A Trick of the Light

It looked delicate, fragile, but Gamache knew lilacs were in fact long lived. They survived storms and droughts, biting winters and late frosts. They flourished and bloomed where other more apparently robust plants died.

The village of Three Pines, he noticed, was dotted with lilac bushes. Not the new hybrids with double blooms and vibrant colors. These were the soft purples and whites of his grandmother’s garden. When had they been young? Had doughboys returning from Vimy and Flanders and Passchendaele marched past these same bushes? Had they breathed in the scent and known, at last, they were home? At peace.

He looked back in time to see the two elderly men turn as one into the entrance to the inn and spa, and disappear inside.

“Chief.” Inspector Beauvoir walked toward him from Peter and Clara’s back garden. “The Crime Scene team’s just finishing up and Lacoste’s back from the bistro. As you thought, Gabri and Olivier weren’t in the place thirty seconds before they announced what had happened.”

“And?”

“And nothing. Lacoste says everyone behaved as you’d expect. Curious, upset, worried for their own safety, but not personally upset. No one seemed to know the dead woman. Lacoste spent some time going from table to table after that, showing the photo of the dead woman and describing her. No one remembers seeing her at the barbeque.”

Gamache was disappointed but not surprised. He had a growing suspicion that this woman was not meant to be seen. Not alive, anyway.

“Lacoste’s setting up the Incident Room in the old railway station.”

“Bon.” Gamache began walking across the village green and Beauvoir fell into step beside him. “I wonder if we should make it a permanent detachment.”

Beauvoir laughed. “Why not just move the whole homicide department down here? By the way, we found Madame Dyson’s car. Looks like she drove herself. It’s just up there.” Beauvoir pointed up rue du Moulin. “Want to see it?”

“Absolument.”

The two men changed direction and walked up the dirt road, in the footsteps of the two older men moments before. Once they’d crested the hill Gamache could see a gray Toyota parked on the side of the road a hundred yards further along.

“Long way from the Morrow house and the party,” said Gamache, feeling the warmth as the afternoon sun shone through the leaves.

“True, I imagine the place was packed with cars. This was probably as close as she could get.”

Gamache nodded slowly. “Which would mean she wasn’t among the first to arrive. Or, maybe she parked this far away on purpose.”

“Why would she do that?”

“Maybe she didn’t want to be seen.”

“Then why wear neon red?”

Gamache smiled. It was a good point. “Very annoying, having a smart second in command. I long for the days you used to just tug your forelock and agree with me.”

“And when were those?”

“Right again. This must stop.” He smiled to himself.

They came to a stop beside the car.

“It’s been gone over, searched, swabbed, fingerprinted. But I wanted you to see it before we had it towed away.”

“Merci.”

Beauvoir unlocked it and the Chief Inspector climbed into the driver’s seat, pushing the seat back to make room for his more substantial body.

The passenger’s seat was covered with Cartes Routières du Québec. Maps.

Reaching across he opened the glove compartment. There was the usual assortment of stuff you think you’ll use and forget is there. Napkins, elastics, Band-Aids, a double A battery. And some information on the car, with the insurance and registration slips. Gamache pulled it out and read. The car was five years old, but only bought by Lillian Dyson eight months ago. He closed the glove box and picked up the maps. Putting on his half-moon reading glasses he scanned them. They’d been imperfectly folded back together, in that haphazard way impatient people had with annoying maps.

One was for all of Québec. Not very helpful unless you were planning an invasion and just needed to know, roughly, where Montréal and Quebec City were. The other was for Les Canton de l’est. The Eastern Townships.

Lillian Dyson couldn’t have known it when she bought them, but these maps were also useless. Just to be sure, he opened one and where Three Pines should have been there was the winding Bella Bella River, hills, a forest. And nothing else. As far as the official mapmakers were concerned Three Pines didn’t exist.

It had never been surveyed. Never plotted. No GPS or sat nav system, no matter how sophisticated, would ever find the little village. It only appeared as though by accident over the edge of the hill. Suddenly. It could not be found unless you were lost.

Had Lillian Dyson been lost? Had she stumbled onto Three Pines and the party by mistake?

But no. That seemed too big a coincidence. She was dressed for a party. Dressed to impress. To be seen. To be noticed.

Then why hadn’t she been?

“Why was Lillian here?” he asked, almost to himself.

“Did she even know it was Clara’s home, do you think?” Beauvoir asked.