A Trick of the Light

“But no one saw Lillian at the party,” said Beauvoir. “And in that red dress, if she was here someone would have seen her.”

Gamache considered that. “Maybe Lillian didn’t want to be seen, until she was ready.”

“For what?”

“To make an amend to Clara. Maybe she stayed in her car until an appointed hour, when she’d arranged to meet her sponsor in the garden. Perhaps with the promise of a final word of support before going out to make a difficult amend. She must have thought Suzanne was doing her a great favor.”

“Some favor. Suzanne killed her.”

Gamache stood there and thought, then shook his head. It fit, maybe. But did it make sense? Why would Suzanne kill her sponsee? Kill Lillian? And in a way that was so premeditated. And so personal. To wrap her hands around Lillian’s neck, and break it?

What could have driven Suzanne to do that?

Was the victim not quite the woman Suzanne described? Was Beauvoir right again? Maybe Lillian hadn’t changed, but was the same cruel, taunting, manipulative woman Clara had known. Had she pushed Suzanne over the edge?

Did Suzanne have a great fall, but this time did she reach up and take Lillian with her? By the throat.

Whoever killed Lillian had hated her. This was not a dispassionate crime. This was thought out and deliberate. As was the weapon. The murderer’s own hands.

“I made such a terrible mistake, Peter.”

Gamache turned toward the voice, as did Beauvoir. It was Clara, and it came from behind the lush screen of leaves and lilacs.

“Tell me, you can tell me,” said Peter, his voice low and reassuring, as though trying to coax a cat from under the sofa.

“Oh, God,” said Clara, taking rapid, shallow breaths. “What’ve I done?”

“What did you do?”

Gamache and Beauvoir exchanged looks and both edged quietly closer to the stone wall of the bridge.

“I went to visit Lillian’s parents.”

Neither Sûreté officer could see Peter’s face, or Clara’s for that matter, but they could imagine it.

There was a long pause.

“That was kind,” said Peter, but his voice was uncertain.

“It wasn’t kind,” snapped Clara. “You should’ve seen their faces. It was like I’d found two people almost dead and then decided to skin them. Oh, God, Peter, what’ve I done?”

“Are you sure you don’t want a beer?”

“No, I don’t want a beer. I want Myrna. I want…”

Anybody but you.

It wasn’t said, but everyone heard it. The man in the garden and the men on the bridge. And Beauvoir found his heart aching for Peter. Poor Peter. So at a loss.

“No wait, Clara,” Peter’s voice called. It was clear Clara was walking away from him. “Just tell me, please. I knew Lillian too. I know that you were once good friends. You must’ve loved the Dysons too.”

“I did,” said Clara, stopping. “I do.” Her voice was clearer. She’d turned to face Peter, to face the officers hidden behind the trees. “They were only ever kind to me. And now I’ve done this.”

“Tell me,” said Peter.

“I asked a bunch of people before I went and they all said the same thing,” said Clara, walking back toward Peter. “Not to go. That the Dysons would be too hurt to see me. But I went anyway.”

“Why?”

“Because I wanted to say how sorry I was. About Lillian. But also about our falling out. I wanted to give them the chance to talk about old times, about Lillian as a kid. To exchange stories maybe, with someone who knew and loved her.”

“But they didn’t want to?”

“It was horrible. I knocked on the door and Mrs. Dyson answered. She’d obviously been crying for a long time. She looked all collapsed. It took her a moment to recognize me but when she did—”

Peter waited. They all waited. Imagining the elderly woman at the door.

“—I’ve never seen such hate. Never. If she could’ve killed me right there she would’ve. Mr. Dyson joined her. He’s tiny, barely there, barely alive. I remember when he was huge. He used to pick us up and carry us on his shoulders. But now he’s all stooped over and,” she paused, obviously searching for words, “tiny. Just tiny.”

There were no words. Or hardly any more.

“‘You killed our daughter,’ he said. ‘You killed our daughter.’ And then he tried to swing his cane at me but it got all caught in the door and he just ended up crying in frustration.”

Beauvoir and Gamache could see it now. Frail, grieving, gentlemanly Mr. Dyson reduced to a murderous rage.

“You tried, Clara,” said Peter, in a calming, comforting voice. “You tried to help them. You couldn’t have known.”

“But everyone else did. Why didn’t I?” demanded Clara with a sob. And once again Peter was wise enough to stay quiet. “I thought about it all the way back here and you know what I realized?”

Again Peter waited, though Beauvoir, hidden fifteen feet away, almost spoke, almost asked, “What?”

“I convinced myself it was somehow courageous, saintly even, to go and comfort the Dysons. But I really did it for myself. And now look what I’ve done. If they weren’t so old I think Mr. Dyson would’ve killed me.”

Gamache and Beauvoir could hear muffled sobs, as Peter hugged his wife.