Lillian Dyson lying on the soft green grass in Peter and Clara’s garden. A woman who would grow no older. A woman who had stopped, there. In the pretty, peaceful garden. Because someone had taken her life.
Though, after reading all these repulsive reviews Lacoste was tempted to take a club to the woman herself. She felt dirty, as though someone had thrown a pile of
But someone had killed Lillian Dyson, hideous human being or not, and Lacoste was determined to find out who. The more she read the more she was convinced that someone was hiding here. In the newspaper morgue. In the microfiche. The beginning of this murder was so old it existed only on plastic files seen through a dusty viewer. An outdated technology that recorded a murder. Or at least, the birth of a death. The beginning of an end. An old event still fresh and alive in someone’s mind.
No, not fresh. It was rotten. Old and rotten, the flesh falling off it.
And Agent Lacoste knew if she looked long enough, and hard enough, the murderer would be revealed.
* * *
For the next hour, as the sun rose and the people rose, Chief Inspector Gamache worked. When he got tired he took off his reading glasses, wiped his face with his hands, leaned back in the chair and looked at the sheets of paper pinned to the walls of the old railway station.
Sheets of paper with answers to their questions in bold red Magic Marker, like trails of blood, leading to a murderer.
And he looked at the photographs. Two in particular. The one given him by Mr. and Mrs. Dyson, of Lillian alive. Smiling.
And one taken by the crime scene photographer. Of Lillian dead.
He thought of the two Lillians. Alive and dead. But more than that. The happy, sober Lillian. The one Suzanne claimed to know. A far cry from the embittered woman Clara knew.
Did people change?
Chief Inspector Gamache pushed himself away from the computer. The time for gathering was over. Now was the time to put it all together.
* * *
Agent Isabel Lacoste stared at the screen. Reading and rereading. There was even a photo accompanying the review. Something, Lacoste had come to appreciate, Lillian Dyson reserved for her most vicious attacks. It showed a very young artist standing with a young Lillian on either side of a painting. The artist was smiling. Beaming. Pointing to the work as though to a trophy fish. As though to something extraordinary.
And Lillian?
Lacoste turned the knob and the image leapt closer.
Lillian was also smiling. Smug. Inviting the reader into the joke.
And the review?
Lacoste read it and felt her skin crawl. As though she was watching a snuff film. Watching someone die. For that’s what the review was meant to do. Kill a career. To kill the artist inside the person.
Agent Isabelle Lacoste hit the key and the printer began to growl, as though it had a foul taste in its mouth, before it spat out the copies.
TWENTY-FIVE
“Jean Guy?” Gamache knocked.
There was no answer.
He waited a moment then turned the handle. It was unlocked and he walked in.
Beauvoir lay in the brass bed, covers around him, sleeping soundly. Even snoring slightly.
Gamache stared down at him, then looked into the open door of the bathroom. Keeping an eye on Beauvoir he walked over, and into the bathroom, quickly scanning the washstand. There, beside the deodorant and toothpaste, was a pill bottle.
Glancing into the mirror and seeing Beauvoir still asleep, the Chief picked it up. There was Beauvoir’s name, and the prescription for fifteen OxyContin.
It called for Beauvoir to take a pill each night, as needed. Gamache opened the bottle and dumped the pills into his palm. There were seven left.
But when was the prescription filled? The Chief replaced the pills, put the cap back on and looked at the bottom of the label. The date was typed in very small numerals. Gamache reached into his pocket for his reading glasses, and putting them on he picked up the pill bottle again.
Beauvoir groaned.
Gamache froze, and stared into the mirror. Very slowly he lowered the bottle, and removed his glasses.
Beauvoir, in the mirror, shifted in bed.
Gamache backed out of the bathroom. One pace, two. Then he stopped at the foot of the bed.
“Jean Guy?”
More moaning, clearer, stronger this time.
A chilly, damp breeze was blowing into Beauvoir’s room, fluttering the white cotton curtains. It had begun to drizzle and the Chief could hear the muffled tap of rain on leaves, and smell the familiar scent of wood fires from the village homes.
