It was comforting. But it was more than that. You and Jane talked about everything. Gardening, books, relationships, cooking. And you talked about your beliefs. Remember?'
Clara looked down at her hands.
'You both believed in God. Clara, you have to figure out what you believe.'
'What do you mean? I know what I believe.'
'What? Tell me.'
'Screw off. Leave me alone!' Now she rounded on him. 'Where're your tears? Eh? You're more dead than she is. You can't even cry. And now what? You want me to stop? It hasn't even been a day yet, and you're what? Bored with it? Not the center of the universe anymore? You want everything to go back to the way it was, like that.' Clara snapped her fingers in his face. 'You disgust me.'
Peter leaned away from the assault, wounded, and wanting to say all the things he knew would hurt her the way she'd just hurt him.
'Go away!' she screamed through hiccups and gasps. And he wanted to. He'd wanted to go away since this time yesterday. But he'd stayed. And now, more than ever, he wanted to flee. Just for a little while. A walk around the Commons, a coffee with Ben. A shower. It sounded so reasonable, so justified. Instead, he leaned toward her again, and took her snot-smeared hands in his and kissed them. She tried to pull away, but he held on firmly.
'Clara, I love you. And I know you. You have to figure out what you believe, what you really, truly believe. All these years you've talked about God. You've written about your faith. You've done dancing angels, and yearning goddesses. Is God here, now, Clara? Is he in this room?'
Peter's kind voice calmed Clara. She began to listen.
'Is he here?' Peter slowly brought his forefinger to her chest, not quite touching. 'Is Jane with him?'
Peter pressed on. He knew where he had to go. And this time it wasn't somewhere else. 'All those questions you and Jane debated and laughed about and argued over, she has the answer to. She's met God.'
Clara's mouth dropped open and she stared straight ahead. There. There it was. Her mainland. That's where she could put her grief. Jane was dead. And she was now with God. Peter was right. She either believed in God, or she didn't. Either was OK. But she could no longer say she believed in God and act otherwise. She did believe in God. And she believed that Jane was with him. And suddenly her pain and grief became human and natural. And survivable. She had a place to put it, a place where Jane was with God.
It was such a relief. She looked at Peter, his face bent to her. Dark rings under his eyes. His gray wavy hair sticking out. She felt in her hair and found a duck clip buried in the chaos of her head. Taking it out, and with it some of her own hair, she placed her hand on the back of Peter's head. Silently she drew it toward her and with her other hand she smoothed a section of his unruly hair, and put her clip on it. And as she did so she whispered in his ear, 'Thank you. I'm sorry.'
And Peter started to cry. To his horror he felt his eyes sting and well up and there was a burning in the back of his throat. He couldn't control it any longer and it came bursting out. He cried like he'd cried as a child when, lying in bed listening to the comfort of his parents talking downstairs, he realised they were talking about divorce. He took Clara in his arms and held her to his chest and prayed he would never lose her.
The meeting at the Surete headquarters in Montreal didn't last long. The coroner hoped to have a preliminary report that afternoon and would bring it by Three Pines on her way home. Jean Guy Beauvoir reported his conversation with Robert Lemieux, of the Cowansville Surete, still eager to help.
'He says Yolande Fontaine herself is clean. Some vague suspicions of slippery practices as a real estate agent, but nothing against the law, yet. But her husband and son are quite popular with the police, both the local and the Surete. Her husband is Andre Malenfant, aged thirty-seven. Five counts of drunk and disorderly. Two of assault. Two of breaking and entering.'
'Has he done any jail time?' Gamache asked.
'Couple of stretches at Bordeaux and lots of single nights in the local lock-up.'
'And the son?'
'Bernard Malenfant. Age fourteen. Seems to be apprenticing to his father. Out of control. Lots of complaints from the school. Lots of complaints from parents.'
'Has the boy ever actually been charged with anything?'
'No. Just a couple of stern talkings to.' A few officers in the room snorted their cynicism. Gamache knew Jean Guy Beauvoir well enough to know he always kept the best for last. And his body language told Gamache there was more to come.
'But,' said Beauvoir, his eyes lit in triumph, 'Andre Malenfant is a hunter. Now with his convictions he isn't allowed a gun-hunting permit. But--'
Gamache enjoyed watching Beauvoir indulge his flamboyant side, and this was about as flamboyant as Beauvoir got. A dramatic pause.
'--this year, for the first time, he applied for and got a bow-hunting permit.'
Ta da.
The meeting broke up. Beauvoir handed out the assignments and the teams went off. As the room cleared Nichol made to get up but Gamache stopped her. They were alone now and he wanted a quiet talk. He'd watched her during the meeting, again choosing a seat one removed from the next person, not grabbing a coffee and Danish with the others. In fact, not doing anything anyone else did. It was almost willful, this desire to separate herself from the team. The clothes she was wearing were plain, not the kind you might expect from a Montreal woman in her mid-twenties. There was none of the characteristic Quebecoise flamboyance. He realised he'd grown used to a certain individuality among his team members. But Nichol seemed to strive to be invisible. Her suit was dull blue and made of cheap material. The shoulders were slightly padded, the lumps of foam screamed bargain bin. Creeping out from her armpits was a thin white line where the tide of perspiration had reached the last time she'd worn this suit. And not cleaned it. He wondered if she made her own clothes. He wondered if she still lived at home with her parents. He wondered how proud they must be of her, and how much pressure she felt to succeed. He wondered if all that explained the one thing that did distinguish her from everyone else. Her smugness.
'You're a trainee, here to learn,' he said quietly, directly into the slightly pursed face. 'Therefore a certain
