“Of course I am. She deserves all the success she gets.”
It was a lie. Not that she deserved her success. Gamache knew that to be true. As did Peter. But both men also knew he was far from happy about it.
Gamache had asked not because he didn’t know the answer, but because he wanted to see if Peter would lie to him.
He had. And if he’d lie about that, what else had he lied about?
* * *
Gamache, Beauvoir and the Morrows sat down to lunch in the garden. The forensics team, on the other side of the tall perennial beds, were drinking lemonade and eating an assortment of sandwiches from the bistro, but Olivier had prepared something special for Beauvoir to take back for the four of them. And so the Inspector had returned with a chilled cucumber soup with mint and melon, a sliced tomato and basil salad drizzled with balsamic, and cold poached salmon.
It was an idyllic setting disturbed every now and then by a homicide investigator walking by, or appearing in a nearby flower bed.
Gamache had placed Peter and Clara with their backs to the activity. Only he and Beauvoir could see, but he realized it was a conceit. The Morrows knew perfectly well that the gentle scene they looked upon, the river, the late spring flowers, the quiet forest, wasn’t the whole picture.
And if they’d forgotten, the conversation would remind them.
“When was the last time you heard from Lillian?” Gamache asked, as he took a forkful of pink salmon and added a dab of mayonnaise. His voice was soft, his eyes thoughtful. His face kind.
But Clara wasn’t fooled. Gamache might be courteous, might be kind, but he made a living looking for killers. And you don’t do that by being just nice.
“Years ago,” said Clara.
She took a sip of the cold, refreshing soup. She wondered if she really should be quite this hungry. And, oddly, when the body had been an anonymous woman Clara had lost her appetite. Now that it was Lillian she was ravenous.
She took a hunk of baguette, twisted off a piece and smeared it with butter.
“Was it intentional, do you think?” she asked.
“Was what intentional?” Beauvoir asked. He picked at his food, not really hungry. Before lunch he’d gone into the bathroom and taken a painkiller. He didn’t want the Chief to see him taking it. Didn’t want him to know that he was still in pain, so many months after the shootings.
Now, sitting in the cool shade, he could feel the pain ease and the tension begin to slide away.
“What do you think?” asked Gamache.
“I can’t believe it was a coincidence that Lillian was killed here,” said Clara.
She twisted in her chair and saw movement through the deep green leaves. Agents, trying to piece together what happened.
Lillian had come here. On the night of the party. And been murdered.
That much was beyond dispute.
Beauvoir watched Clara turn in her seat. He agreed with her. It was strange.
The only thing that seemed to fit was that Clara herself had killed the woman. It was her home, her party, and her former friend. She had motive and opportunity. But Beauvoir didn’t know how many little pills he’d have to take to believe Clara was a killer. He knew most people were capable of murder. And, unlike Gamache who believed goodness existed, Beauvoir knew that was a temporary state. As long as the sun shone and there was poached salmon on the plate, people could be good.
But take that away, and see what happens. Take the food, the chairs, the flowers, the home. Take the friends, the supportive spouse, the income away, and see what happens.
The Chief believed if you sift through evil, at the very bottom you’ll find good. He believed that evil has its limits. Beauvoir didn’t. He believed that if you sift through good, you’ll find evil. Without borders, without brakes, without limit.
And every day it frightened him that Gamache couldn’t see that. That he was blind to it. Because out of blind spots terrible things appeared.
Someone had killed a woman not twenty feet from where they sat, having their genteel picnic. It was intentional, it was done with bare hands. And it was almost certainly no coincidence Lillian Dyson died here. In Clara Morrow’s perfect garden.
“Can we get a list of guests at your
“Well, we can tell you who we invited, but you’ll have to get the complete list from the Musee,” said Peter. “As for the party here in Three Pines last night…”
He looked at Clara, who grinned.
“We have no idea who came,” she admitted. “The whole village was invited and most of the countryside. People were told to just come and go as they pleased.”
“But you said some people from the Montreal opening came down,” said Gamache.
“True,” said Clara. “I can tell you who we invited. I’ll make a list.”
“Not everyone at the
