A Trick of the Light

“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.

“I don’t know,” said Lacoste. “I tried to reach her sponsor, Suzanne Coates, but there was no answer and Chez Nick says she’s on a couple of days off.”

“Scheduled?” asked Gamache, sitting forward.

“I didn’t ask.”

“Ask, please,” said the Chief, getting to his feet. “When you find her let me know. I have some questions for her as well.”

He went to his desk and placed a call. He could have given the name and number to Agent Lacoste or Inspector Beauvoir, but he preferred to do this himself.

“Chief Justice’s office,” said the efficient voice.

“May I speak with Mr. Justice Pineault, please? This is Chief Inspector Gamache, of the Sûreté.”

“I’m afraid Justice Pineault isn’t in today, Chief Inspector.”

Gamache paused, surprised. “Is that right? Is he ill? I saw him just last night and he didn’t mention anything.”

Now it was Mr. Justice Pineault’s secretary’s turn to pause. “He called in this morning and said he’d be working from home for the next few days.”

“Was this unexpected?”

“The Chief Justice is free to do as he likes, Monsieur Gamache.” She sounded tolerant of what was clearly an inappropriate question on his part.

“I’ll try him at home. Merci.”

He tried the next number in his notebook. Chez Nick, the restaurant.

No, the harried woman who answered said, Suzanne wasn’t there. She called to say she wouldn’t be in.

The woman didn’t sound pleased.