*
The women had left, the S?reté officers had left. Everyone had left and now Peter and Clara were finally alone.
Peter took Clara in his arms and hugging her tight he whispered, “I’ve been waiting all day to do this. I heard about the reviews. They’re fantastic. Congratulations.”
“They are good, aren’t they,” said Clara. “Yipppeee. Can you believe it?”
“Are you kidding?” asked Peter, breaking from the embrace and striding across the kitchen. “I had no doubt.”
“Oh, come on,” laughed Clara, “you don’t even like my work.”
“I do.”
“And what do you like about them?” she teased.
“Well, they’re pretty. And you covered up most of the numbers with the paint.” He’d been poking in the fridge and now he turned around, a bottle of champagne in his hand.
“My father gave this to me on my twenty-first birthday. He told me to open it when I’d had a huge personal success. To toast myself.” He unwrapped the foil around the cork. “I put it in the fridge yesterday before we left, so we could toast you.”
“No wait, Peter,” said Clara. “We should save that.”
“What? For my own solo show? We both know that won’t happen.”
“But it will. If it happened for me, it—”
“—can happen for anyone?”
“You know what I mean. I really think we should wait—”
The cork popped.
“Too late,” said Peter with a huge smile. “We had a call while you were out.”
He carefully poured their glasses.
“From who?”
“André Castonguay.” He handed her a glass. Time enough later to tell her about all the other calls.
“Really? What did he want?”
“Wanted to talk to you. To us. To both of us. Santé.”
He tipped his glass and clinked hers. “And congratulations.”
“Thank you. Do you want to meet with him?”
Clara’s glass hung in the air, not quite touching her lips. Her nose felt the giddy popping of the champagne bubbles. Finally released. Like her, they’d waited years and years, decades, for this moment.
“Only if you do,” said Peter.
“Can we wait? Let all of this settle down a bit?”
“Whatever you’d like.”
But she could hear the disappointment in his voice.
“If you feel strongly, Peter, we can meet with him. Why don’t we? I mean, he’s right here now. Might as well.”
“No, no, that’s OK.” He smiled at her. “If he’s serious he’ll wait. Honestly, Clara, this is your time to shine. And neither Lillian’s death nor André Castonguay can take that away.”
More bubbles popped, and Clara wondered if they were popping on their own or had been pricked by tiny, almost invisible needles like the one Peter had just used. Reminding her, even as they toasted her success, of the death. The murder, in their own garden.
She tipped the glass up and felt the wine on her lips. But over the flute she was staring at Peter, who suddenly looked less substantial. A little hollow. A little like a bubble himself. Floating away.
I was much too far out all my life, she thought as she drank. And not waving, but drowning.
What were the lines just before that? Clara slowly lowered her glass to the counter. Peter had taken a long sip of the champagne. More of a swig, really. A deep, masculine, almost aggressive gulp.
Nobody heard him, the dead man,
But still he lay moaning.
Those were the lines, thought Clara, as she stared at Peter.
The champagne on her lips was sour, the wine turned years before. But Peter, who’d taken a huge gulp, was smiling.
As though nothing was wrong.
When had he died? Clara wondered. And why hadn’t she noticed?
*
“No, I understand,” said Inspector Beauvoir.
Chief Inspector Gamache looked across at Beauvoir in the driver’s seat. Eyes staring ahead at the traffic as they approached the Champlain Bridge into Montréal. Beauvoir’s face was placid, relaxed. Noncommittal.
But his grip was tight on the wheel.
“If Agent Lacoste is going to be promoted to inspector I want to see how she’ll handle the added responsibility,” said Gamache. “So I gave the dossier to her.”
He knew he didn’t have to explain his decisions. But he chose to. These weren’t children he was working with, but thoughtful, intelligent adults. If he didn’t want them to behave like children he’d better not treat them like that. He wanted independent thinkers. And he got them. Men and women who’d earned the right to know why a decision was taken.
“This is about giving Agent Lacoste more authority, that’s all. It’s still your investigation. She understands that, and I need you to understand that as well, so there’s no confusion.”
“Got it,” said Beauvoir. “I just wish you’d mentioned it to me beforehand.”
“You’re right, I should have. I’m sorry. In fact, I’ve been thinking it makes sense for you to supervise Agent Lacoste. Act as a mentor. If she’s going to be promoted to inspector and become your second in command you’ll have to train her.”
Beauvoir nodded and his grip loosened on the wheel. They spent the next few minutes discussing the case and Lacoste’s strengths and weaknesses before lapsing into silence.
As he watched the graceful span of the bridge across the St. Lawrence River approach, Gamache’s mind turned elsewhere. To something he’d been considering for a while now.
“There is something else.”
“Oh?” Beauvoir glanced over to his boss.
Gamache had been planning to speak to Beauvoir about this quietly. Perhaps over dinner that night, or a walk on the mountain. Not when they were hurtling down the autoroute at 120 kilometers an hour.
Still, the opening was there. And Gamache took it.
“We need to talk about how you’re doing. There’s something wrong. You aren’t getting better, are you.”
It was not a question.
“I’m sorry about the coin. It was stupid—”
“I’m not talking about the coin. That was just a mistake. It happens. God knows it’s just possible I’ve made a few in my life.”
He saw Beauvoir smile.
“Then what are you talking about, sir?”
“The painkillers. Why’re you still taking them?”
There was silence in the car as Québec whizzed by their windows.
“How’d you know about that?” asked Beauvoir, finally.
“I suspected. You carry them with you, in your jacket pocket.”
“Did you look?” asked Beauvoir, an edge to his voice.
“No. But I’ve watched you.” As he did now. His second in command had always been so lithe, so energetic. Cocky. He was full of life and full of himself. It could annoy Gamache. But mostly he’d watched Beauvoir’s vitality with pleasure and some amusement, as Jean Guy threw himself headlong into life.
But now the young man seemed drained. Dour. As though every day was an effort. As though he was dragging an anvil behind him.