The Chief nodded. “You’re right. I do have a daughter and I’d remember the day she returned home.”
The two men looked at each other for a moment.
“Did Lillian tell you why she returned?” Gamache did a quick calculation. It would have been about eight months earlier. Shortly after that she’d bought her car and begun going to art shows around town.
“She just said she was missing home,” said Madame Dyson. “We thought we were the luckiest people alive.”
Gamache paused to let her gather herself. Both Surete officers knew there was a small window after telling loved ones the news before they were completely overcome. Before the shock wore off and the pain began.
That moment was fast approaching. The window was slamming shut. They had to make each question count.
“Was she happy in Montreal this time?” Gamache asked.
“I’ve never seen her happier,” said her father. “I think she might’ve found a man. We asked but she always laughed and denied it. But I’m not so sure.”
“Why do you say that?” Gamache asked.
“When she came for dinner she’d always leave early,” said Madame Dyson. “By seven thirty. We kidded her that she was off on a date.”
“And what did she say to that?”
“She just laughed. But,” she hesitated, “there was something.”
“What do you mean?”
Madame Dyson took another deep breath as though trying to keep herself going, long enough to help this police officer. To help him find whoever had killed their daughter.
“I don’t know what I mean, but she never used to leave early, then suddenly she did. But she wouldn’t tell us why.”
“Did your daughter drink?”
“Drink?” asked Monsieur Dyson. “I don’t understand the question. Drink what?”
“Alcohol. We found something at the site that might have come from Alcoholics Anonymous. Do you know if your daughter belonged to AA?”
“Lillian?” Madame Dyson looked astonished. “I’ve never seen her drunk in my life. She used to be the designated driver at parties. She’d have a few drinks sometimes, but never many.”
“We don’t even keep alcohol in the house,” said Monsieur Dyson.
“Why not?” Gamache asked.
“We just lost interest, I suppose,” said Madame Dyson. “There were other things to spend our pensions on.”
Gamache nodded and got up. “May I?” He indicated the pictures on the walls.
“Please.” Madame Dyson joined him.
“Very pretty,” he said as they gazed at the photographs. Lillian aged as they walked around the modest room. From cherished newborn to adored teen and into a lovely young woman, with hair the color of a sunset.
“Your daughter was found in a garden,” he said, trying to make it sound not too gruesome. “It belonged to her friend Clara.”
Madame Dyson stopped and stared at the Chief Inspector. “Clara? But that’s not possible. Lillian would never have gone there. She’d meet the devil before she’d meet that woman.”
“Did you say Lillian was killed at Clara’s home?” demanded Monsieur Dyson.
“
“Then you know who killed Lillian,” said Monsieur Dyson. “Have you arrested her?”
“I haven’t,” said Gamache. “There are other possibilities. Is there anyone else your daughter talked about since her return to Montreal? Anyone who might wish her harm?”
“No one as obvious as Clara,” snapped Monsieur Dyson.
“I know this is difficult,” said Gamache quietly, calmly. He waited a moment before speaking again. “But you need to think about my question. It’s vital. Did she talk about anyone else? Anyone she’d had an upset with recently?”
“No one,” said Madame Dyson, eventually. “As we said, she never seemed happier.”
Chief Inspector Gamache and Beauvoir thanked the Dysons for their help and gave them their cards.
“Please call,” said the Chief, standing at the door. “If you remember anything, or if you need anything.”
“Who do we speak to about—” Madame Dyson began.
“I’ll have someone come over and talk with you about arrangements. Is that all right?”
They nodded. Monsieur Dyson had fought to his feet and stood beside his wife, staring at Gamache. Two men, two fathers. But standing now a continent apart.
As they walked down the stairs, their steps echoing against the walls, Gamache wondered how two such people could produce the woman Clara had described.
