A Trick of the Light

“Look at this.” Beauvoir gave him a printout.

Gamache noticed the heading then quickly read down the page. Stopping, as though hitting a wall, three quarters of the way down. He lifted his eyes and met Beauvoir’s, who was waiting. Smiling.

The Chief went back to the sheet, reading more slowly this time. Reading right to the end.

He didn’t want to miss anything, the way they almost had.

“Well done,” he said, handing the page back to Inspector Beauvoir. “How did you find that?”

“I was going over the interviews and realized we might not have talked to everyone at the party down here.”

Gamache was nodding. “Good. Excellent.”

He looked toward the B and B, his arm extended. “Shall we?”

A few moments later they stepped from the bright, warm sunshine onto the cooler verandah. Normand and Paulette had watched their progress across the village green. Indeed, Gamache suspected everyone in the village had.

It might look sleepy, but Three Pines was in fact keenly aware of everything.

The two artists looked up as they approached.

“I wonder if I might ask you a very great favor?” Gamache said, smiling.

“Of course,” said Paulette.

“Could you perhaps go for a walk around the village, or have a drink at the bistro? On me?”

They looked at him, uncomprehending at first, then it clicked with Paulette. Gathering up her book and a magazine she nodded. “I think a walk would be a great idea, don’t you, Normand?”

Normand looked like he’d just as soon stay where he was, in the comfortable swing on the cool porch, with an old Paris Match and a lemonade. Gamache couldn’t say he blamed him. But he did need them gone.

The two men waited until the artists were well out of ear-shot. Then they turned to the third occupant of the verandah.

Suzanne Coates sat in a rocking chair with a lemonade. But instead of a magazine she had her sketch pad on her lap.

“Hello,” she said, though she didn’t get up.

“Bonjour,” said Beauvoir. “Where’s the Chief Justice?”

“He went off to his home in Knowlton. I’ve checked in here for the night.”

“Why?” asked Beauvoir. He pulled up a seat, while Gamache sat in a nearby rocking chair, and crossed his legs.

“I plan to stay until you find out who killed Lillian. I figure that’s pretty big incentive for you to get the job done quickly.”

She smiled, as did Beauvoir.

“It would move a lot faster if you told us the truth.”

That wiped the smile off her face.

“About what?”

Beauvoir handed her the sheet of paper. Suzanne took it and read, then handed it back. Her considerable energy didn’t so much wane as contract, like an implosion. She looked from Beauvoir to his boss. Gamache was giving her nothing. He simply continued to watch with interest.

“You were here the night of the murder,” said Beauvoir.

Suzanne paused and Gamache was surprised to see that even at this late date, when there was no hope of escape, she still seemed to be considering a lie.

“I was,” she finally admitted, darting looks from one man to the other.

“Why didn’t you tell us that?”

“You asked if I was at the vernissage at the Musée, and I wasn’t. You didn’t actually ask about the party here.”

“Are you saying you didn’t lie?” demanded Beauvoir, glancing at Gamache as if to say, See? Another deer on the same old path. People don’t change.

“Look,” said Suzanne, squirming in her chair, “I go to lots of vernissages, but I’m mostly on the business end of a cocktail wiener. I told you that. It’s how I pick up extra cash. I don’t hide it. Well, I mean, I hide it from Revenue Canada. But I told you all about it.”

She implored Gamache, who nodded.

“You didn’t tell us all about it,” said Beauvoir. “You failed to mention you were here when your friend was murdered.”

“I wasn’t a guest. I was working the party. And not even as a waiter. I was in the kitchen all night. I didn’t see Lillian. Didn’t even know she was here. Why would I? Look, this party was planned long ago. I was hired weeks ago.”

“Did you mention it to Lillian?” asked Beauvoir.

“Of course not. I don’t tell her about every party I’m working.”

“Did you know who it was for?”

“Not a clue. I knew it was an artist, but most of them are. The caterers I work for do mostly vernissages. I didn’t decide to come here, it was the party I was assigned. I had no idea who it was for, and I didn’t care. All I cared about was that no one complained, and that I got paid.”

“When we told you that Lillian had died at a party in Three Pines you must have known then,” Beauvoir pressed. “Why didn’t you tell us then?”

“I should have,” she admitted. “I know that. In fact, that was one of the reasons I came down. I knew I had to tell you the truth. I was just getting my courage up.”

Beauvoir looked at her with a mixture of disgust and admiration.

It was a masterful display of deceit. He glanced over to the Chief, who was also pondering the woman. But his face was indecipherable.

“Why didn’t you tell us this last night?” Beauvoir demanded again. “Why lie?”