EIGHT
Jean-Guy Beauvoir tore a small hole in the top of a dumpling and dripped in tamari sauce. Then, using a spoon, he put the whole thing in his mouth.
“Mmmmmm.”
Gamache watched, pleased to see Jean-Guy’s appetite so strong.
Then he picked up a round shrimp and cilantro dumpling with his chopsticks and ate it.
Beauvoir watched and noted that the Chief’s hand didn’t tremble. Not much. Not anymore.
The hole-in-the-wall restaurant in Chinatown was filling with customers.
“Some din,” said Jean-Guy, raising his voice over the lunch noise.
Gamache laughed.
Beauvoir wiped his chin with a thin paper napkin and looked over at his notebook, splayed open on the laminate table beside his bowl.
“Okay, here’s the thing,” he said. “I did a quick search on Peter’s credit cards and his bank card. When he left Clara, he stayed in a hotel in Montréal for a week or so. A suite at the Crystal.”
“A suite?” asked Gamache.
“Not the largest one, though.”
“So he packed his hair shirt after all,” said Gamache.
“Well, yes. Is cashmere considered hair?”
Gamache smiled. By Morrow standards the elegant Hotel Le Crystal was probably the equivalent of the rack. It wasn’t the Ritz.
“And then?” asked Gamache.
“Air Canada to Paris. A geographical?” asked Beauvoir.
The Chief thought about that. “Perhaps.”
The investigators knew that people who took off were running from unhappiness. Loneliness. Failure. They ran, thinking the problem was one of location. They thought they could start fresh somewhere else.
It rarely worked. The problem was not geographical.
“Where did he stay in Paris?”
“The Hotel Auriane. In the 15th arrondissement.”
“Vraiment?” asked Gamache, a little surprised. He knew Paris well. Their son Daniel, his wife, Roslyn, and their grandchildren lived in Paris, in the 6th arrondissement in an apartment the size of a pie plate.
“Not what you expected, patron?” asked Jean-Guy, who, at dinner parties, pretended to know Paris, but didn’t. He also pretended not to know east-end Montréal. But did.
With Gamache he’d long since given up the pretense.
“Well, the 15th is nice,” said Gamache, thinking about it. “Residential. Lots of families.”
“Not exactly the artistic hub.”
“No,” said Gamache. “How long did he stay?”
Beauvoir consulted his notes. “At the hotel? A few days. Then he rented a furnished apartment, for four months. He left just before his lease was up.”
“And from there?”
“His credit card shows a TGV ticket, one way, to Florence. Then, after a couple of weeks, on to Venice,” said Beauvoir. “He was covering a lot of territory.”
Yes, thought Gamache. The hounds were nipping at Peter Morrow’s heels. Gamache caught a whiff of desperation in this flight across Europe. There didn’t seem to be a plan.
And yet it couldn’t be a complete coincidence that the cities Peter chose were famous for inspiring artists.
“All I have so far are the credit card and bank records,” said Beauvoir. “We know that he flew from Venice to Scotland—”
“Scotland?”
Beauvoir shrugged. “Scotland. From there he came back to Canada. Toronto.”
“Is that where he is now?”
“No. Guess where he went from Toronto.”
Gamache gave Beauvoir a stern look. After his visit with Peter’s mother and stepfather, he wasn’t in the mood for guessing games.
“Quebec City.”
“When was that?” Gamache asked.
“April.”
Gamache did a quick calculation. Four months ago. Gamache put down his cup of green tea and stared at Beauvoir.
“In Quebec City he took three thousand dollars from his bank account.”
Beauvoir looked up from his notebook and slowly closed it.
“And then, no more. He disappeared.”
* * *
Clara and Myrna sat in the Gamaches’ living room. The fireplace was lit and Gamache was pouring drinks. A cold front had rolled in and brought with it chilly temperatures and a soft drizzle.
The fire wasn’t really necessary. It was more for cheer than heat.
Annie had arranged to have dinner with her friend Dominique at the bistro, leaving her parents and her husband to talk with Clara.
“Here you go,” said Gamache, handing Myrna and Clara glasses of Scotch.
“I think you should leave the bottle,” said Clara.
She had the look of a frightened flier staring at the flight attendants during takeoff. Trying to read their expressions.
Are we safe? Are we going down? What’s that smell?
Gamache sat next to Reine-Marie while Beauvoir dragged the wing chair over from the corner. Closing their small circle.
“This is what we found out,” said Gamache. “It isn’t much yet, and it’s far from conclusive.”
Clara didn’t like the sound of that. The attempt to pacify, to reassure. It meant that reassurance was necessary. It meant something was wrong.
It meant that smell was smoke and the sound was an engine failing.
Armand and Jean-Guy told them about their day. On hearing about the visit to Peter’s mother, Clara took a deep, deep breath.
Across from her, Myrna listened, absorbing the information, in case Clara missed some vital pieces.
“When Peter left here he went to Montréal for a few days, then flew to Paris,” said Jean-Guy. “Then he moved on to Florence, then Venice.”
Clara nodded to show she was following him. So far, so good.
“From Venice, Peter flew to Scotland,” said Beauvoir.
Clara stopped nodding. “Scotland?”
“Why would Peter go to Scotland?” Myrna asked.
“We hoped you could tell us,” Gamache said to Clara.
“Scotland,” Clara repeated softly to herself and stared into the fire. Then she shook her head. “Where in Scotland?”
“It’s easier to see on a map. Let me show you.” Gamache rocked out of the deep sofa and returned a minute later with an atlas. He splayed it open on the coffee table and found the page.
“He flew into Glasgow.”
Armand pointed.
They leaned in.
“From there Peter took a bus.” He traced a line from Glasgow south. South. Along a winding road. Past towns named Bellshill, Lesmahagow, Moffat.
And then he stopped.
Clara leaned closer to the map.
“Dumfries?” she asked.
Her brows were drawn together, trying to either read the word or make sense of it, or both. Finally she sat back and looked at Gamache, who was watching her.
“Are you sure?” asked Clara.
“Pretty sure,” said Beauvoir.
There was a pause.
“Is it possible it wasn’t Peter? That someone stole his credit card?” Clara asked. “And his passport?”
She met Armand’s eyes. Not looking away from what that question implied. No living man would lose his documents, or have them stolen, without reporting it. If they were taken, it was from a dead man.
“It’s possible,” Gamache admitted. “But unlikely. They’d have to have his codes and look exactly like him. Security and Customs agents look closely at passport photos now.”
“But it’s still a possibility?” Clara asked.
“Remote. We have agents looking into it,” Beauvoir admitted. “We’re going on the most likely scenario that it was actually Peter.”
“But how likely is it that Peter left Venice for Dumfries?” asked Myrna.
“I agree,” conceded Gamache. “It’s odd. Unless Peter had a particular interest in Scotland.”
“Not that he ever mentioned,” said Clara. “Though he does like Scotch.”
Myrna smiled. “Maybe it’s that simple. Paris for great wine, Florence for Campari, and Venice for…”
She paused, stumped.
“The Bellini,” said Reine-Marie. “We had one in Harry’s Bar, where it was invented. Remember, Armand?”
“We sat at the bar at quaiside watching the vaporetti go by,” he said. “It was named after the color of a robe in a Bellini painting. Pink.”
“Pink?” Jean-Guy mouthed to Gamache.
“Are you suggesting Peter’s drinking his way across Europe?” asked Clara. “The Ruth Zardo Grand Tour.”
“Don’t look at me,” said Gamache. “It’s not my theory.”
“Then what is your theory?” Clara asked.
His smile faded, and he took a deep breath. “I don’t have one. It’s too early. But I do know one thing, Clara. As strange as all this seems, there’s a reason Peter went to these places. We just have to work it out.”
Clara leaned forward again, staring at the dot on the map. “Is he still there?”
Beauvoir shook his head. “He went to Toronto—”
“He’s in Toronto?” Clara interrupted. “Why didn’t you tell me this to begin with?” But on seeing their expressions, she stopped. “What is it?”
“He didn’t stay there,” said Gamache. “Peter flew from Toronto to Quebec City in April.”
“Even better,” said Clara. “He’s on his way home.”
“Quebec City,” Gamache repeated. “Not Montréal. If he was coming back here he’d have gone to Montréal, non?”
Clara glared, hating him for a moment. For not allowing her her delusions, even briefly.
“Maybe he just wanted to see Quebec City,” she said. “Maybe he wanted to paint it, while he waited.” Her words, rapid-fire and insistent, faltered. “While he waited,” she repeated, “to come home.”
But he hadn’t.
“He took three thousand dollars out of his bank account,” Jean-Guy said, forging ahead. Then he stopped and looked at Gamache.
“That’s the last we found of him,” said Armand. “That was April.”
Clara grew very still. Myrna put her large hand over Clara’s, and it felt icy.
“He might still be there,” said Clara.
“Oui,” said Gamache. “Absolutely.”
“Where was he staying?”
“We don’t know. But it’s early days yet. You’re right, he might still be in Quebec City, or he might have taken that money and gone elsewhere. Isabelle Lacoste is using the resources of the S?reté to find him. Jean-Guy is looking. I’m looking. But it might take time.”
Reine-Marie threw a log into the fire, sending embers and sparks up the chimney. Then she went into the kitchen.
They could smell salmon, and a slight scent of tarragon and lemon.
Clara stood. “I’m going to Quebec City.”
“And do what?” Myrna also got up. “I know you want to do something, but that won’t help.”
“How do you know?” asked Clara.
Gamache rose. “There is something you could do. I’m not sure anything’ll come of it but it might help.”
“What?” asked Clara.
“Peter has family in Toronto—”
“His older brother Thomas,” said Clara. “And his sister Marianna.”
“I was going to call them tomorrow and ask if Peter was in touch, maybe stayed with one of them.”
“You want me to call?”
He hesitated. “I was actually thinking you might go there.”
“Why?” asked Myrna. “Can’t she just call? You were going to.”
“True, but face-to-face is always better. And even better if you know the people.” Gamache looked at Clara. “I think you’ll know if they’re lying to you.”
“I will.”
“But what does it matter?” Myrna asked. They were walking toward the kitchen to join Reine-Marie. “He’s not there anymore.”
“But he was there for a few months,” said Gamache. “He might have told his brother or sister where he was going next, and why. He might have told them why he was in Dumfries.”
Gamache stopped and looked at Clara. “We have no leads in Quebec City but we have a few in Toronto. It might not help. But it might.”
“I’ll go,” said Clara. “Of course I’ll go. First thing in the morning.”
She looked relieved to finally have something to do besides worry.
“Then I’ll go with you,” said Myrna.
“What about the shop?” Clara asked.
“I think the hordes desperate for secondhand books can wait a couple of days,” said Myrna, putting out knives and forks. “I might ask Ruth to look after the store. She spends most of her time asleep in the chair by the window anyway.”
“That’s Ruth?” asked Reine-Marie. “I thought it was a mannequin.”
Clara sat down and pushed the salmon around on her plate. While the others talked she listened to the drum of rain against the window.
She was anxious to get going.