A Trick of the Light

“I read the report on the drive down, but I’d like to hear from you myself how she was found.”

“Peter and Olivier saw her first,” said Clara. “I was sitting in that chair.” She waved toward the yellow Adirondack chair, one of two. A coffee mug still sat on the wooden arm. “While the guys went to Knowlton to pick up the papers. I was waiting for them.”

“Why?” asked the Chief Inspector.

“The reviews.”

“Ahh, of course. And that would explain—” He waved toward the stack of papers sitting on the grass, within the yellow police cordon.

Clara looked at them too. She wished she could say she’d forgotten all about the reviews in the shock of the discovery, but she hadn’t. The New York Times, the Toronto Globe and Mail and the London Times were piled on the ground where Peter had dropped them.

Beyond her reach.

Gamache looked at Clara, puzzled. “But if you were that anxious, why not just go online? The reviews would’ve been up hours ago, non?”

It was the same question Peter had asked her. And Olivier. How to explain it?

“Because I wanted to feel the newspaper in my hands,” she said. “I wanted to read my reviews the same way I read reviews of all the artists I love. Holding the paper. Smelling it. Turning the pages. All my life I’ve dreamed of this. It seemed worth the extra hour’s wait.”

“So you were alone in the garden for about an hour this morning?”

Clara nodded.

“From when to when?” Gamache asked.

“From around seven thirty this morning until they returned about eight thirty.” Clara looked at Peter.

“That’s right,” said Peter.

“And when you got back, what did you see?” Gamache turned to Peter and Olivier.

“We got out of the car and since we knew Clara was in the garden we decided to just walk around there.” Peter pointed to the corner of the house, where an old lilac held on to the last flowers of the season.

“I was following Peter when he suddenly stopped,” said Olivier.

“I noticed something red on the ground as we came around the house,” Peter picked up the story. “I think I assumed it was one of the poppies, fallen over. But it was too big. So I slowed down and looked over. That’s when I saw it was a woman.”

“What did you do?”

“I thought it was one of the guests who might’ve had too much to drink and passed out,” said Peter. “Slept it off in our garden. But then I could see that her eyes were open and her head—”

He tilted his, but of course he couldn’t achieve that angle. No living person could. It was a feat reserved for the dead.

“And you?” Gamache asked Olivier.

“I asked Clara to call the police,” he said. “Then I called Gabri.”

“You say you have guests?” Gamache asked. “People from the party?”

Gabri nodded. “A couple of the artists who came down from Montreal for the party decided to stay at the B and B. A few are also staying up at the inn and spa.”

“Was this a last-minute booking?”

“At the B and B it was. They made it sometime during the party.”

Gamache nodded and turning away he gestured toward Agent Isabelle Lacoste, who quickly joined him, listened as the Chief murmured instructions, then walked rapidly away. She spoke to two young Surete agents, who nodded and left.

It always fascinated Clara to see how easily Gamache took command, and how naturally people took his orders. Never barked, never shouted, never harsh. Always put in the most calm, even courteous manner. His orders were couched almost as requests. And yet not a person mistook them for that.

Gamache turned back to give the four friends his full attention. “Did any of you touch the body?”

They looked at each other, shaking their heads, then back to the Chief.

“No,” said Peter. He was feeling more certain now. The ground had firmed up, filled in with facts. With straightforward questions and clear answers.

Nothing to be afraid of.

“Do you mind?” Gamache started walking toward the Adirondack. Even had they minded, it wouldn’t have mattered. He was going there and they were welcome to join him.

“Before they came back, when you were sitting here alone, you didn’t notice anything strange?” he asked as they walked. It seemed obvious that had Clara seen a body in her garden she’d have said something earlier. But it wasn’t just the body he wanted to know about. This was Clara’s garden, she knew it well, intimately. Perhaps something else was wrong. A plant broken, a shrub disturbed.

Some detail his investigators might miss. Something so subtle she herself might have missed it, until he asked her directly.