A Trick of the Light

Thierry nodded. “Not everyone. We don’t take an ad out in the Gazette. But we tell people in AA.”

“And that gets you sober?” asked Beauvoir.

“It helps.”

“But some stuff’s pretty bad,” said Beauvoir. “The Brian fellow killed a kid. We could arrest him.”

“You could, but he’s already been arrested. Turned himself in actually. Served five years. Came out about three years ago. He’s faced his demons. Doesn’t mean they don’t pop up again.” Thierry Pineault turned to the Chief Inspector. “As you know.” Gamache held his eyes and said nothing. “But they have far less power, if they’re in the light. That’s what this is about, Inspector. Bringing all the terrible stuff up from where it’s hiding.”

“Just because you can see it,” Beauvoir persisted, “doesn’t make it go away.”

“True, but until you see it you haven’t a hope.”

“Had Lillian shared recently?” Gamache asked.

“Never, as far as I know.”

“So no one knew her secrets?” asked the Chief.

“Only her sponsor.”

“Like you and Brian?” asked Gamache, and Thierry nodded.

“We choose one person in AA, and that person becomes a sort of mentor, a guide. We call it a sponsor. I have one, and Lillian has one. We all have one.”

“And you tell that sponsor everything?” Gamache asked.

“Everything.”

“Who was Lillian’s sponsor?”

“A woman named Suzanne.”

The two investigators waited for more. Like a last name. But Thierry simply looked at them, waiting for the next question.

“I wonder if you can be more specific?” asked Gamache. “Suzanne in Montréal isn’t very helpful.”

Thierry smiled. “I suppose not. I can’t tell you her last name, but I can do better. I’ll introduce you to her.”

“Parfait,” said Gamache, getting up. He tried not to notice that his slacks clung slightly to the stair as he rose.

“But we need to hurry,” said Thierry, walking ahead, his strides long and rapid, almost breaking into a jog. “She might’ve left by now.”

The men walked quickly back through the corridors. Then they broke into the large room where the meeting was held. But it was empty. Not just of people, but of chairs and tables and books and coffee. Everything was gone.

“Damn,” said Thierry. “We’ve missed her.”

A man was putting mugs away in a cupboard and Thierry spoke with him then returned. “He says Suzanne’s at Tim Hortons.”

“Would you mind?” Gamache indicated the door and Thierry again took the lead, walking with them over to the coffee shop. As they waited for a break in traffic to dart across rue Sherbrooke Gamache asked, “What did you think of Lillian?”

Thierry turned to examine Gamache. It was a look Gamache knew from seeing him on the bench. Judging others. And he was a good judge.

Then Thierry turned back to watch the traffic, but as he did so he spoke.

“She was very enthusiastic, always happy to help. She often volunteered to make coffee or set up the chairs and tables. It’s a big job getting a meeting ready, then cleaning up after. Not everyone wants to help, but Lillian always did.”

The three men, seeing the hole between cars at the same time, ran across the four-lane street together, making it safely to the other side.

Thierry paused, turning to look at Gamache.

“It’s so sad, you know. She was getting her life back together. Everyone liked her. I liked her.”

“This woman?” asked Beauvoir, taking the photo from his pocket, his amazement obvious. “Lillian Dyson?”

Thierry looked at it and nodded. “That’s Lillian. Tragic.”

“And you say everyone liked her?” Beauvoir pressed.

“Yes,” said Thierry. “Why?”

“Well,” said Gamache. “Your description doesn’t match what others are saying.”

“Really? What’re they saying?”

“That she was cruel, manipulative, abusive even.”

Thierry didn’t say anything, instead he turned and began walking down a dark side street. The next block over they could see the familiar Tim Hortons sign.

“There she is,” said Thierry as they entered the coffee shop. “Suzanne,” he called and waved.

A woman with close-cropped black hair looked up. She was in her sixties, Gamache guessed. Wore lots of flashy jewelry, a tight shirt with a light shawl, a skirt about three inches too short on her barrel body. There were six other women, of varying ages, at the table.

“Thierry.” Suzanne jumped up and threw her arms around Thierry, as though she hadn’t just seen him. Then she turned bright, inquisitive eyes on Gamache and Beauvoir. “New blood?”

Beauvoir bristled. He didn’t like this bawdy, brassy woman. Loud. And now she seemed to think he was one of them.

“I saw you at the meeting tonight. It’s OK, honey,” she laughed as she saw Beauvoir’s expression. “You don’t need to like us. You just need to get sober.”

“I’m not an alcoholic.” Even to his ears it sounded like the word was a dead bug or a piece of dirt he couldn’t wait to get out of his mouth. But she didn’t take offense.

Gamache, though, did. He gave Beauvoir a warning look and put out his hand to Suzanne.

“My name is Armand Gamache.”

“His father?” Suzanne gestured to Beauvoir.

Gamache smiled. “Mercifully, no. We’re not here about AA.”