The other three agents crowded around the microfiche.
“Can you magnify it?” Lacoste asked and the agent clicked a dial. The screen leapt closer, and clearer.
There, in bold type, were the words “A Deeply Moving Exhibit.” And what followed was not so much a review or critique but a comedy routine, a riff on the word “move,” as in “movement.” As in “bodily function.”
Even the drained agents chuckled as they read.
It was juvenile, immature. But still, quite funny. Like watching someone slip on a banana peel. And fall. Nothing subtle about it. But for some reason laughable.
Isabelle Lacoste did not laugh.
Unlike the others, she’d seen how this review concluded. Not with the period on the page, but with the body sprawled in the late spring garden.
It started with a joke, and it ended in murder.
Agent Lacoste had copies of the review printed out, making sure the date was clear. Then she thanked and dismissed the other agents and got into her car for the drive back to Three Pines. Convinced that in her car she carried a conviction.
TWENTY-THREE
Peter sat in Clara’s studio.
She’d gone off right after a fairly silent supper to speak with Myrna. He hadn’t been enough after all. He’d been tested, he knew. And found wanting.
He was always wanting. But up until now he hadn’t really known what he wanted, so he’d gone after everything.
Now, at least, he knew.
He sat in Clara’s studio and waited. God, he knew, lived here too. Not just in St. Thomas’s on the hill. But here, in the cluttered space, with the dried-up apple cores, the tins with oil-hardened brushes shoved into them. The paintings.
The big fiberglass feet and the uteruses rampant.
Across the hall in his pristine studio he’d made space for inspiration. All clean and tidy. But inspiration had mistaken the address, and landed here instead.
No, thought Peter, it wasn’t just inspiration he was looking for, it was more.
That had been the problem. All his life he’d mistaken the one for the other. Thinking inspiration was enough. Mistaking the created for the Creator.
He’d brought a bible with him into Clara’s studio, in case that would help. In case God needed proof he was sincere. He flipped through it, finding the apostles.
Thomas. Like their church. Doubting Thomas.
How odd that Three Pines would have a church named after a doubter.
And his own name? Peter. He was the rock.
To pass the time until God found him Peter skimmed the bible for any references to his name.
He found lots of very satisfying ones.
Peter the rock, Peter the apostle, Peter the saint. A martyr even.
But then Peter was something else too. Something Jesus had said to Peter when the apostle had been faced with an obvious miracle. A man walking on water. And Peter, though he himself was also walking on water, hadn’t believed it.
Hadn’t believed all the evidence, all the proof.
“O, ye of little faith.”
It had been said of Peter.
He closed the book.
* * *
It was twilight by the time Agent Isabelle Lacoste parked the car and entered the Incident Room. She’d called ahead and Chief Inspector Gamache and Inspector Beauvoir were waiting for her.
She’d read them the review over the phone, but still both men met her, anxious to actually see it.
She handed a copy to each of them and watched.
“Holy shit,” said Beauvoir, having raced through it. They both turned to Gamache, who had his reading glasses on and was taking his time. Finally he lowered the paper and removed his glasses.
“Well done.” He nodded gravely to Agent Lacoste. To say what she found was surprising was an understatement.
“Well, that just about does it, don’t you think?” said Beauvoir.
“Over time things can get a little warped,” said Gamache, “we all know that from interviewing witnesses. People remember things differently. Fill in the blanks.”
