TWENTY-NINE
It was getting late by the time they returned to Baie-Saint-Paul.
Chartrand parked at the gallery, and Beauvoir, after a glance at Gamache, excused himself and walked down the cobblestone street.
“Where’s he going?” Myrna asked.
“To get an iced tea,” said Gamache.
“I wouldn’t mind one myself,” she said. But by the time she turned around, Beauvoir had disappeared. She turned back to Gamache. “What’re you up to, Armand?”
He smiled. “If you were a member of No Man’s colony, and the place fell apart, what would you do?”
“Go home.”
“Suppose this was home?”
“I’d—” She thought about it. “Find work, I guess.”
“Or maybe start your own business,” said Gamache.
“I might. An art gallery, for instance?” She studied him, then dropped her voice. “You don’t believe Chartrand, do you?”
“I don’t believe anyone. Not even you.”
She laughed. “Nor should you. I lied just now. I’m not interested in an iced tea, I just wanted to know where Jean-Guy raced off to.”
“Can you guess?” asked Gamache.
Myrna thought about it, then a smile spread across her face. “You sneak. He’s gone to the brasserie. La Muse.”
Armand smiled. “Worth a try.”
“And you think she’ll be there? This tenth muse?” Myrna asked.
“Do you?”
* * *
Jean-Guy grabbed a table inside. All the ones on the terrasse were already taken, but he wanted to be inside anyway. Where he could watch the servers.
He picked up the menu and looked at the image laminated on the cover. It was a simple line drawing of a woman. Dancing.
“What can I get you?” the server asked. Her voice was crisp, business-like, but her eyes had scanned him. Taking in the lean body, the dark hair and eyes. His ease.
Beauvoir was used to this, and used to returning the look. But now he found, while he absorbed the fact of her presence, it meant nothing to him. Far from feeling he’d lost something, he once again was reminded of all he’d found. In Annie.
“A ginger beer, s’il te pla?t. Nonalcoholic.”
She brought him the drink.
“How long have you worked here?” He gave her a five-dollar bill, telling her to keep the change.
“Couple of years.”
“You an artist?”
“No. I’m studying architecture. I work here in the summers.”
“Is the owner around?”
“Why? Is something wrong?” She looked concerned.
“No, I just wanted to meet him.” Beauvoir held up the menu. “Interesting design.”
“He did it himself. He’s an artist.”
Beauvoir tried not to show his interest. “And is he here? I’d like to compliment him.”
She looked like she neither believed him, nor cared. “He’s away.”
“Oh. When will he be back?”
“A week, maybe two.”
“Do you know how I can find him?”
She shook her head. “He goes off somewhere down the coast painting every year.”
“In the busy season here?” Beauvoir asked. “Can’t he do it in winter?”
“Would you?”
She had a point.
* * *
They strolled through the cobblestone streets of Baie-Saint-Paul, Clara and Chartrand ahead, Myrna and Gamache a few paces behind.
“They’re quite friendly,” said Gamache, gesturing toward the two ahead.
“Yes,” said Myrna. She watched as Chartrand lowered his head so that he could better hear Clara. Clara was gesturing with Peter’s rolled-up paintings.
Talking about art, Myrna thought. And she realized it had been a long time since she’d seen Peter bend down, to better hear Clara. And since she’d heard them talk about art, or anything, in the intimate way Clara and Chartrand were now talking.
“I like him,” said Myrna.
Beside her, Gamache put his hands behind his back, and held them there, rocking slightly as he walked.
“Do you think the tenth muse exists?” he asked.
Now it was Myrna’s turn to walk in silence. Considering.
“I think muses exist,” she said. “I think something happens when an artist or writer or musician meets someone who inspires them.”
“That’s not the same thing, and you know it,” said Gamache. “I’m not talking about a person who inspires an artist. I’m asking you about the tenth muse. You didn’t answer my question.”
“You noticed that, did you?” she smiled, and began to also rock slightly as she walked, in a rhythmic motion mirroring his. “I’ve never given the actual Muses any thought,” she said at last. “But now that I am, I have to say if I can believe in nine, I can stretch it to ten.”
Beside her, Gamache gave a low laugh. “And can you believe in nine? Or ten?”
Myrna was quiet for another few paces, watching Clara now look up at Chartrand as he spoke. Watching him gesture in ways Peter never did.
Myrna stopped, and Gamache stopped with her. The other two, not seeing this, continued on.
“Hundreds of millions of people believe in a God of some sort. They believe in karma, in angels, in spirits and ghosts. In reincarnation and heaven. And the soul. They pray and light candles and chant and carry good-luck charms and interpret events as omens. And I’m not talking about marginal people. This is the mainstream.”
Between the old homes they could see the river.
“Why not Muses?” she asked. “Besides, how else do you explain Ruth’s poetry? You can’t tell me that drunken old woman writes them without some supernatural help.”
Gamache laughed. “A ghost writer?”
“It really doesn’t matter if the Muses exist,” said Myrna. “What matters is that No Man believed it. He believed it so strongly he risked ridicule and even his job. That’s powerful, Armand, but it’s something else. That kind of passion, that kind of certainty, is very attractive. Especially to people who are directionless.”
“Are you coming?” Clara called.
She and Chartrand had stopped to wait for them.
Myrna and Gamache joined them and together they walked until they reached the archway that led to the hidden courtyard. It was where they’d first regrouped twenty-four hours ago. It seemed so long ago now, so much had happened.
While the others had been keen to join Jean-Guy at La Muse, Gamache had convinced them that Beauvoir might not do his best work with the four of them looking on.
So they found themselves in the now-familiar courtyard. The terrasse, which should have been crammed with tourists admiring the view, was all but empty.
This place seemed to exist only for them, and two lone backgammon players. Still there. Perhaps always there. Shabby guardians at a forgotten gate.
* * *
Beauvoir scanned the other servers, and his eyes fell on a middle-aged man who’d just appeared out of a door by the bar. Jean-Guy picked up his drink and moved to one of the stools. It made him feel slightly uncomfortable. Or, worse, he felt too comfortable. Too familiar.
He stood up.
“Salut,” he said to the older man, who was now behind the bar looking at order forms.
The man looked up and gave Beauvoir a quick, professional smile. “Salut.”
Then returned to what he was doing.
“Nice place,” said Beauvoir. “Interesting name. La Muse. Where does it come from?”
He had the man’s attention, though it was clear he considered Beauvoir feeble, or drunk, or lonely, or just a pain in the ass.
But the professional smile flashed again. “Been called that for as long as I’ve worked here.”
“And how long’s that?”
Beauvoir knew he was making a fool of himself. How useful flashing his S?reté ID would be right about now. Such a difference between an inspector of homicide asking questions and a barfly asking them.
The man stopped what he was doing and put both hands firmly on the bar.
“Ten years, maybe more.”
“You the owner?”
“No.”
“Can I speak to him?”
“We’re not hiring.”
“I already have a job.”
The man looked like he didn’t believe him.
Beauvoir longed to bring out the ID. Or the gun.
“Look, I know this is strange, but I’m trying to find someone who might’ve known an artist called No Man.”
The man’s stance changed. He pushed back from the bar and gave Beauvoir another assessing look.
“Why?”
“Well, I work at a gallery in Montréal and this No Man’s art has suddenly gone up in value. But no one seems to know much about him.”
Now he had this man’s full attention. By dumb luck Beauvoir had said the very thing guaranteed to get both a response and respect. Two things Jean-Guy sorely wanted.
“Really?”
“You seem surprised.”
“Well, I never saw any of this No Man’s paintings myself, but Luc led me to believe…”
“Yes?”
“Well, I guess Van Gogh was a little you-know-what.”
“What?”
“Fucking nuts.”
“Ahhh.” Now there was a description of an artist he could get behind. “And so was No Man?”
For that he got a stern look. “He called himself No Man. What do you think?”
“You have a point. Who’s this Luc?”
“He’s the owner here. Luc Vachon.”
“And he knew No Man?”
“Yeah, well, he lived at that place for a few years.”
“What did he say about it?” Beauvoir asked.
“Not much.”
“Come on, he lived there for years, he must’ve said something.”
“I asked a few times, but he never really wanted to talk about it.”
“Embarrassed, do you think?” asked Beauvoir.
“Maybe.”
“Come on, man, you can tell me,” said Beauvoir. “Must’ve been pretty weird.”
“I think he got kinda scared there at the end,” said the man. “Luc really didn’t want to talk about it. I do know he used to ship No Man’s paintings to his gallery, or someplace. You guys, I guess. And Luc used to get in the art supplies No Man used.”
“They must’ve been close.”
“Couldn’t have been that close. Luc said No Man just up and left one day. Took off.”
“Where to?”
“Don’t know.”
“Does Luc know? Is he still in touch with No Man?”
“I never asked. Never cared.”
“Was No Man from around here?”
“Don’t think so. Never heard of family or anything.”
“So he might’ve gone home?”
“I suppose.”
Jean-Guy sipped his ginger beer and thought about that.
“When did Luc open this place?”
“He bought the brasserie after he left the commune.”
“Why’d he call it La Muse?”
“Haven’t you ever heard of an artist’s muse?” the barman asked. “They all seem to either have one or want one. Me, all I want is peace and quiet.”
He stared at Beauvoir, but Jean-Guy ignored the hint.
“Does Luc have a muse?”
“Only her.”
The barman tapped the menu.
“Is she real?” asked Jean-Guy.
“Wouldn’t that be nice?” said the barman. “But no.” He leaned across the bar and whispered, as though sharing a confidence, “Muses aren’t real.”
“Merci,” said Beauvoir, and once again longed for the heft of his gun in his hand.
“The owner still paints?”
“Oui. Goes off a couple weeks of the year. That’s where he is now.” The man paused. “I don’t suppose his paintings will be worth something, since he studied with this No Man?”
It was clear he had a few of those, either by choice or because he had no choice.
“Maybe. But please don’t say anything. Let me tell him myself. Can I call him or email?”
“No. He doesn’t want to be disturbed. He normally goes off at the end of August, but this year he left early. Guess the weather was good. What’s the name of your gallery? Luc’ll want to know.”
“Désolé. I’m trying to be here incognito.”
“Ahh,” said the man.
“Are there any other members of No Man’s art colony still around?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Anyone you know have any of No Man’s paintings?”
“No. He had Luc mail them all down south, to his gallery.” The man paused and thrust out his lower lip. “How can Luc get in touch with you, if you’re incognito?”
It sounded pretty silly. And the man himself sounded suspicious. Beauvoir gave him his cell phone number.
“I’m sorry, but I have to ask again,” said Beauvoir. “Have you ever heard your boss talk about a muse? His own, maybe, or one that influenced the colony?” He held up the menu.
“Non.”
Beauvoir got up and, waving the menu at the barman, he left. Taking the menu with him.
* * *
“Find what you were looking for?” one of the backgammon players asked.
Clara was momentarily taken aback, wondering how they knew about Peter. But Myrna remembered.
“We did, and you were right. That picture was painted exactly where you said it was.”
And then Clara remembered that she and Myrna had asked these two men for help in finding out where Peter had done the lip painting. And they had helped.
“Strange painting,” said one.
“Strange place,” said the other.
Clara, Myrna, Chartrand, and Gamache took the table by the edge of the terrasse and ordered drinks. While they waited, Gamache excused himself and returned to the two men.
“What did you mean just now when you called it a strange place? You mean the river, where that painting was done?”
“Nah, I mean the one she had in her other hand.”
“You knew where that was painted too?” asked Gamache.
“Oh yes. Been there years ago. Helped take down some of the trees.”
“In the woods.” Gamache waved vaguely in the direction of the forest.
“Oui. Recognized it.”
“But you didn’t say anything?” Gamache asked.
“Wasn’t asked. She only asked about the river painting. Funny pictures.”
“I liked them,” the other man said, studying the backgammon board.
“Do you know anything about the art colony that was built in the woods?” Gamache asked.
“Nothing. I cleared the trees, then left. Saw the guy a few times in the village here. Grew pretty big, I heard. His artist retreat. And then it ended. Everyone left.”
“Do you know why?”
“Like all the others, I suppose,” said the elderly man. “It’d run its course.”
Gamache thought about that. “You called it a strange place. Why?”
The other elderly man looked up from the board and examined Gamache with a clear eye. “I know you. You’re that cop. Seen you on TV.”
Gamache nodded and smiled. “Not anymore. We’re just here trying to find a friend. The man who painted those pictures. His name’s Peter Morrow.”
They shook their heads.
“Tall,” said Gamache. “Middle-aged. Anglo?” But the two men just gave him blank stares. “He was interested in the fellow who ran that art colony. Norman. Or No Man.”
“No Man,” the elderly man repeated. “I remember now. Strange name.”
“Strange man?” asked Gamache.
The backgammon player considered that. “No more than the rest. Perhaps less. Kept to himself. Seemed to want to be left alone.”
He laughed.
“What’s so funny?”
“So many artists here are desperate for students. They advertise and hold shows and offer all sorts of courses. But this guy builds a small cabin in that clearing, says nothing, and students flock to him.”
“You know why?” Gamache asked. “Was he charismatic?”
That brought another laugh. “Anything but. I can tell you one thing, he didn’t look like an artist. Most are pretty scruffy. He seemed, well, more like you.”
The elderly man eyed him, and Gamache was far from convinced that was a compliment.
“Can you describe him? What did he look like?”
The elderly man considered. “Small guy. Wiry. About my age. My age back then, I mean.”
“Were there ever any women?”
“Are you suggesting there were orgies?”
“You made the clearing for orgies, Léon? Wait ’til your wife finds out.”
“If there were, I wasn’t invited.”
“No,” said Gamache, pretty sure they were having fun with him. “I’m just asking if it seemed that No Man was married or had a companion.”
“Not that I ever saw.”
“No muses?” asked Gamache, and watched their response. But there was no response, except that the one elderly man finally made his move.
The other man shook his head and clicked his tongue.
“You said the place was strange. What did you mean?” Gamache asked again.
“Where it was, for one thing. Is that where you’d choose to live, if you could’ve had that?”
He waved at the river.
“Most of the other artist retreats or communities or whatever you call them take advantage of the view. And why not?”
Gamache considered that. “Why not?” he asked.
The elderly man shrugged. “Privacy, I guess.”
“Or secrecy,” said the other man, his head bowed, studying the board. He looked across at his friend. “For orgies.”
They laughed and Gamache returned to the table, and considered what a fine line it was, between privacy and secrecy.
Their drinks had arrived by then.
“What were you talking about?” Myrna nodded toward the backgammon players.
“They knew No Man,” said Gamache. “And recognized the place from Peter’s painting.”
“Did they know Peter?” asked Clara.
“No.” He told them what the players had said, then he pulled his notebook and pen from his pocket and set them on the table. “Where’re we at?”
He looked for his pen, but Clara had taken it and turned her paper place mat over.
Gamache remembered then who was in charge. And who wasn’t.