The Long Way Home

“Pink?” Jean-Guy mouthed to Gamache.

“Are you suggesting Peter’s drinking his way across Europe?” asked Clara. “The Ruth Zardo Grand Tour.”

“Don’t look at me,” said Gamache. “It’s not my theory.”

“Then what is your theory?” Clara asked.

His smile faded, and he took a deep breath. “I don’t have one. It’s too early. But I do know one thing, Clara. As strange as all this seems, there’s a reason Peter went to these places. We just have to work it out.”

Clara leaned forward again, staring at the dot on the map. “Is he still there?”

Beauvoir shook his head. “He went to Toronto—”

“He’s in Toronto?” Clara interrupted. “Why didn’t you tell me this to begin with?” But on seeing their expressions, she stopped. “What is it?”

“He didn’t stay there,” said Gamache. “Peter flew from Toronto to Quebec City in April.”

“Even better,” said Clara. “He’s on his way home.”

“Quebec City,” Gamache repeated. “Not Montréal. If he was coming back here he’d have gone to Montréal, non?”

Clara glared, hating him for a moment. For not allowing her her delusions, even briefly.

“Maybe he just wanted to see Quebec City,” she said. “Maybe he wanted to paint it, while he waited.” Her words, rapid-fire and insistent, faltered. “While he waited,” she repeated, “to come home.”

But he hadn’t.

“He took three thousand dollars out of his bank account,” Jean-Guy said, forging ahead. Then he stopped and looked at Gamache.

“That’s the last we found of him,” said Armand. “That was April.”

Clara grew very still. Myrna put her large hand over Clara’s, and it felt icy.

“He might still be there,” said Clara.

“Oui,” said Gamache. “Absolutely.”

“Where was he staying?”

“We don’t know. But it’s early days yet. You’re right, he might still be in Quebec City, or he might have taken that money and gone elsewhere. Isabelle Lacoste is using the resources of the S?reté to find him. Jean-Guy is looking. I’m looking. But it might take time.”

Reine-Marie threw a log into the fire, sending embers and sparks up the chimney. Then she went into the kitchen.

They could smell salmon, and a slight scent of tarragon and lemon.

Clara stood. “I’m going to Quebec City.”

“And do what?” Myrna also got up. “I know you want to do something, but that won’t help.”

“How do you know?” asked Clara.

Gamache rose. “There is something you could do. I’m not sure anything’ll come of it but it might help.”

“What?” asked Clara.

“Peter has family in Toronto—”

“His older brother Thomas,” said Clara. “And his sister Marianna.”

“I was going to call them tomorrow and ask if Peter was in touch, maybe stayed with one of them.”

“You want me to call?”

He hesitated. “I was actually thinking you might go there.”

“Why?” asked Myrna. “Can’t she just call? You were going to.”

“True, but face-to-face is always better. And even better if you know the people.” Gamache looked at Clara. “I think you’ll know if they’re lying to you.”

“I will.”

“But what does it matter?” Myrna asked. They were walking toward the kitchen to join Reine-Marie. “He’s not there anymore.”

“But he was there for a few months,” said Gamache. “He might have told his brother or sister where he was going next, and why. He might have told them why he was in Dumfries.”

Gamache stopped and looked at Clara. “We have no leads in Quebec City but we have a few in Toronto. It might not help. But it might.”

“I’ll go,” said Clara. “Of course I’ll go. First thing in the morning.”

She looked relieved to finally have something to do besides worry.

“Then I’ll go with you,” said Myrna.

“What about the shop?” Clara asked.

“I think the hordes desperate for secondhand books can wait a couple of days,” said Myrna, putting out knives and forks. “I might ask Ruth to look after the store. She spends most of her time asleep in the chair by the window anyway.”

“That’s Ruth?” asked Reine-Marie. “I thought it was a mannequin.”

Clara sat down and pushed the salmon around on her plate. While the others talked she listened to the drum of rain against the window.

She was anxious to get going.





NINE


Clara and Myrna caught the morning train out of Montréal’s Central Station.

Clara listened to the sound of the wheels and felt the comforting, familiar movement. She leaned back, her head lolling on the rest, and stared out the window at the forests and fields and isolated farms.

This was a journey she’d made many times. First on her own, to art college in Toronto. A great adventure. Then with Peter to art shows in Toronto. Always his, never hers. Prestigious juried shows his work had been selected for. She’d sat beside him, holding his hand. Excited for him.