“We don’t even keep alcohol in the house,” said Monsieur Dyson.
“Why not?” Gamache asked.
“We just lost interest, I suppose,” said Madame Dyson. “There were other things to spend our pensions on.”
Gamache nodded and got up. “May I?” He indicated the pictures on the walls.
“Please.” Madame Dyson joined him.
“Very pretty,” he said as they gazed at the photographs. Lillian aged as they walked around the modest room. From cherished newborn to adored teen and into a lovely young woman, with hair the color of a sunset.
“Your daughter was found in a garden,” he said, trying to make it sound not too gruesome. “It belonged to her friend Clara.”
Madame Dyson stopped and stared at the Chief Inspector. “Clara? But that’s not possible. Lillian would never have gone there. She’d meet the devil before she’d meet that woman.”
“Did you say Lillian was killed at Clara’s home?” demanded Monsieur Dyson.
“Oui. In her backyard.”
“Then you know who killed Lillian,” said Monsieur Dyson. “Have you arrested her?”
“I haven’t,” said Gamache. “There are other possibilities. Is there anyone else your daughter talked about since her return to Montréal? Anyone who might wish her harm?”
“No one as obvious as Clara,” snapped Monsieur Dyson.
“I know this is difficult,” said Gamache quietly, calmly. He waited a moment before speaking again. “But you need to think about my question. It’s vital. Did she talk about anyone else? Anyone she’d had an upset with recently?”
“No one,” said Madame Dyson, eventually. “As we said, she never seemed happier.”
Chief Inspector Gamache and Beauvoir thanked the Dysons for their help and gave them their cards.
“Please call,” said the Chief, standing at the door. “If you remember anything, or if you need anything.”
“Who do we speak to about—” Madame Dyson began.
“I’ll have someone come over and talk with you about arrangements. Is that all right?”
They nodded. Monsieur Dyson had fought to his feet and stood beside his wife, staring at Gamache. Two men, two fathers. But standing now a continent apart.
As they walked down the stairs, their steps echoing against the walls, Gamache wondered how two such people could produce the woman Clara had described.
Wretched, jealous, bitter, mean.
But then, the Dysons thought the same about Clara.
There was a lot to wonder about.
Madame Dyson had been certain her daughter would never go to Clara Morrow’s home. Not knowingly.
Had Lillian Dyson been tricked into it? Lured there not realizing it was Clara’s place? But if so, why was she killed, and why there?
TEN
After having rid the garden of all evil spirits, Myrna, Dominique and Ruth sat down for beers in Myrna’s loft.
“So what do you think that coin was about?” Dominique asked, relaxing back into the sofa.
“More evil,” said Ruth and the other women looked at her.
“What do you mean?” Myrna asked.
“AA?” demanded Ruth. “Bunch of devil worshipers. It’s a cult. Mind control. Demons. Turning people away from the natural path.”
“Of being alcoholics?” asked Myrna with a laugh.
Ruth eyed her suspiciously. “I wouldn’t expect the witch gardener to understand.”
“You’d be surprised what you can learn in a garden,” said Myrna. “And from a witch.”
Just then Clara arrived, looking distracted.
“You OK?” asked Dominique.
“Just fine. Peter had put a bottle of champagne in the fridge to celebrate. This was the first chance we had to toast the vernissage.” Clara poured herself an iced tea from Myrna’s fridge and came over to join them.
“That was nice,” said Dominique.
“Uh-huh,” agreed Clara. Myrna looked at her closely, but said nothing.
“What were you talking about?” Clara asked.
“The body in your garden,” said Ruth. “Did you kill her or not?”
“OK,” said Clara. “I’m only going to say this once so I hope you remember. Are you paying attention?”
They nodded, except Ruth.
“Ruth?”
“What?”
“You asked a question. I’m about to answer it.”
“Too late. I’ve lost interest. Aren’t we getting anything to eat?”
“Pay attention.” Clara looked at all of them and spoke clearly and slowly. “I. Did. Not. Kill. Lillian.”
“Do you have a piece of paper?” Dominique asked. “I’m not sure I can remember all that.”
Ruth laughed.
“So,” said Myrna. “Let’s just assume we believe you. For the moment. Who did?”
“It had to be someone else at the party,” said Clara.
“But who, Sherlock?” Myrna asked.
“Who hated her enough to kill her?” Dominique asked.
“Anyone who met her,” said Clara.
“But that’s not fair,” said Myrna. “You hadn’t seen her in more than twenty years. And it’s possible she was simply mean to you. It happens sometimes. We trigger something in someone else, bring out the worst in each other.”
“Not Lillian,” said Clara. “She was generous in her disdain. She hated everyone and everyone eventually hated her. Like you said before. The frog in the frying pan. She’d turn up the heat.”
“I hope that isn’t a dinner suggestion,” said Ruth, “because that’s what I had for breakfast.”
They looked at her and she grinned. “Well, maybe it was an egg.”
They turned back to Myrna.
“Maybe it wasn’t a frying pan,” Ruth continued. “But a glass. And now that I think of it, it wasn’t an egg at all.”
They turned back to Ruth.
“It was Scotch.”
They focused back on Myrna, who explained the psychological phenomenon.
“I think I always hated myself for staying so long, for letting Lillian hurt me so much before I actually left. Never again.”
Clara was surprised when Myrna said nothing.
“Gamache probably thinks I did it.” Clara finally broke the silence. “I’m screwed.”
“I’d have to agree,” said Ruth.
“Of course you’re not,” said Dominique. “In fact, just the opposite.”
“What d’you mean?”
“You have something the Chief Inspector doesn’t,” said Dominique. “You know the art world and you know most of the people at your party. What’s the biggest question you have?”
“Besides who killed her? Well, what was Lillian doing here?”
“Excellent,” said Dominique, getting up. “Good question. Why don’t we ask?”
“Who?”
“The guests still here in Three Pines.”
Clara thought for a moment. “Worth a try.”
“Waste of time,” said Ruth. “I still think you did it.”
“Watch it, old woman,” said Clara. “You’re next.”
The forensics team met Chief Inspector Gamache and Inspector Beauvoir at Lillian Dyson’s apartment in Montréal. While they took prints and collected specimens, Gamache and Beauvoir looked around.
It was a modest apartment on the top floor of a triplex. None of the buildings were tall in the Plateau Mont Royal district so while petite, Lillian’s apartment was bright.
Beauvoir walked briskly into the main room and got to work but Gamache paused. To get a feel for the place. It smelled stale. Of oil paint and unopened windows. The furniture was old without being vintage. The kind you found in the Sally Ann, or on the side of the road.
The floors were parquet with dull area rugs. Unlike some artists who cared about the aesthetics of their home, Lillian Dyson appeared indifferent to what was within these walls. What she was not indifferent to was what was on the walls.