“Well, the woman who was killed lived in Montréal but was visiting the village. We found this near her body,” Gamache handed Thierry the beginner’s chip, “and this was in her apartment, along with a number of pamphlets.” He gave Thierry the meeting list. “This meeting was circled.”
“Who was she?” asked Thierry, looking at the meeting list and coin.
“Lillian Dyson.”
Thierry looked up, into Gamache’s deep brown eyes. “Are you serious?”
“You knew her.”
Thierry P. nodded. “I wondered why she wasn’t here tonight. She normally is.”
“How long have you known her?”
“Oh, I’d have to think. A few months anyway. Not more than a year.” Thierry trained sharp eyes on Gamache. “She was murdered, I take it.”
Gamache nodded. “Her neck was broken.”
“Not a fall? An accident?”
“Definitely not,” said Gamache. He could see that “plain old” Thierry P. had disappeared and the man sitting beside him on the dirty steps was the Chief Justice of Québec.
“Any suspects?”
“About two hundred. There was a party to celebrate an art show.”
Thierry nodded. “You know, of course, that Lillian was an artist.”
“I do. How do you know?”
Gamache found himself on guard. This man, while being the Chief Justice, also knew both the victim and the tiny village where she died.
“She talked about it.”
“But I thought this was anonymous,” said Beauvoir.
Thierry smiled. “Well, some people have bigger mouths than others. Lillian and her sponsor are both artists. I’d hear them talking over coffee. After a while you get to know each other personally. Not just in shares.”
“Shares?” Beauvoir asked. “Share of what?”
“Sorry. That’s AA speak. A share is what you heard from Brian tonight. It’s a speech, but we don’t like to call it that. Makes it sound too much like a performance. So we call it sharing.”
Chief Justice Pineault’s clever eyes picked up Beauvoir’s expression. “You find that funny?”
“No sir,” said Beauvoir quickly. But they all knew it was a lie. He found it both funny and pathetic.
“I did too,” Thierry admitted. “Before I joined AA. Thought words like ‘sharing’ were laughable. A crutch for stupid people. But I was wrong. It’s one of the most difficult things I’ve ever done. In our AA shares we need to be completely and brutally honest. It’s very painful. Like what Brian did tonight.”
“Why do it if it’s so painful?” asked Beauvoir.
“Because it’s also freeing. No one can hurt us, if we’re willing to admit our flaws, our secrets. Very powerful.”
“You tell people your secrets?” asked Gamache.
Thierry nodded. “Not everyone. We don’t take an ad out in the Gazette. But we tell people in AA.”
“And that gets you sober?” asked Beauvoir.
“It helps.”
“But some stuff’s pretty bad,” said Beauvoir. “The Brian fellow killed a kid. We could arrest him.”
“You could, but he’s already been arrested. Turned himself in actually. Served five years. Came out about three years ago. He’s faced his demons. Doesn’t mean they don’t pop up again.” Thierry Pineault turned to the Chief Inspector. “As you know.” Gamache held his eyes and said nothing. “But they have far less power, if they’re in the light. That’s what this is about, Inspector. Bringing all the terrible stuff up from where it’s hiding.”
“Just because you can see it,” Beauvoir persisted, “doesn’t make it go away.”
“True, but until you see it you haven’t a hope.”
“Had Lillian shared recently?” Gamache asked.
“Never, as far as I know.”
“So no one knew her secrets?” asked the Chief.
“Only her sponsor.”
“Like you and Brian?” asked Gamache, and Thierry nodded.
“We choose one person in AA, and that person becomes a sort of mentor, a guide. We call it a sponsor. I have one, and Lillian has one. We all have one.”
“And you tell that sponsor everything?” Gamache asked.
“Everything.”
“Who was Lillian’s sponsor?”
“A woman named Suzanne.”
The two investigators waited for more. Like a last name. But Thierry simply looked at them, waiting for the next question.
“I wonder if you can be more specific?” asked Gamache. “Suzanne in Montréal isn’t very helpful.”
Thierry smiled. “I suppose not. I can’t tell you her last name, but I can do better. I’ll introduce you to her.”
“Parfait,” said Gamache, getting up. He tried not to notice that his slacks clung slightly to the stair as he rose.
“But we need to hurry,” said Thierry, walking ahead, his strides long and rapid, almost breaking into a jog. “She might’ve left by now.”
The men walked quickly back through the corridors. Then they broke into the large room where the meeting was held. But it was empty. Not just of people, but of chairs and tables and books and coffee. Everything was gone.
“Damn,” said Thierry. “We’ve missed her.”
A man was putting mugs away in a cupboard and Thierry spoke with him then returned. “He says Suzanne’s at Tim Hortons.”
“Would you mind?” Gamache indicated the door and Thierry again took the lead, walking with them over to the coffee shop. As they waited for a break in traffic to dart across rue Sherbrooke Gamache asked, “What did you think of Lillian?”
Thierry turned to examine Gamache. It was a look Gamache knew from seeing him on the bench. Judging others. And he was a good judge.
Then Thierry turned back to watch the traffic, but as he did so he spoke.
“She was very enthusiastic, always happy to help. She often volunteered to make coffee or set up the chairs and tables. It’s a big job getting a meeting ready, then cleaning up after. Not everyone wants to help, but Lillian always did.”