“I don’t understand,” said Madame Dyson, but her eyes said she understood fully. She was terrified. The monster every mother feared had squirmed in through that crack. It had taken her child, and was now sitting in her living room.
Madame Dyson turned to her husband, who was struggling to sit further forward. Perhaps to stand up. To confront this news, these words. To beat them back, out of his living room, out of his home, away from his door. To beat those words until they were lies.
But he couldn’t.
“There’s more,” said the Chief Inspector, still holding their eyes. “Lillian was murdered.”
“Oh, God, no,” said Lillian’s mother, her hand flying to her mouth. Then it slipped to her chest. Her breast. And rested there, limp.
Both of them stared at Gamache, and he looked at them.
“I’m very sorry to have to bring you this news,” he said, knowing how weak it sounded but also knowing to not say it would be even worse.
Madame and Monsieur Dyson were gone now. They’d crossed over to that continent where grieving parents lived. It looked the same as the rest of the world, but wasn’t. Colors bled pale. Music was just notes. Books no longer transported or comforted, not fully. Never again. Food was nutrition, little more. Breaths were sighs.
And they knew something the rest didn’t. They knew how lucky the rest of the world was.
“How?” Madame Dyson whispered. Beside her her husband was enraged, so angry he couldn’t speak. But his face was contorted and his eyes blazed. At Gamache.
“Her neck was broken,” said the Chief. “It was very fast. She didn’t even see it coming.”
“Why?” she asked. “Why would anyone kill Lillian?”
“We don’t know. But we’ll find out who did this.”
Armand Gamache cupped his large hands toward her. An offering.
Jean Guy Beauvoir noticed the tremble in the Chief’s right hand. Very slight.
This too was new, since the factory.
Madame Dyson dropped her tiny hand from her breast into Gamache’s hands and he closed them, holding hers like a sparrow.
He said nothing then. And neither did she.
They sat in silence, and would sit there for as long as it took.
Beauvoir looked at Monsieur Dyson. His rage had turned to confusion. A man of action in his younger days now imprisoned in an easy chair. Unable to save his daughter. Unable to comfort his wife.
Beauvoir got up and offered the elderly man his own arms. Monsieur Dyson stared at them, then swung both hands to Beauvoir’s arm and grabbed on. Beauvoir lifted him to a standing position and supported him while the old man turned to his wife. And put out his arms.
She stood and walked into them.
They held each other and held each other up. And wept.
Eventually they parted.
Beauvoir had found tissues and gave each a handful. When they were able Chief Inspector Gamache asked them some questions.
“Lillian lived in New York for many years. Can you tell us anything about her life there?”
“She was an artist,” her father said. “Wonderful. We didn’t visit her often but she came home every couple of years or so.”
It sounded vague, to Gamache. An exaggeration.
“She made a living as an artist?” he asked.
“Absolutely,” Madame Dyson said. “She was a big success.”
“She was married once?” the Chief asked.
“Morgan was his name,” said Madame Dyson.
“No, not Morgan,” said her husband. “But close. Madison.”
“Yes, that’s it. It was a long time ago and they weren’t married long. We never met him but he wasn’t a nice man. Drank. Poor Lillian was taken in by him completely. Very charming, but they so often are.”
Gamache noticed Beauvoir taking out his notebook.
“You say he drank?” asked the Chief. “How do you know?”
“Lillian told us. She finally kicked him out. But that was long ago.”
“Do you know if he ever stopped drinking?” asked Gamache. “Perhaps joined Alcoholics Anonymous?”
They looked lost. “We never met him, Chief Inspector,” she repeated. “I suppose he might have, before he died.”
“He died?” asked Beauvoir. “Do you know when?”
“Oh, a few years ago now. Lillian told us. Probably drank himself to death.”
“Did your daughter talk about any particular friends?”
“She had a lot of friends. We spoke once a week and she was always off to parties or vernissages.”
“Did she talk about any by name?” Gamache asked. They shook their heads. “Did she ever mention a friend named Clara, back here in Québec?”
“Clara? She was Lillian’s best friend. Inseparable. She used to come by for supper when we lived in the house.”
“But they didn’t stay close?”
“Clara stole some of Lillian’s ideas. Then she dropped Lillian as a friend. Used her and threw her away as soon as she had what she wanted. Hurt Lillian terribly.”
“Why did your daughter go to New York?” asked Gamache.
“She felt the art scene here in Montréal wasn’t very supportive. They didn’t like it when she criticized their work, but that was her job, after all, as a critic. She wanted to go someplace where artists were more sophisticated.”
“Did she talk about anyone in particular? Someone who might have wished her ill?”
“Back then? She said everyone did.”
“And more recently? When did she come back to Montréal?”
“October sixteenth,” said Monsieur Dyson.
“You know the exact date?” Gamache turned to him.
“You would too, if you had a daughter.”
The Chief nodded. “You’re right. I do have a daughter and I’d remember the day she returned home.”
The two men looked at each other for a moment.
“Did Lillian tell you why she returned?” Gamache did a quick calculation. It would have been about eight months earlier. Shortly after that she’d bought her car and begun going to art shows around town.
“She just said she was missing home,” said Madame Dyson. “We thought we were the luckiest people alive.”
Gamache paused to let her gather herself. Both Sûreté officers knew there was a small window after telling loved ones the news before they were completely overcome. Before the shock wore off and the pain began.
That moment was fast approaching. The window was slamming shut. They had to make each question count.
“Was she happy in Montréal this time?” Gamache asked.
“I’ve never seen her happier,” said her father. “I think she might’ve found a man. We asked but she always laughed and denied it. But I’m not so sure.”
“Why do you say that?” Gamache asked.
“When she came for dinner she’d always leave early,” said Madame Dyson. “By seven thirty. We kidded her that she was off on a date.”
“And what did she say to that?”
“She just laughed. But,” she hesitated, “there was something.”
“What do you mean?”
Madame Dyson took another deep breath as though trying to keep herself going, long enough to help this police officer. To help him find whoever had killed their daughter.
“I don’t know what I mean, but she never used to leave early, then suddenly she did. But she wouldn’t tell us why.”
“Did your daughter drink?”
“Drink?” asked Monsieur Dyson. “I don’t understand the question. Drink what?”
“Alcohol. We found something at the site that might have come from Alcoholics Anonymous. Do you know if your daughter belonged to AA?”
“Lillian?” Madame Dyson looked astonished. “I’ve never seen her drunk in my life. She used to be the designated driver at parties. She’d have a few drinks sometimes, but never many.”