Gamache was surprised. Stunned in fact. When Peter had said there was something Clara didn’t know, the Chief Inspector had assumed an affair. A short-lived student indiscretion between Peter and Lillian.
He hadn’t expected this.
“I’d been to the student exhibit and seen Clara’s works,” said Peter. “I was standing beside Lillian and a bunch of others and they were snickering. Then they saw me and asked what I thought. Clara and I had begun dating and I think I could see even then that she was the real deal. Not pretending to be an artist, but a genuine one. She had a creative soul. Still does.”
Peter stopped. He didn’t often speak of souls. But when he thought of Clara that was what came to mind. A soul.
“I don’t know what came over me. It’s like sometimes when it’s very quiet I feel like screaming. And sometimes when I’m holding something delicate I feel like dropping it. I don’t know why.”
He looked at the large, quiet man beside him. But Gamache continued to be silent. Listening.
Peter took a few short breaths. “I think too I wanted to impress them, and it’s easier to be clever when you criticize. So I said some not very nice things about Clara’s show and they ended up in Lillian’s review.”
“Clara knows none of this?”
Peter shook his head. “She and Lillian barely spoke after that and she and I grew closer and closer. I even managed to forget that it happened, or that it mattered. In fact, I convinced myself I’d done Clara a favor. In breaking up with Lillian it freed Clara to do her own art. Try all the things she wanted. Really experiment. And look where it got her. A solo show at the Musee.”
“Are you taking credit for that?”
“I supported her all these years,” said Peter, a defensive note creeping into his voice. “Where would she be without that?”
“Without you?” asked Gamache, turning now to look the angry man straight in the face. “I have no idea. Have you?”
Peter made fists of his hands.
“What became of Lillian after art college?” the Chief asked.
“She wasn’t much of an artist, but she was, as it turned out, a very good critic. She got a job at one of the weekly papers in Montreal and worked her way up until finally she was doing reviews in
Gamache raised his brows again. “
“No,” said Peter. “She worked there years ago, decades ago now, when we were all starting out. This would’ve been twenty years ago or more.”
“And then what?”
“We didn’t keep in touch,” said Peter. “Only ever saw her at some
“But do you know what happened to her? You say she stopped working at
“I heard she’d moved to New York. I think she realized the climate wasn’t right for her here.”
“Too cold?”
Peter smiled. “No. More a foul odor. By climate I mean the artistic climate. As a critic she hadn’t made many friends.”
“I suppose that’s the price of being a critic.”
“I suppose.”
But Peter sounded unconvinced.
“What is it?” the Chief pressed.
“There’re lots of critics, most are respected by the community. They’re fair, constructive. Very few are mean- spirited.”
“And Lillian Dyson?”
“She was mean-spirited. Her reviews could be clear, thoughtful, constructive and even glowing. But every now and then she’d let loose a real stinker. It was amusing at first, but grew less and less fun when it became clear her targets were random. And the attacks vicious. Like the one on Clara. Unfair.”
He seemed, Gamache noticed, to have already floated right past his own role in it.
“Did she ever review one of your shows?”
Peter nodded. “But she liked it.” His cheeks reddened. “I’ve always suspected she wrote a glowing review just to piss off Clara. Hoping to drive a wedge between us. She assumed since she was so petty and jealous Clara would be too.”
“She wasn’t?”
“Clara? Don’t get me wrong, she can be maddening. Annoying, impatient, sometimes insecure. But she’s only ever happy for other people. Happy for me.”
“And are you happy for her?”
