As the two women exchanged greetings and were talking Gamache looked from Suzanne back to the garden. To the prayer stick stuck in the ground. And he remembered what Myrna had found beneath that stick.
A beginner’s chip. From AA.
He’d assumed it belonged to the victim, but now he wondered. Did it in fact belong to the murderer? And did that explain why Suzanne was in the garden, unannounced?
Was she looking for the missing coin, her missing coin? Not realizing they already had it?
Clara and Suzanne had joined him and Clara was describing finding Lillian’s body.
“Were you a friend of Lillian’s?” asked Clara, when she’d finished.
“Sort of. We had mutual friends.”
“Are you an artist?” asked Clara, eyeing the older woman and her getup.
“Of sorts,” laughed Suzanne. “Not in your league at all. I like to think of my work as intuitive, but critics have called them something else.”
Both women laughed.
Behind them, seen only by Gamache, the ribbons of the prayer stick fluttered, as though catching their laughter.
“Well, mine have been called ‘something else’ for years,” admitted Clara. “But mostly they were called nothing at all. Not even noticed. This was my first show in living memory.”
The women compared artistic notes while Gamache listened. It was a chronicle of life as an artist. Of balancing ego and creation. Of battling ego and creation.
Of trying not to care. And caring too deeply.
“I wasn’t at your vernissage,” said Suzanne. “Too rarified for me. I’m more likely to be the one serving the sandwiches than eating them, but I hear it was magnificent. Congratulations. I plan to get to the show as soon as I can.”
“We can go together,” Clara offered. “If you’re interested.”
“Thank you,” said Suzanne. “Had I known you were this nice I’d have trespassed years ago.”
She looked around and fell silent.
“What’re you thinking about?” Clara asked.
Suzanne smiled. “I was actually thinking about contrasts. About violence in such a peaceful place. Something so ugly happening here.”
They all looked around then, at the quiet garden. Their eyes finally resting on the spot circled by yellow tape.
“What’s that?”
“It’s a prayer stick,” said Clara.
All three stared at the ribbons, intertwined. Then Clara had an idea. She explained about the ritual then asked, “Would you like to attach a ribbon?”
Suzanne considered for a moment. “I’d like that very much. Thank you.”
“I’ll be back in a few minutes.” Clara nodded to both of them then walked toward the village.
“Nice woman,” said Suzanne, watching her go. “Hope she manages to stay that way.”
“You have doubts?” asked Gamache.
“Success can mess with you. But then so can failure,” she laughed again, then grew quiet.
“Why do you think Lillian Dyson was murdered?” he asked.
“Why do you think I’d know?”
“Because I agree with you. You knew her better than anyone. Better than she knew herself. You knew her secrets, and now you’re going to tell me.”
SEVENTEEN
“Helloooo,” called Clara. “Bonjour.”
She could hear voices, shouts. But they seemed tinny, far away. As though on TV. Then they stopped and there was silence. The place felt empty, though she knew it probably wasn’t.
She advanced a little further into the old railway station, past the shiny red fire truck, past their equipment. Clara saw her own helmet and boots. Everyone in Three Pines was a member of the volunteer fire department. And Ruth Zardo was the chief, since she alone was more terrifying than any conflagration. Given a choice between Ruth and a burning building, most would choose the building.
“Oui, allo?”
A man’s voice echoed through the large room and Clara, coming around the truck, saw Inspector Beauvoir at a desk looking in her direction.
He smiled and greeted her with a kiss on both cheeks.
“Come, sit. What can I do for you?” he asked.
His manner was cheery, energetic. But Clara had still been shocked to see him at the vernissage, and now. Haggard, tired. Thin even for the always wiry man. Like everyone else, she knew what he’d been through. At least, like everyone else, she knew the words, the story. But Clara realized she didn’t really “know.” Could never know.
“I came for advice,” she said, sitting in the swivel chair beside Beauvoir’s.
“From me?” His surprise was obvious, as was his delight.
“From you.” She saw this and was happy she hadn’t told him the reason she wasn’t asking Gamache was because he wasn’t alone. And Beauvoir was.
“Coffee?” Jean Guy gestured toward a full pot already brewed.
“I’d love one, thanks.”
They got up and poured coffees into chipped white mugs, and each got a couple of Fig Newtons, then sat back down.
“So, what’s the story?” Beauvoir leaned back and looked at her. In a way that was all his own yet reminiscent of Gamache.
It was very comforting, and Clara was glad she’d decided to speak with this young Inspector.
“It’s about Lillian’s parents. Mr. and Mrs. Dyson. I knew them, you know. Quite well at one stage. I was wondering if they’re still alive.”
“They are. We went to see them yesterday. To tell them about their daughter.”
Clara paused, trying to imagine what that was like, for both parties.
“It must have been horrible. They adored her. She was their only child.”
“It’s always horrible,” admitted Beauvoir.
“I liked them a lot. Even when Lillian and I fell out I tried to keep in touch but they weren’t interested. They believed what Lillian told them about me. It’s understandable, I guess.” She sounded, though, less than convinced.
Beauvoir said nothing, but remembered the venom in Mr. Dyson’s voice when he all but accused Clara of their daughter’s murder.
“I was thinking of visiting them,” said Clara. “Of telling them how sorry I am. What is it?”
The look on Beauvoir’s face had stopped her.
“I wouldn’t do that,” he said, putting his mug down and leaning forward. “They’re very upset. I think a visit from you wouldn’t help.”
“But why? I know they believed the terrible things Lillian said, but maybe my going could ease some of that. Lillian and I were best friends growing up, don’t you think they’d like to talk about her with someone who loved her?” Clara paused. “Once.”
“Maybe, eventually. But not now. Give them time.”
It was, more or less, the advice Myrna had given her. Clara had gone to the bookstore for ribbon and the dried sage and sweetgrass cigar. But she’d also gone for advice. Should she drive into Montréal to visit the Dysons?
When Myrna had asked why she’d want to do such a thing, Clara had explained.
“They’re old and alone,” Clara had said, shocked her friend needed to be told. “This is the worst thing that could happen. I just want to offer them some comfort. Believe me, the last thing I want to do is drive in to Montréal and do this, but it just seems the right thing to do. To put all the hard feelings behind.”
The ribbon was twisted tight around Clara’s fingers, strangling them.
“For you, maybe,” Myrna had said. “But what about them?”
“How do you know they haven’t let all that go?” Clara unwound the ribbon, then fidgeted with it. Winding it. Worrying it. “Maybe they’re sitting there all alone, devastated. And I’m not going because I’m afraid?”
“Go if you have to,” said Myrna. “But just make sure you’re doing it for them and not for you.”
With that ringing in her ears Clara had crossed the village green and made for the Incident Room, to speak with Beauvoir. But also to get something else.
Their address.
Now, after listening to the Inspector, Clara nodded. Two people had given her the same advice. To wait. Clara realized she was staring at the wall of the old railway station. At the photos of Lillian, dead. In her garden.
Where that strange woman and Chief Inspector Gamache were waiting for her.