Clara looked at the kitchen clock. Almost eight. “They must’ve left Montréal just after six.”
“Uh-huh,” said Peter, watching Gamache and Beauvoir disappear into the bistro. Then he looked down at Clara’s hands. One held the mug, but the other rested on the old pine table, a loose fist.
Did he dare?
He reached out and very slowly, so as not to surprise or frighten her, he placed his large hand on hers. Cupping her fist in his palm. Making it safe there, in the little home his hand created.
And she let him.
It was enough, he told himself.
No need to tell her the rest. No need to upset her.
“I’ll have,” said Beauvoir slowly, staring at the menu. He had no appetite, but he knew he had to order something. There were blueberry pancakes, crêpes, eggs Benedict, bacon and sausages and fresh, warm croissants on the menu.
He’d been up since five. Had picked up the Chief at quarter to six. And now it was almost seven thirty. He waited for his hunger to kick in.
Chief Inspector Gamache lowered the menu and looked at the waiter. “While he’s trying to decide, I’ll have a bowl of café au lait and some blueberry pancakes with sausages.”
“Merci,” said the waiter, taking Gamache’s menu and looking at Beauvoir. “And you, monsieur?”
“It all looks so good,” said Beauvoir. “I’ll have the same thing as the Chief Inspector, thank you.”
“I thought for sure you’d have the eggs Benedict,” smiled Gamache, as the waiter left them. “I thought it was your favorite.”
“I made it for myself just yesterday,” said Beauvoir, and Gamache laughed. They both knew it was more likely he’d had a Super Slice for breakfast. In fact, just lately, Beauvoir had had just coffee and perhaps a bagel.
Through the window they could see Three Pines in the early morning sun. Not many were out yet. A few villagers walked dogs. A few sat on porches, sipping coffee and reading the morning paper. But most still slept.
“How’s Agent Lacoste doing, do you think?” the Chief Inspector asked once their cafés had arrived.
“Not bad. Did you speak with her last night? I asked her to run a few things by you.”
The two men sipped their coffees and compared notes.
Beauvoir looked at his watch as their breakfast arrived. “I asked her to meet us here at eight.” It was ten to, and he looked up to see Lacoste walking across the village green, a dossier in her hand.
“I like being a mentor,” said Beauvoir.
“You do it well,” said Gamache. “Of course, you had a good teacher. Benevolent, just. Yet firm.”
Beauvoir looked at the Chief Inspector with exaggerated puzzlement. “You? You mean you’ve been mentoring me all these years? That sure explains the need for therapy.”
Gamache looked down at his meal, and smiled.
Agent Lacoste joined them and ordered a cappuccino. “And a croissant, s’il vous plaît,” she called after the waiter. Then she placed her dossier on the table. “I read your report of the meeting last night, Chief, and did some digging.”
“Already?” asked Beauvoir.
“Well, I got up early and frankly I didn’t want to hang around the B and B with those artists.”
“Why not?” asked Gamache.
“I’m afraid I found them boring. I had dinner with Normand and Paulette last night, to see if I could get anything else out of them about Lillian Dyson but they seem to have lost interest.”
“What did you talk about?” asked Beauvoir.
“They spent most of dinner laughing about the Ottawa Star review of Clara’s show. They said it would put paid to her career.”
“But who cares what the Ottawa Star thinks?” asked Beauvoir.
“Ten years ago nobody, but now with the Internet it can be read around the world,” said Lacoste. “Insignificant opinions suddenly become significant. As Normand said, people only remember the bad reviews.”
“I wonder if that’s true,” said Gamache.
“Have you gotten anywhere tracing that review Lillian Dyson did?” asked Beauvoir.
“He’s a natural, producing art like it’s a bodily function?” Lacoste quoted, and wished it had been written about Normand or Paulette. Though, she thought for the first time, maybe it had. Maybe the “he” in the review was Normand. That might explain his bitterness, and his delight when someone else got a bad review.
Isabelle Lacoste shook her head. “No luck tracing that review. It was so long ago now, more than twenty years. I’ve sent an agent along to the archives at La Presse. We’ll have to go through the microfiche one at a time.”
“Bon.” Inspector Beauvoir nodded his approval.
Lacoste tore her warm and flaky croissant in half. “I looked into Lillian Dyson’s sponsor, as you asked, Chief,” she said, then took a bite of her croissant before putting it down and picking up the dossier. “Suzanne Coates, age sixty-two. She’s a waitress over at Nick’s on Greene Avenue. Do you know it?”
Beauvoir shook his head, but Gamache nodded. “A Westmount institution.”
“As is Suzanne, apparently. I called this morning before coming here. Spoke to one of the other waitresses. A Lorraine. She confirmed that Suzanne had worked there for twenty years. But she got a little cagey when I asked what her hours were. Finally this Lorraine admitted they all cover for each other when they pick up extra cash working private parties. Suzanne’s supposed to be on the lunch shift, but wasn’t in Saturday. She worked yesterday, though, as usual. Her shift starts at eleven.”
“By ‘working private parties,’ that doesn’t mean—?” asked Beauvoir.
“Prostitution?” asked Lacoste. “The woman’s sixty-two. Though she was in the profession years ago. Two arrests for prostitution and one for break and enter. This was back in the early eighties. She was also charged with theft.”
Both Gamache and Beauvoir raised their brows. Still, it was a long time ago and a long way from those crimes to murder.
“I also found her tax information. Her declared income last year was twenty-three thousand dollars. But she’s heavily in debt. Credit card. She has three of them, all maxed out. She seems to consider it not so much a credit limit as a goal. Like most people in debt she’s juggling creditors, but it’s all about to come crashing down.”
“Does she realize it?” Gamache asked.
“Hard not to, unless she’s completely delusional.”
“You haven’t met her,” said Beauvoir. “Delusional is one of her better qualities.”
André Castonguay could smell the coffee.
He lay in bed, on the comfortable mattress, under the 600-thread-count sheets and goose down duvet. And he wished he was dead.
He felt like he’d been dropped from a great height. And somehow survived, but was bruised and flattened. Reaching out a shaky hand for the glass of water he gulped down what was left. That felt better.
Slowly he sat up, letting himself adjust to each new position. Finally he stood and pulled the bathrobe around his soft body. Never again, he said as he trudged to the bathroom and stared at his reflection. Never again.
But he’d said that yesterday. And the day before. And the day before that.
The Sûreté team spent the morning in the Incident Room, set up in the Canadian National Railway station. The low brick building, a century old, sat across the Rivière Bella Bella from Three Pines. The building was abandoned, the trains having simply stopped stopping there decades earlier. No explanation.
For a while the trains still chugged by, winding through the valley and between the mountains. And disappearing around a bend.