And then, one day, even they stopped. No twelve o’clock express. No three P.M. milk run into Vermont.
Nothing for the villagers to set their clocks by.
And so both the trains and time stopped in Three Pines.
The station sat empty until one day Ruth Zardo had a thought that didn’t include olives or ice cubes. The Three Pines Volunteer Fire Department would take over the space. And so, with Ruth in the vanguard, they’d descended on the lovely old brick building and made themselves at home.
As the homicide team did now. In one half of the open room sat firefighting equipment, axes, hoses, helmets. A truck. In the other half were desks, computers, printers, scanners. The walls held posters with fire safety tips, detailed maps of the region, photos of past winners of the Governor General’s Award for Poetry, including Ruth, and several large boards with headings like: Suspects, Evidence, Victim, and Questions.
There were a lot of questions, and the team spent the morning trying to answer them. The detailed coroner’s report came in and Inspector Beauvoir handled that, as well as the forensic evidence. He was looking into how she died while Agent Lacoste tried to figure out how she’d lived. Her time in New York City, her marriage, any friends, any colleagues. What she did, what she thought. What others thought of her.
And Chief Inspector Gamache put them all together.
He started out at his desk, with a cup of coffee, reading all the reports from the day and night before. From that morning.
Then picking up the large blue book on his desk he went for a walk. Instinctively he made for the village, but paused on the stone bridge that arched over the river.
Ruth was sitting on the bench on the village green. Not doing much of anything, apparently, though the Chief Inspector knew differently. She was doing the most difficult thing in the world.
She was waiting and she was hoping.
As he watched she tilted her gray head to the skies. And listened. For a distant sound, like a train. Someone coming home. Then her head dropped back down.
How long, he wondered, would she wait? It was already almost mid-June. How many others, mothers and fathers, had sat right where Ruth was, waiting, hoping? Listening for the train. Wondering if it would stop and a familiar young man would step down, having been spewed back from places with pretty names, like Vimy Ridge or Flanders Fields or Passchendaele? By Dieppe and Arnhem.
How long did hope live?
Ruth tilted her head to the sky and listened again, for some far cry. And then she lowered it again.
An eternity, thought Gamache.
And if hope lasted forever, how long did hate last?
He turned around, not wanting to disturb her. But neither did he want to be disturbed. He needed quiet time, to read and think. And so he walked back, past the old railway station and down the dirt road, one of the spokes that radiated out from the village green. He’d taken a lot of walks around Three Pines but never down this particular road.
Huge maples lined the road, their branches meeting overhead. Their leaves almost blocking out the sun. But not quite. It filtered through and hit the dirt, and hit him and hit the book in his hand in soft dots of light.
Gamache found a large gray rock, an outcropping by the side of the road. Sitting down he put on his reading glasses, crossed his legs and opened the book.
An hour later he closed it and stared ahead. Then he got up and walked some more, further down the tunnel of shade and light. In the woods he could see dried leaves and tight little fiddlehead ferns and hear the scrambling of chipmunks and birds. He was aware of all that, though his mind was somewhere else.
Finally he stopped, turned around and walked back, his steps slow but deliberate.
SIXTEEN
“Right,” said Gamache settling into his chair at the makeshift conference table. “Tell me what you know.”
“Dr. Harris’s full report arrived this morning,” said Beauvoir, standing by the sheets of paper attached to the wall. He wafted an uncapped Magic Marker under his nose. “Lillian Dyson’s neck was snapped, twisted in a single move.” He mimicked wringing a neck. “There was no bruising on her face or arms. Nowhere except a small spot on her neck, where it broke.”
“Which tells us what?” asked the Chief.
“That death was fast,” said Beauvoir, writing it down in bold letters. He loved this part. Putting down facts, evidence. Writing them in ink so that fact became truth. “As we thought, she was taken by surprise. Dr. Harris says the killer could have been either a man or woman. Probably not elderly. Some strength and leverage was necessary. The murderer was probably no shorter than Madame Dyson,” said Beauvoir, consulting the notes in his hand. “But since she was five foot five most people would have been taller.”
“How tall is Clara Morrow?” Lacoste asked.
The men looked at each other. “About that size, I’d say,” said Beauvoir and Gamache nodded.
It was, sadly, a pertinent question.
“There was no other violation,” Beauvoir continued. “No sexual assault. No evidence of recent sexual activity at all. She was slightly overweight but not by much. She’d had dinner a couple of hours earlier. McDonald’s.”
Beauvoir tried not to think of the Happy Meal the coroner had found.
“Any other food in her stomach?” asked Lacoste. “The catered food at the party?”
“None.”
“Was there any alcohol or drugs in her system?” Gamache asked.
“None.”
The Chief turned to Agent Lacoste. She looked down at her notes, and read.
“Lillian Dyson’s former husband was a jazz trumpeter in New York. He met Lillian at an art show. He was performing at a cocktail party and she was one of the guests. They gravitated to each other. Both alcoholics, apparently. They got married and for a while both seemed to straighten out. Then it all fell apart. For both of them. He got into crack and meth. Got fired from gigs. They were evicted from their apartment. It was a mess. Eventually she left him and hooked up with a few other men. I’ve found two of them, but not the rest. It seemed casual, not actual relationships. And, it seems, increasingly desperate.”
“Was she also addicted to crack or methamphetamines?” Gamache asked.
“No evidence of that,” said Lacoste.
“How’d she make a living?” the Chief asked. “As an artist or critic?”
“Neither. Looks like she lived on the margins of the art world,” said Lacoste, going back to her notes.
“So what did she do?” asked Beauvoir.
“Well, she was illegal. No work permit for the States. From what I can piece together she worked under the table at art supply shops. She picked up odd jobs here and there.”
Gamache thought about that. For a twenty-year-old it would’ve been an exciting life. For a woman nearing fifty it would’ve been exhausting, discouraging.
“She might not have been an addict, but could she have dealt drugs?” he asked. “Or been a prostitute?”
“Possibly both for a while, but not recently,” said Lacoste.
“Coroner says there’s no evidence of sexually transmitted disease. No needle tracks or scarring,” said Beauvoir, consulting the printout. “As you know, most low-level dealers are also addicts.”
“Lillian’s parents thought her husband might have died,” said the Chief.
“He did,” said Lacoste. “Three years ago. OD’d.”
Beauvoir put a stroke through the man’s name.
“Canada Customs records show she crossed the border on a bus from New York City on October sixteenth of last year,” said Lacoste. “Nine months ago. She applied for welfare and got it.”
“When did she join Alcoholics Anonymous?” asked Gamache.