NINETEEN
Clara Morrow sat in the car, staring at the decrepit old apartment building. It was a far cry from the pretty little home the Dysons had lived in when Clara knew them.
For the whole drive in she’d been remembering her friendship with Lillian. The mind-numbing Christmas job they got together sorting mail. Then later, as lifeguards. That’d been Lillian’s idea. They’d taken the lifesaving courses and passed their swim exams together. Helping each other. Sneaking out behind the life preserver shed for smokes, and tokes.
They’d been on the school volleyball and track teams together. They’d spotted each other at gymnastics.
There was barely a good memory from Clara’s childhood that didn’t include Lillian.
And Mr. and Mrs. Dyson were always there too. As kindly supporting characters. In the background, like the Peanuts parents. Rarely seen, but somehow there were always egg salad sandwiches, and fruit salad and warm chocolate chip cookies. There was always a pitcher of bright pink lemonade.
Mrs. Dyson had been short, rotund, with thinning hair always in place. She’d seemed old but Clara realized she was younger than Clara was now. And Mr. Dyson had been tall, wiry, with curly red hair. That looked, in the bright sunshine, like rust on his head.
No. There was no doubt, and Clara was appalled at herself for ever questioning it. This was the right thing to do.
After giving up on an elevator she climbed the three flights, trying not to notice the stale smells of tobacco and dope and urine.
She stood in front of their closed door. Staring. Catching her breath from an exertion not wholly physical.
Clara closed her eyes and conjured up little Lillian, standing in green shorts and a T-shirt, framed by her door. Smiling. Inviting little Clara in.
Then Clara Morrow knocked on the door.
*
“Chief Justice,” said Gamache, offering his hand.
“Chief Inspector,” said Thierry Pineault, taking it and shaking.
“There can be too many chiefs after all,” said Suzanne. “Let’s grab a table.”
“We can join Inspector Beauvoir,” said Gamache, ushering them toward his Inspector, who’d gotten up and was indicating his table.
“I’d rather we sat over here,” said Chief Justice Pineault. Suzanne and Gamache paused. Pineault was indicating a table shoved up against the brick building, in the least attractive area.
“More discreet,” Pineault explained, seeing their puzzled expressions. Gamache raised a brow but agreed, waving Beauvoir over. Chief Justice Pineault sat first, his back to the village. Gabri took their orders.
“Will this bother you?” Gamache asked, pointing to the beers Beauvoir had brought over.
“Not at all,” said Suzanne.
“I tried to call you this morning,” said Gamache.
Gabri put their drinks on the table and whispered to Beauvoir, “Who’s this other guy?”
“The Chief Justice of Québec.”
“Of course he is.” Gabri shot Beauvoir an annoyed look and left.
“And what did my secretary say?” asked Pineault, taking a sip of his Perrier and lime.
“Only that you were working from home,” said Gamache.
Pineault smiled. “I am, sort of. I’m afraid I didn’t specify which home.”
“You’ve decided to come down to the one in Knowlton?”
“Is this an interrogation, Chief Inspector? Should I get a lawyer?”
The smile was still in place but neither man was under any illusion. Close questioning the Chief Justice of Québec was a risky thing to do.
Gamache smiled back. “This is a friendly conversation, Mr. Justice. I’m hoping you can help.”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake, Thierry. Just tell the man what he wants to know. Isn’t that why we’re here?”
Gamache regarded Suzanne across the table. Their lunches had arrived and she was shoveling terrine of duck into her mouth. It was a gesture not of greed, but of fear. She all but had her arm around her plate. Suzanne didn’t want someone else’s food. She wanted just her own. And she was willing to defend it, if need be.
But, between mouthfuls, Suzanne had asked an interesting question.
Why, if not to help his investigation, was Thierry Pineault there?
“Oh, I’m here to help,” Pineault said, casually. “It was an instinctive reaction, I’m afraid, Chief Inspector. A lawyer’s reaction. My apologies.”
Gamache noticed something else. While the Chief Justice seemed happy to challenge him, the head of homicide for the S?reté du Québec, he never challenged Suzanne, the sometime artist and full-time waitress. In fact he took her little mocking jabs, her criticisms, her flamboyant gestures, all with great equilibrium. Was it manners?
The Chief didn’t think so. He had the impression the Chief Justice was somehow cowed by Suzanne. As though she had something on him.
“I asked him to bring me down,” said Suzanne. “I knew he’d want to help.”
“Why? I know Suzanne here cared about Lillian. Did you too, sir?”
The Chief Justice turned clear, cool eyes on Gamache. “Not in the manner you’re imagining.”
“I’m not imagining anything. Just asking.”
“I’m trying to help,” said Pineault. His voice was stern, his eyes hard. Gamache was used to this, from court appearances. From high-level S?reté conferences.
And he recognized it for what it was. Chief Justice Thierry Pineault was pissing on him. It was delicate, sophisticated, genteel, mannerly. But it was still piss.
The problem with a pissing contest, as Gamache knew, was that what should have remained private became public. Chief Justice Pineault’s privates were on display.
“And how do you think you can help, sir? Do you know something I don’t?”
“I’m here because Suzanne asked me, and because I know where Three Pines is. I drove her down. That’s my help.”
Gamache looked from Thierry to Suzanne, now ripping up a piece of fresh baguette, smearing it with butter and popping it in her mouth. Could she really command the Chief Justice like that? Treat him like a chauffeur?
“I asked Thierry for help because I knew he’d be calm. Sensible.”
“And he’s the Chief Justice?” asked Beauvoir.
“I’m an alcoholic, not an idiot,” said Suzanne with a smile. “It seemed an advantage.”
It was an advantage, thought Gamache. But why did she feel she needed one? And why had Chief Justice Pineault chosen this table, away from the others? The worst table on the terrace, and then quickly taken the seat facing the wall.
Gamache glanced around. Was the Chief Justice hiding? He’d arrived and gone straight into the bookstore, coming out only when Suzanne returned. And now he sat with his back to everyone. Where he couldn’t see anything, but neither could he be seen.
Gamache’s eyes swept around the village, taking in what Chief Justice Pineault was missing.
Ruth on the bench, feeding the birds and every now and then glancing into the sky. Normand and Paulette, the middling artists, on the verandah of the B and B. A few villagers were carrying string bags of groceries home from Monsieur Béliveau’s general store. And then there were the other bistro patrons, including André Castonguay and Fran?ois Marois.
*
Clara stood in the hallway, staring at the door, slammed in her face. The sound still echoed off the walls, along the corridors, down the stairwell, and finally out the door. Spilling into the bright sunshine.
Her eyes wide, her heart pounding. Her stomach sour.
Clara thought she might throw up.