“And all you want, sir,” said Fortin, getting to his feet, “is a bottle. Who is worse?”
Fortin gave a stiff little bow and walked away. He didn’t know where he was going. Just away. From the table. From the art establishment. From the two men staring at him. And probably laughing.
“People don’t change,” said Beauvoir, squashing his burger and watching the juices ooze out.
Chief Justice Pineault and Suzanne had left, walking over to the B and B. And now, finally, Inspector Beauvoir could discuss murder, in peace.
“You think not?” asked Gamache. On his plate were grilled garlic shrimp and quinoa mango salad. The barbeque was working overtime for the hungry lunch crowd, producing char-grilled steaks and burgers, shrimp and salmon.
“They might seem to,” said Beauvoir, picking his burger up, “but if you were a nasty piece of work growing up, you’ll be an asshole as an adult and you’ll die pissed off.”
He took a bite. Where once this burger, with bacon and mushrooms, caramelized onions and melting blue cheese, would have sent him into raptures, now it left him feeling slightly queasy. Still, he forced himself to eat, to appease Gamache.
Beauvoir noticed the Chief watching him eat and felt a slight annoyance, but that quickly faded. Mostly he didn’t care. After his conversation with Myrna he’d taken himself off to the bathroom and popped a Percocet, staying there, his head in his hands, until he could feel the warmth spread, and the pain ebb and drift away.
Across the table Chief Inspector Gamache took a forkful of grilled garlic shrimp and the quinoa mango salad with genuine enjoyment.
They’d both looked up when André Castonguay had raised his voice.
Beauvoir had even gone to get up, but the Chief had stopped him. Wanting to see how this would play out. Like the rest of the patrons, they watched Denis Fortin walk stiffly away, his back straight, his arms at his side.
Like a little soldier, Gamache had thought, reminded of his son Daniel as a child, marching around the park. Either into or away from a battle. Resolute.
Pretending.
Denis Fortin was retreating, Gamache knew. To nurse his wounds.
“I suspect you don’t agree?” said Beauvoir.
“That people don’t change?” asked Gamache, looking up from his plate. “No, I don’t agree. I believe people can and do.”
“But not as much as the victim appeared to change,” said Beauvoir. “That would be very chiaroscuro.”
“Very what?” Gamache lowered his knife and fork and stared at his second in command.
“It means a bold contrast. The play of light and dark.”
“Is that so? And did you make up that word?”
“I did not. Heard it at Clara’s vernissage and even used it a few times. Such a snooty crowd. All I had to do was say ‘chiaroscuro’ a few times and they were convinced I was the critic for Le Monde.”
Gamache picked his knife and fork back up and shook his head. “So it could’ve meant anything and you still used it?”
“Didn’t you notice? The more ridiculous the statement the more it was accepted. Did you see their faces when they realized I wasn’t with Le Monde?”
“Very schadenfreude of you,” said Gamache and wasn’t surprised to see the suspicious look on Beauvoir’s face. “So you looked up ‘chiaroscuro’ this morning. Is that what you do when I’m not around?”
“That and Free Cell. And porn, of course, but we only do that on your computer.”
Beauvoir grinned and took a bite of his burger.
“You think the victim was very chiaroscuro?” asked Gamache.
“I don’t actually. Just said that to show off. I think it’s all bullshit. One moment she’s a bitch, the next she’s this wonderful person? Come on. That’s crap.”
“I can see how they’d mistake you for a formidable critic,” said Gamache.
“Fucking right. Listen, people don’t change. You think the trout in the Bella Bella are there because they love Three Pines? But maybe next year they’ll go somewhere else?” Beauvoir jerked his head toward the river.
Gamache looked at his Inspector. “What do you think?”
“I think the trout have no choice. They return because they’re trout. That’s what trout do. Life is that simple. Ducks return to the same place every year. Geese do it. Salmon and butterflies and deer. Jeez, deer are such creatures of habit they wear a trail through the woods and never deviate. That’s why so many are shot, as we know. They never change. People are the same. We are what we are. We are who we are.”
“We don’t change?” Gamache took a piece of fresh asparagus.
“Exactly. You taught me that people, that cases, are basically very simple. We’re the ones who complicate it.”
“And the Dyson case? Are we complicating it?”
“I think so. I think she was killed by someone she screwed. End of story. A sad story, but a simple one.”
“Someone from her past?” Gamache asked.
“No, that’s where I think you’re wrong. The people who knew the new Lillian after she stopped drinking say she’d become a decent person. And the people who knew the old one, before she stopped drinking, say she was a bitch.”
Beauvoir was holding up both hands, one was clutching the massive burger, the other held a french fry. Between them was space, a divide.
“And I’m saying the old and new are the same person.” He brought his hands together. “There’s only one Lillian. Just as there’s only one me. Only one you. She might have gotten better at hiding it after she joined AA, but believe me, that bitter, nasty, horrible woman was still there.”
“And still hurting people?” the Chief asked.
Beauvoir ate the fry and nodded. This was his favorite part of an investigation. Not the food, though in Three Pines that was never a hardship. He could remember other cases, in other places, when he and the Chief had gone days with barely anything to eat, or shared cold canned peas and Spam. Even that, he had to admit, had been fun. In retrospect. But this little village produced bodies and gourmet meals in equal proportion.
He liked the food, but what he mostly loved were the conversations with the Chief. Just the two of them.
“One theory is that Lillian Dyson came here to make amends to someone,” said Gamache. “To apologize.”
“If she did I bet she wasn’t sincere.”
“So why would she have been here, if she wasn’t sincere?”
“To do what it was in her nature to do. To screw someone.”
“Clara?” Gamache asked.
“Maybe. Or someone else. She had lots to choose from.”
“And it went wrong,” said Gamache.
“Well, it sure didn’t go right, for her anyway.”
Was the answer so simple? Gamache wondered. Was Lillian Dyson just being true to who she really was?
A selfish, destructive, hurtful person. Drunk or sober.
The same person, with the same instincts and nature.
To hurt.
“But,” said Gamache, “how’d she know about this party? It was a private party. By invitation only. And we all know Three Pines is hard to find. How did Lillian know about the party, and how’d she find it? And how did the murderer know she’d even be here?”
Beauvoir took a deep breath, trying to think, then shook his head.
“I got us this far, Chief. It’s your turn to do something useful.”
Gamache sipped his beer and grew quiet. So quiet, in fact, that Beauvoir became concerned. Maybe he’d upset the Chief with his flippant remark.
“What is it?” Beauvoir asked. “Something wrong?”