The Long Way Home

She studied him for a moment. “Probably not, judging by your face.”


Gamache gave a curt nod of agreement. “I think we should speak to the local police. Get them involved.”

“In finding out where Peter might be staying?”

“In finding out where Peter might be,” said Gamache, his voice low, but firm. His eyes not leaving Clara.

Her face paled as his meaning sunk in.

“You think he’s dead?”

“I think he came here and painted those pictures. I think he mailed them to Bean. And then disappeared. That was months ago.”

Gamache was quiet for a moment. He looked down at his espresso, the crème caramel brown on top. Then he met her eyes once again.

“The woods are thick here,” he said.

Clara grew very, very still. “You don’t think we’ll ever find him.”

“It was months ago, Clara,” he repeated. “I hope I’m wrong. I hope we find him in a cabin somewhere. His beard bushy and his clothes covered in paint. Surrounded by canvases.” He held her eyes. “I hope.”

Clara looked over to Jean-Guy, who was also watching her. His face both boyish and grim.

Then to Myrna. Optimistic, hopeful, buoyant Myrna. She looked sad.

“You agree,” said Clara. She could see it in Myrna’s face.

“You must’ve known it was a possibility, Clara. You admitted you might not like what you find.”

“I thought I might find Peter happy on his own,” she said. “I thought I might even find him with another woman.” She looked around the table, at their faces. “But I always thought I’d find him. Alive.”

She was challenging them now. Daring them to argue with her.

When none did, she got up. “And I still do.”

Clara walked out of La Muse.

“Should we go after her?” Jean-Guy asked.

“No, give her time,” said Myrna.

Beauvoir watched as Clara walked up the road, her head down, like a torpedo. Tourists stepped out of her way just in time. And then she disappeared from view.

Beauvoir got up and wandered around the brasserie. There were paintings on the walls, with price tags slightly askew. From years of dusting. They were pretty landscapes, but in Charlevoix a painting needed to be more than that to sell.

If he hadn’t looked into the windows of the Galerie Gagnon, Jean-Guy might have thought these were quite good. But he had looked. And now he knew the difference. Part of him regretted that. He might now like better things, but he also liked fewer.

“Look who I found.”

Beauvoir heard Clara’s voice across the brasserie, heard the triumph, and turned quickly.

The man who’d spoken to them earlier at La Muse was standing beside her.

Beauvoir felt his heart, which had taken a great leap, simmer down. And he realized he’d actually thought she meant she’d found Peter.

“Madame Morrow called and told me of your plight,” the man said. And then he introduced himself. “Marcel Chartrand.” He shook their hands. “I run the Galerie Gagnon. I’ve come to take you home.”

*

By the time they got settled in Chartrand’s apartment above the Galerie Gagnon, it was approaching midnight.

He proved to be a gracious and accommodating host. Not everyone, Gamache knew, would welcome a call at eleven at night from a stranger asking for a place to stay. For herself and three friends.

But Marcel Chartrand had opened his home to them and was now pouring nightcaps as they relaxed in the living room.

He was either a saint, thought Gamache as he watched Chartrand chatting with Clara, or a man with his own agenda. Gamache had not forgotten the predatory look on Chartrand’s face when he’d first spotted them in La Muse.

First spotted Clara.

“This isn’t my main house,” said Chartrand. He’d brought out a plate of cookies, and after pouring cognacs for Clara and Myrna he offered a glass to Jean-Guy. When the younger man waved him aside, Chartrand moved on to Gamache. “I have a maison a few minutes away, toward Les éboulements.”

“Overlooking the St. Lawrence?” Gamache asked, also declining the drink.

“Oui, Chef,” said Chartrand, and poured himself a finger in the bottom of a bulbous glass.

It was not lost on either Gamache or Beauvoir that their host had just let slip that he knew precisely who his guests were. Or, at least, one of them.

“We were just there,” said Gamache. “Astonishing view of the river.”

“Yes. Breathtaking.”

Marcel Chartrand subsided into an armchair and crossed his legs. In repose he retained a bit of a smile. Not, Gamache thought, a smirk. While some faces relaxed into a slight look of censure, this man looked content.

His face, from a distance, was handsome, urbane. But close up his skin was scored with small lines. A weathered face. From time spent in the elements. Skiing or snowshoeing or chopping wood. Or standing on a precipice, looking at the great river. It was an honest face.

But was he an honest man? Gamache reserved judgment.