A Trick of the Light

“Sorry it took so long,” said Clara, coming around the old lilac bush at the corner of her home. “I got these from Myrna.”

She held up the ribbon and the cigar and was treated to both the Chief Inspector and Suzanne looking disconcerted.

“What sort of a ritual is this exactly?” asked Gamache, with an uncertain smile.

“It’s a ritual of cleansing. Would you like to join us?”

Gamache hesitated, then nodded. He was familiar with this sort of ritual. Some of the villagers had done it at the scenes of earlier murders. But he’d never been asked to join before. Though, God knew, he’d had enough incense wafted over him in his Catholic youth, this couldn’t be any worse.

For the second time in two days Clara lit the sage and sweetgrass. She gently pushed the fragrant smoke toward the intense artist, smoothing it over the woman’s head and down her body. Releasing, Clara explained, any negative thoughts, any bad energy.

Then it was Gamache’s turn. She looked at him. His expression was slightly bemused, but mostly relaxed, attentive. She moved the smoke over him, until it hung like a sweet cloud around him and then dissipated in the breeze.

“All the negative energy taken away,” said Clara, doing it to herself. “Gone.”

If only, they all quietly thought, it was that easy.

Then Clara gave them each a ribbon and invited them to say a silent prayer for Lillian, then tie it to the stick.

“What about the tape?” asked Suzanne.

“Oh, it doesn’t matter,” said Clara. “More of a suggestion than a command. Besides, I know the fellow who put it up.”

“Incompetent,” said Gamache, holding the tape down for Suzanne, then stepping through himself. “But well meaning.”

*   *   *

Agent Isabelle Lacoste slowed her car almost to a stop. She was heading out of Three Pines and into Montréal to help search the archives of La Presse for Lillian Dyson’s reviews. To try to find out who that one particularly vicious critique was written about.

As she drove past the Morrow house she saw something she never thought she’d see. A senior Sûreté du Québec officer apparently praying to a stick.

She smiled, wishing she could join him. She’d often said silent prayers at a crime scene. When everyone else had left, Isabelle Lacoste returned. To let the dead know they were not forgotten.

This time, though, it seemed the Chief’s turn. She wondered what he was praying for. She remembered holding that bloody hand, and thought maybe she could guess.

*   *   *

Chief Inspector Gamache placed his right hand on the stick and cleared his mind. After a moment he tied his ribbon to it and stepped back.

“I said the Serenity Prayer,” said Suzanne. “You?”

But Gamache chose not to tell them what he’d prayed for.

“And you?” Suzanne turned to Clara.

She was bossy and inquisitive, Gamache noticed. He wondered if those were good qualities in a sponsor.

Like Gamache, Clara kept quiet.

But she had her answer.

“I need to leave for a little while. I’ll see you later.” Clara hurried into her home. She was now in a rush. Too much time had already been wasted.

EIGHTEEN

“Are you sure I can’t come with you?” Peter followed Clara down their front path, to the car parked just outside their gate.

“I won’t be long. Just one quick thing I need to do in Montréal.”

“What? Can’t I help?”

He was desperate to prove to Clara he’d changed. But while she was civil with him it was clear. His wife, who had so much faith, had finally lost all faith in him.

“No. Enjoy yourself here.”

“Call when you get there,” he yelled after the car, but he wasn’t sure she’d heard.

“Where’s she gone?”

Peter turned round to see Inspector Beauvoir standing beside him.

“Montréal.”

Beauvoir raised his brows but said nothing. Then he walked away, toward the bistro and its terrasse.

Peter watched Inspector Beauvoir take a seat under one of the yellow and blue Campari umbrellas, all by himself. Olivier came out immediately, like the Inspector’s private butler.

Beauvoir accepted two menus, ordered a drink, and relaxed.

Peter envied that. To sit alone. All alone. And be company enough. He envied that almost as much as he envied the people sitting in groups of two or three or four. Enjoying each other’s company. For Peter, the only thing worse than company was being alone. Unless he was alone in his studio. Or with Clara. Just the two of them.

But now she’d left him standing by the side of the road.

And Peter Morrow didn’t know what to do.

*   *   *

“Your man is going to be pissed off that you’re keeping him from his lunch.” Suzanne nodded toward the bistro.

They’d left Clara’s garden and decided to walk around the village green. Ruth sat on the bench at the very center of the little park. The source of all gravity in Three Pines.

She was staring into the sky and Gamache wondered if prayers really were answered. He glanced up as well, as he had when his hand had rested on the stick.

But the sky remained empty, and silent.

Then his gaze fell to earth and Beauvoir sitting at a bistro table, watching them.

“He doesn’t look happy,” said Suzanne.