A Trick of the Light

Beauvoir turned away, feeling the familiar ache in his belly turn into jabs of pain. He knew Myrna was trying to be kind but he just wished she’d go away.

She hadn’t been there. He had, and he’d never believe there was nothing more he could have done.

The Chief had saved his life. Dragged him to safety. Bandaged him. But when Gamache himself had been hurt it had been Agent Lacoste who’d fought her way to him. Saved the Chief’s life.

While he himself had done nothing. Just lay there. Watching.

*   *   *

“You liked her?” Gamache asked.

They’d come full circle and were now standing on the village green, just across from the terrasse. He could see André Castonguay and François Marois sitting at a table, enjoying lunch. Or at least, enjoying the food if not the company. They didn’t seem to be talking much.

“I did,” said Suzanne. “She’d become kind. Thoughtful even. Happy. I didn’t expect to like her when she first dragged her sorry ass into the church basement. We weren’t exactly best friends before she’d left for New York. But we were both younger then, and drunker. And I suspect neither of us was very nice. But people change.”

“Are you so sure Lillian had?”

“Are you so sure I have?” Suzanne laughed.

It was, Gamache had to admit, a good question.

And then another question occurred to him. One he was surprised he hadn’t thought of earlier.

“How did you find Three Pines?”

“What do you mean?”

“The village. It’s almost impossible to find. And yet, here you are.”

“He drove me down.”

Gamache turned and looked to where she was pointing. Past the terrasse and into a window, where a man stood, his back to them. A book in his hand.

Though the Chief Inspector couldn’t see his face Gamache did recognize the rest of the man. Thierry Pineault was standing at the window of Myrna’s bookstore.

NINETEEN

Clara Morrow sat in the car, staring at the decrepit old apartment building. It was a far cry from the pretty little home the Dysons had lived in when Clara knew them.

For the whole drive in she’d been remembering her friendship with Lillian. The mind-numbing Christmas job they got together sorting mail. Then later, as lifeguards. That’d been Lillian’s idea. They’d taken the lifesaving courses and passed their swim exams together. Helping each other. Sneaking out behind the life preserver shed for smokes, and tokes.

They’d been on the school volleyball and track teams together. They’d spotted each other at gymnastics.

There was barely a good memory from Clara’s childhood that didn’t include Lillian.

And Mr. and Mrs. Dyson were always there too. As kindly supporting characters. In the background, like the Peanuts parents. Rarely seen, but somehow there were always egg salad sandwiches, and fruit salad and warm chocolate chip cookies. There was always a pitcher of bright pink lemonade.

Mrs. Dyson had been short, rotund, with thinning hair always in place. She’d seemed old but Clara realized she was younger than Clara was now. And Mr. Dyson had been tall, wiry, with curly red hair. That looked, in the bright sunshine, like rust on his head.

No. There was no doubt, and Clara was appalled at herself for ever questioning it. This was the right thing to do.

After giving up on an elevator she climbed the three flights, trying not to notice the stale smells of tobacco and dope and urine.

She stood in front of their closed door. Staring. Catching her breath from an exertion not wholly physical.

Clara closed her eyes and conjured up little Lillian, standing in green shorts and a T-shirt, framed by her door. Smiling. Inviting little Clara in.

Then Clara Morrow knocked on the door.

*   *   *

“Chief Justice,” said Gamache, offering his hand.

“Chief Inspector,” said Thierry Pineault, taking it and shaking.

“There can be too many chiefs after all,” said Suzanne. “Let’s grab a table.”

“We can join Inspector Beauvoir,” said Gamache, ushering them toward his Inspector, who’d gotten up and was indicating his table.

“I’d rather we sat over here,” said Chief Justice Pineault. Suzanne and Gamache paused. Pineault was indicating a table shoved up against the brick building, in the least attractive area.

“More discreet,” Pineault explained, seeing their puzzled expressions. Gamache raised a brow but agreed, waving Beauvoir over. Chief Justice Pineault sat first, his back to the village. Gabri took their orders.

“Will this bother you?” Gamache asked, pointing to the beers Beauvoir had brought over.

“Not at all,” said Suzanne.

“I tried to call you this morning,” said Gamache.

Gabri put their drinks on the table and whispered to Beauvoir, “Who’s this other guy?”

“The Chief Justice of Québec.”

“Of course he is.” Gabri shot Beauvoir an annoyed look and left.

“And what did my secretary say?” asked Pineault, taking a sip of his Perrier and lime.

“Only that you were working from home,” said Gamache.

Pineault smiled. “I am, sort of. I’m afraid I didn’t specify which home.”

“You’ve decided to come down to the one in Knowlton?”