Beauvoir was holding up both hands, one was clutching the massive burger, the other held a french fry. Between them was space, a divide.
“And I’m saying the old and new are the same person.” He brought his hands together. “There’s only one Lillian. Just as there’s only one me. Only one you. She might have gotten better at hiding it after she joined AA, but believe me, that bitter, nasty, horrible woman was still there.”
“And still hurting people?” the Chief asked.
Beauvoir ate the fry and nodded. This was his favorite part of an investigation. Not the food, though in Three Pines that was never a hardship. He could remember other cases, in other places, when he and the Chief had gone days with barely anything to eat, or shared cold canned peas and Spam. Even that, he had to admit, had been fun. In retrospect. But this little village produced bodies and gourmet meals in equal proportion.
He liked the food, but what he mostly loved were the conversations with the Chief. Just the two of them.
“One theory is that Lillian Dyson came here to make amends to someone,” said Gamache. “To apologize.”
“If she did I bet she wasn’t sincere.”
“So why would she have been here, if she wasn’t sincere?”
“To do what it was in her nature to do. To screw someone.”
“Clara?” Gamache asked.
“Maybe. Or someone else. She had lots to choose from.”
“And it went wrong,” said Gamache.
“Well, it sure didn’t go right, for her anyway.”
Was the answer so simple? Gamache wondered. Was Lillian Dyson just being true to who she really was?
A selfish, destructive, hurtful person. Drunk or sober.
The same person, with the same instincts and nature.
To hurt.
“But,” said Gamache, “how’d she know about this party? It was a private party. By invitation only. And we all know Three Pines is hard to find. How did Lillian know about the party, and how’d she find it? And how did the murderer know she’d even be here?”
Beauvoir took a deep breath, trying to think, then shook his head.
“I got us this far, Chief. It’s your turn to do something useful.”
Gamache sipped his beer and grew quiet. So quiet, in fact, that Beauvoir became concerned. Maybe he’d upset the Chief with his flippant remark.
“What is it?” Beauvoir asked. “Something wrong?”
“No, not really.” Gamache looked at Beauvoir, as though trying to make up his mind about something. “You say people don’t change, but you and Enid loved each other once, right?”
Beauvoir nodded.
“But now you’re separated, on your way to a divorce. So what happened?” Gamache asked. “Did you change? Did Enid? Something changed.”
Beauvoir looked at Gamache with surprise. The Chief was genuinely perturbed.
“You’re right,” admitted Beauvoir. “Something changed. But I don’t think it was us really. I think we just realized that we weren’t the people we pretended to be.”
“I’m sorry?” asked Gamache, leaning forward.
Beauvoir collected his scattered thoughts. “I mean, we were young. I think we didn’t know what we wanted. Everyone was getting married and it seemed like fun. I liked her. She liked me. But I don’t think it was ever really love. And I think I was pretending, really. Trying to be someone I wasn’t. The man Enid wanted.”
“So what happened?”
“After the shootings, I realized I had to be the man I was. And that man didn’t love Enid enough to stay.”
Gamache was quiet for a few moments, immobile, thinking.
“You spoke to Annie Saturday night, before the vernissage,” said Gamache finally.
Beauvoir froze. The Chief went on, not needing a reply.
“And you saw her and David together at the party.”
Beauvoir willed himself to blink. To breathe. But he couldn’t. He wondered how long before he passed out.
“You know Annie well.”
Beauvoir’s brain was shrieking. Wanting this to be over, for the Chief to just say what was on his mind. Gamache finally looked up, directly at Beauvoir. His eyes, far from angry, were imploring.
“Did she tell you about her marriage?”
“Pardon?” Beauvoir barely whispered.
“I thought she might have said something to you, asked your advice or something. Knowing about you and Enid.”
Beauvoir’s head swam. None of this was making sense.
Gamache leaned back and exhaled deeply, throwing his balled-up napkin onto his plate. “I feel such a fool. We’d had little signs that things weren’t well. David canceling dinners together, showing up late, like on Saturday night. Leaving early. They weren’t as demonstrative as before. Madame Gamache and I had talked about it, but thought it might just be their relationship evolving. Less in each other’s pockets. And couples grow apart, then come back together again.”
Beauvoir felt his heart start again. With a mighty thump.
“Are Annie and David growing apart?”
“She didn’t say anything to you?”
Beauvoir shook his head. His brain sloshing about in there. With only one thought now. Annie and David were growing apart.
“Had you noticed anything?”
Had he? How much was real and how much was imagined, exaggerated? He remembered Annie’s hand on David’s arm. And David not caring. Not listening. Distracted.
Beauvoir had seen all that, but had been afraid to believe it was anything other than a shame. Affection wasted on a man who didn’t care. His own jealousy speaking, and not the truth. But now—
“What’re you saying, sir?”
“Annie came over last night for dinner and to talk. She and David are having a difficult time.” Gamache sighed. “I’d hoped she’d said something to you. For all your arguing, I know Annie’s like a little sister to you. You’ve known her since she was, what?”
“Fifteen.”
“Has it been that long?” asked Gamache, with amazement. “Not a happy year for Annie. Her first crush, and it had to be on you.”
“She had a crush on me?”
“Didn’t you know? Oh yes. Madame Gamache and I had to hear about it every time you visited. Jean Guy this and Jean Guy that. We tried to tell her what a degenerate you were but that just seemed to add to the attraction.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
Gamache looked at him with amusement. “You’d have wanted to know? You were already teasing her, it would’ve been intolerable. Besides, she begged us not to tell you.”
“But now you have.”
“A confidence broken. I trust you not to tell her.”
“I’ll do my best. What’s the problem with David?” Beauvoir looked down at his half-eaten burger, as though it had suddenly done something fascinating.
“She won’t be specific.”
“Are they separating?” he asked, hoping he sounded politely disinterested.
“I’m not sure,” said Gamache. “There’s so much happening in her life, so many changes. She’s taken another job, as you know. In the Family Court office.”
“But Annie hates children.”
“Well, she’s not very good with them, but I don’t think she hates them. She adores Florence and Zora.”
“She has to,” said Beauvoir. “They’re family. She’s probably depending on them, in her old age. She’ll be bitter Auntie Annie, with the stale chocolates and the doorknob collection. And they’ll have to look after her. So she can’t drop them on their heads now.”
Gamache laughed while Beauvoir remembered Annie with the Chief’s first granddaughter, Florence. Three years ago. When Florence had been an infant. It might have been the first time his feelings for Annie had breached the surface. Shocking him with their size and ferocity. Crashing down. Swamping in. Capsizing him.
But the moment itself had been so tiny, so delicate.
There was Annie. Smiling, cradling her niece. Whispering to the tiny little girl.
And Beauvoir had suddenly realized he wanted children. And he wanted them with Annie. No one else.
Annie. Holding their own daughter or son.
Annie. Holding him.