“She was a client then,” said Gamache. He didn’t take out his notebook, preferring to listen intently. “Not just a friend.”
“A client first, then a friend.”
“How did you meet?”
“She came for counseling a number of years ago.”
“How long ago?”
Myrna thought. “Twenty-three years.” She seemed a little amazed by that. “I’ve known her for twenty-three years,” Myrna marveled, then forced herself back to the reality. “After she stopped coming for therapy, we stayed in touch. We’d go for dinner, a play. Not often, but as two single women we found we had a lot in common. I liked her.”
“Was that unusual,” Gamache asked, “becoming personal friends with a client?”
“A former client, but yes, extremely. It’s the only time it’s happened with me. A therapist has to have clear boundaries, even with former clients. People already get into our heads—if they also get into our lives, there’s a problem.”
“But Constance did?”
Myrna nodded. “I think we were both a little lonely, and she seemed pretty sane.”
“Pretty?” Gamache asked.
“Who among us is totally sane, Chief Inspector?”
They looked at Clara, whose hair was again standing on end, the terrible convergence of hat head, static electricity, and the habit of running her hands through it.
“What?” asked Clara.
Gamache turned back to Myrna. “Had you seen Constance since you moved to Three Pines?”
“A couple of times, when I went in to Montréal. Never out here. Mostly we kept in touch through cards and phone calls. The truth is, we’d drifted apart in recent years.”
“So what brought her down for a visit now?” the Chief asked. “Did you invite her?”
Myrna thought about that, then shook her head. “No, I don’t think so. I think it was her idea, though it’s possible she hinted she’d like to come and I invited her.”
“Did she have any particular reason for wanting to visit?”
Again, Myrna considered before answering. “Her sister died in October, as you probably heard—”
Gamache nodded. It had been in the news, as Constance’s death would be. The murder of Constance Pineault was a statistic. The murder of Constance Ouellet was headline news.
“With her sisters gone there was no one else in her life,” said Myrna. “Constance was very private. Nothing wrong with that, but it had become a sort of mania with her.”
“Can you give me the names of some of her friends?”
Myrna shook her head.
“You don’t know any?” he asked.
“She didn’t have any.”
“Pardon?”
“Constance had no friends,” said Myrna.
Gamache stared at her. “None?”
“None.”
“You were her friend,” said Clara. “She was friends with everyone here. Even Ruth.”
Though even as she said it, Clara realized her error. She’d mistaken being friendly for being friends.
Myrna was quiet for a moment before she spoke.
“Constance gave the impression of friendship and intimacy without actually feeling it.”
“You mean that was all a lie?” asked Clara.
“Not totally. I don’t want you to think she was a sociopath or anything. She liked people, but there was always a barrier.”
“Even for you?” asked Gamache.
“Even for me. There were large parts of her life she kept well hidden.”
Clara remembered their exchange in the studio, when Constance had refused to let Clara paint her portrait. She hadn’t been rude, but she had been firm. It was certainly a shove back.
“What is it?” Gamache asked, seeing the look of concentration on Myrna’s face.
“I was just thinking about what Clara said, and she’s right. I think Constance was happy here, I think she genuinely felt comfortable with everyone, even Ruth.”
“What does that tell you?” Gamache asked.
Myrna thought. “I wonder…”
She stared across the room, out the window, to the pines lit for Christmas. The bulbs bobbed in the night breeze.
“I wonder if she was finally opening up,” said Myrna, bringing her gaze back to her guests. “I hadn’t thought about it, but she seemed less guarded, more genuine, especially as the days went on.”
“She wouldn’t let me paint her portrait,” said Clara.
Myrna smiled. “But that’s understandable, don’t you think? It was the very thing she and her sisters most feared. Being put on display.”
“But I didn’t know who she was then,” said Clara.
“Wouldn’t matter. She knew,” said Myrna. “But I think by the time she left, she felt safe here, whether her secret was out or not.”
“And was her secret out?” Gamache asked.
“I didn’t tell,” said Myrna.
Gamache looked at the magazine on the footstool. A very old copy of Life, and on the cover a famous photo.
“And yet you obviously knew who she was,” he said to Clara.
“I told Clara this afternoon,” Myrna explained. “When I began to accept that Constance would probably never show up.”
“And no one else knew?” he repeated, picking up the magazine and staring at the picture. One he’d seen many times before. Five little girls, in muffs and pretty little winter coats. Identical coats. Identical girls.
“Not that I know of,” said Myrna.
And once again, Gamache wondered if the man who’d killed Constance knew who she was, and realized he was killing the last of her kind. The last of the Ouellet quintuplets.