a bubble himself. Floating away.
I was much too far out all my life, she thought as she drank. And not waving, but drowning.
What were the lines just before that? Clara slowly lowered her glass to the counter. Peter had taken a long sip of the champagne. More of a swig, really. A deep, masculine, almost aggressive gulp.
Nobody heard him, the dead man,
But still he lay moaning.
Those were the lines, thought Clara, as she stared at Peter.
The champagne on her lips was sour, the wine turned years before. But Peter, who’d taken a huge gulp, was smiling.
As though nothing was wrong.
When had he died? Clara wondered. And why hadn’t she noticed?
“No, I understand,” said Inspector Beauvoir.
Chief Inspector Gamache looked across at Beauvoir in the driver’s seat. Eyes staring ahead at the traffic as they approached the Champlain Bridge into Montréal. Beauvoir’s face was placid, relaxed. Noncommittal.
But his grip was tight on the wheel.
“If Agent Lacoste is going to be promoted to inspector I want to see how she’ll handle the added responsibility,” said Gamache. “So I gave the dossier to her.”
He knew he didn’t have to explain his decisions. But he chose to. These weren’t children he was working with, but thoughtful, intelligent adults. If he didn’t want them to behave like children he’d better not treat them like that. He wanted independent thinkers. And he got them. Men and women who’d earned the right to know why a decision was taken.