The Long Way Home

“Désolé. I’m trying to be here incognito.”


“Ahh,” said the man.

“Are there any other members of No Man’s art colony still around?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Anyone you know have any of No Man’s paintings?”

“No. He had Luc mail them all down south, to his gallery.” The man paused and thrust out his lower lip. “How can Luc get in touch with you, if you’re incognito?”

It sounded pretty silly. And the man himself sounded suspicious. Beauvoir gave him his cell phone number.

“I’m sorry, but I have to ask again,” said Beauvoir. “Have you ever heard your boss talk about a muse? His own, maybe, or one that influenced the colony?” He held up the menu.

“Non.”

Beauvoir got up and, waving the menu at the barman, he left. Taking the menu with him.

*

“Find what you were looking for?” one of the backgammon players asked.

Clara was momentarily taken aback, wondering how they knew about Peter. But Myrna remembered.

“We did, and you were right. That picture was painted exactly where you said it was.”

And then Clara remembered that she and Myrna had asked these two men for help in finding out where Peter had done the lip painting. And they had helped.

“Strange painting,” said one.

“Strange place,” said the other.

Clara, Myrna, Chartrand, and Gamache took the table by the edge of the terrasse and ordered drinks. While they waited, Gamache excused himself and returned to the two men.

“What did you mean just now when you called it a strange place? You mean the river, where that painting was done?”

“Nah, I mean the one she had in her other hand.”

“You knew where that was painted too?” asked Gamache.

“Oh yes. Been there years ago. Helped take down some of the trees.”

“In the woods.” Gamache waved vaguely in the direction of the forest.

“Oui. Recognized it.”

“But you didn’t say anything?” Gamache asked.

“Wasn’t asked. She only asked about the river painting. Funny pictures.”

“I liked them,” the other man said, studying the backgammon board.

“Do you know anything about the art colony that was built in the woods?” Gamache asked.

“Nothing. I cleared the trees, then left. Saw the guy a few times in the village here. Grew pretty big, I heard. His artist retreat. And then it ended. Everyone left.”

“Do you know why?”

“Like all the others, I suppose,” said the elderly man. “It’d run its course.”

Gamache thought about that. “You called it a strange place. Why?”

The other elderly man looked up from the board and examined Gamache with a clear eye. “I know you. You’re that cop. Seen you on TV.”

Gamache nodded and smiled. “Not anymore. We’re just here trying to find a friend. The man who painted those pictures. His name’s Peter Morrow.”

They shook their heads.

“Tall,” said Gamache. “Middle-aged. Anglo?” But the two men just gave him blank stares. “He was interested in the fellow who ran that art colony. Norman. Or No Man.”

“No Man,” the elderly man repeated. “I remember now. Strange name.”

“Strange man?” asked Gamache.

The backgammon player considered that. “No more than the rest. Perhaps less. Kept to himself. Seemed to want to be left alone.”

He laughed.

“What’s so funny?”

“So many artists here are desperate for students. They advertise and hold shows and offer all sorts of courses. But this guy builds a small cabin in that clearing, says nothing, and students flock to him.”

“You know why?” Gamache asked. “Was he charismatic?”

That brought another laugh. “Anything but. I can tell you one thing, he didn’t look like an artist. Most are pretty scruffy. He seemed, well, more like you.”

The elderly man eyed him, and Gamache was far from convinced that was a compliment.

“Can you describe him? What did he look like?”

The elderly man considered. “Small guy. Wiry. About my age. My age back then, I mean.”

“Were there ever any women?”

“Are you suggesting there were orgies?”

“You made the clearing for orgies, Léon? Wait ’til your wife finds out.”

“If there were, I wasn’t invited.”

“No,” said Gamache, pretty sure they were having fun with him. “I’m just asking if it seemed that No Man was married or had a companion.”

“Not that I ever saw.”

“No muses?” asked Gamache, and watched their response. But there was no response, except that the one elderly man finally made his move.

The other man shook his head and clicked his tongue.

“You said the place was strange. What did you mean?” Gamache asked again.

“Where it was, for one thing. Is that where you’d choose to live, if you could’ve had that?”

He waved at the river.

“Most of the other artist retreats or communities or whatever you call them take advantage of the view. And why not?”

Gamache considered that. “Why not?” he asked.