The Long Way Home

“He was their last hope,” said Myrna. Then after a pause she added, “A shame he was crazy.”


“I’ve been called that, lots of times,” said Clara. “God help me, even Ruth thinks I’m nuts. What’s crazy?”

Armand Gamache pressed on his device, and there, glowing on the table, was the photograph of a portrait of a madman.

No Man.

“That is,” he said.

*

The menu landed on the table the same instant Jean-Guy Beauvoir landed in a chair.

“La Muse,” he said. “The owner’s name is Luc Vachon and he was a member of No Man’s community. He drew that.” Beauvoir tapped the menu.

“What did he say about No Man and the colony?” Gamache asked, picking up the menu and looking at the picture.

“Nothing. He wasn’t at the brasserie. He takes off painting every year.”

“At this time?” asked Myrna. “He runs a brasserie and he leaves at the height of the tourist season?”

“Can you imagine a business owner doing that?” Clara stared at Myrna until the other woman laughed.

“Touché, little one,” said Myrna, and wondered briefly how her bookstore was doing under the management of Ruth and Rosa.

“When will this Vachon be back?” Clara asked.

“Couple of weeks,” said Beauvoir. “And no way to reach him. The fellow I spoke with said Vachon didn’t like talking about his time in the colony. He did admit that Vachon and No Man must’ve been fairly close, since No Man entrusted him with sending his paintings to a gallery down south.”

“South like Florida?” asked Myrna.

“No, south like Montréal. No Man apparently had a gallery there, or a representative. He sent art off and got canvases and art supplies in return. The guy didn’t know the name of the gallery, but Vachon would probably know.”

Gamache had put on his reading glasses and was studying the signature on the drawing.

“I looked,” said Beauvoir. “It’s signed Vachon. Not No Man.”

Gamache nodded and gave the menu to Clara. “It’s a nice drawing.”

“Pretty,” said Clara, her voice neutral.

It wasn’t, they all felt, the muse. It was Vachon’s idea of a muse. Someone he clearly had not personally met. Yet.

But it was a lone figure, not the classic nine sisters. La Muse. Not Les Muses.

“The community fell apart when No Man suddenly took off. Didn’t tell anyone. He just left.”

Gamache shifted in his seat, but said nothing. He glanced down at the dancing figure on the menu, but in his mind he was seeing the clearing. The bracken, the wildflowers, the bumps and lumps where homes had once been.

That looked so much like burial mounds.

He looked at his watch. It was past six in the evening.

“I’m afraid we might have to impose on you another night,” he said to Chartrand, who smiled.

“I consider you friends now. You’re welcome for as long as you’d like.”

“Merci.”

“What now?” Clara asked. “I think we’ve spoken to everyone in Baie-Saint-Paul.”

“There is one place we could try,” said Gamache.

*

Jean-Guy Beauvoir entered first, and this time he brought out his S?reté ID.

“Yes, sir. What can I do for you?”

Beauvoir waited for the young agent behind the counter to size him up, and when she didn’t he looked at her. She was young. Very young. Fifteen years younger than him. She could almost be …

But while a brave man, he wasn’t quite brave enough to go there. But he did wonder how, and when, it had happened. That he’d gone from clever, young, whip-smart Jean-Guy Beauvoir, the enfant terrible of homicide, to Inspector Beauvoir. Sir.

Not all transformations were miracles or magical. Or improvements.

“We’d like to speak to your station chief.”

The young agent looked at him, then behind him to the others who were crammed into the entrance of the small S?reté detachment.

And then her eyes widened.

Standing at the back, patiently waiting, was a man she recognized.

She stood up, then sat down. Then stood up again.

Jean-Guy Beauvoir suppressed a grin. He was used to this reaction and had been expecting it. Waiting for it.

“Chief Inspector,” the agent said, practically bowing.

“Armand Gamache.” He stepped forward and, squeezing his arm between Clara and Chartrand, offered his hand.

“Agent Pagé,” she said, feeling his grip. “Beatrice Pagé.”

She could have cursed. Why’d she give him her first name? He doesn’t care. He’s the Chief Inspector of fucking Homicide. Or was. Until that whole rotten business. Until he retired.

Agent Pagé had joined the S?reté months before it all blew up. And she knew that while she’d spend most of her career with other superiors, this man would always be, in her mind, the Chief Inspector of homicide.

“I just started,” she said, and her eyes widened. Stop talking, stop talking. He doesn’t care. Shut the fuck up. “My shift, I mean. And in the S?reté.”

Oh, dear God. Take me now.

“This is my first posting.”

She stared at him.

“And where are you from?” Gamache asked.

He looked interested.