*
Agent Isabelle Lacoste slowed her car almost to a stop. She was heading out of Three Pines and into Montréal to help search the archives of La Presse for Lillian Dyson’s reviews. To try to find out who that one particularly vicious critique was written about.
As she drove past the Morrow house she saw something she never thought she’d see. A senior S?reté du Québec officer apparently praying to a stick.
She smiled, wishing she could join him. She’d often said silent prayers at a crime scene. When everyone else had left, Isabelle Lacoste returned. To let the dead know they were not forgotten.
This time, though, it seemed the Chief’s turn. She wondered what he was praying for. She remembered holding that bloody hand, and thought maybe she could guess.
*
Chief Inspector Gamache placed his right hand on the stick and cleared his mind. After a moment he tied his ribbon to it and stepped back.
“I said the Serenity Prayer,” said Suzanne. “You?”
But Gamache chose not to tell them what he’d prayed for.
“And you?” Suzanne turned to Clara.
She was bossy and inquisitive, Gamache noticed. He wondered if those were good qualities in a sponsor.
Like Gamache, Clara kept quiet.
But she had her answer.
“I need to leave for a little while. I’ll see you later.” Clara hurried into her home. She was now in a rush. Too much time had already been wasted.
EIGHTEEN
“Are you sure I can’t come with you?” Peter followed Clara down their front path, to the car parked just outside their gate.
“I won’t be long. Just one quick thing I need to do in Montréal.”
“What? Can’t I help?”
He was desperate to prove to Clara he’d changed. But while she was civil with him it was clear. His wife, who had so much faith, had finally lost all faith in him.
“No. Enjoy yourself here.”
“Call when you get there,” he yelled after the car, but he wasn’t sure she’d heard.
“Where’s she gone?”
Peter turned round to see Inspector Beauvoir standing beside him.
“Montréal.”
Beauvoir raised his brows but said nothing. Then he walked away, toward the bistro and its terrasse.
Peter watched Inspector Beauvoir take a seat under one of the yellow and blue Campari umbrellas, all by himself. Olivier came out immediately, like the Inspector’s private butler.
Beauvoir accepted two menus, ordered a drink, and relaxed.
Peter envied that. To sit alone. All alone. And be company enough. He envied that almost as much as he envied the people sitting in groups of two or three or four. Enjoying each other’s company. For Peter, the only thing worse than company was being alone. Unless he was alone in his studio. Or with Clara. Just the two of them.
But now she’d left him standing by the side of the road.
And Peter Morrow didn’t know what to do.
*
“Your man is going to be pissed off that you’re keeping him from his lunch.” Suzanne nodded toward the bistro.
They’d left Clara’s garden and decided to walk around the village green. Ruth sat on the bench at the very center of the little park. The source of all gravity in Three Pines.
She was staring into the sky and Gamache wondered if prayers really were answered. He glanced up as well, as he had when his hand had rested on the stick.
But the sky remained empty, and silent.
Then his gaze fell to earth and Beauvoir sitting at a bistro table, watching them.
“He doesn’t look happy,” said Suzanne.
“He’s never happy when he’s hungry.”
“And I bet he’s often hungry,” said Suzanne. The Chief looked at her, expecting to see the omnipresent smile, and was surprised to find her looking very serious.
They resumed their walk.
“Why do you think Lillian Dyson came to Three Pines?” Gamache asked.
“I’ve been wondering that.”
“And have you come to a conclusion?”
“I think it’s one of two things. She was here to either repair damage done,” Suzanne stopped to look at Gamache directly. “Or to do more.”
The Chief Inspector nodded. He’d thought the same thing. But what a world between the two. In one Lillian was sober and healthy, and in the other she was cruel, unchanged, unrepentant. Was she one of the King’s men, or had she come to Three Pines to push someone else off the wall?
Gamache put on his reading glasses and opened the large book he’d left at the bistro and retrieved.
“The alcoholic is like a tornado, roaring his way through the lives of others,” he read in a deep, quiet voice. He looked at Suzanne over his half-moon glasses. “We found this on her bedside table. Those words were highlighted.”
He held the book up. In bright white letters on a dark background were the words “Alcoholics Anonymous.”
Suzanne grinned. “Not very discreet. Ironic really.”
Gamache smiled and looked back down at the book. “There’s more. Hearts are broken. Sweet relationships are dead.”
He slowly closed the book and took off his glasses.
“Does that tell you anything?”
Suzanne held out her hand and Gamache gave her the book. Opening it to the bookmark she scanned the page, and smiled.
“It tells me she was on step nine.” She gave the book back to Gamache. “She must’ve been reading that section of the book. It’s the step where we make amends to people we’ve harmed. I guess she was here for that.”
“What is step nine?”
“Made direct amends to such people except when to do so would injure them or others,” she quoted.
“Such people?”
“The ones we’ve damaged by our actions. I think she came here to say she was sorry.”
“Sweet relationships are dead,” said Gamache. “Do you think she came to speak to Clara Morrow? To, what did you call it? Make amends?”
“Maybe. Sounds like there were lots of art people here. She might’ve come down to apologize to any of them. God knows, she owed a lot of amends.”
“But would someone really do that?”
“What d’you mean?”
“If I wanted to sincerely apologize I don’t think I’d choose to do it at a party.”
“That’s a good point.” She gave a big sigh. “There’s another thing, something I think I didn’t want to really admit. I’m not sure she’d actually reached step nine. I don’t think she’d done all the steps leading up to it.”
“Does it matter? Do you have to do them in order?”