A Trick of the Light

Lillian a good idea.”

Gamache thought for a moment, then resumed walking.

“How long have you been in AA?” he asked.

“Twenty-three years last March eighteenth.”

“Twenty-three years?” He was astonished, and it showed.

“You should have seen me when I first came in,” she laughed. “Cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs. What you see is the result of twenty-three years of hard labor.”

They passed the front of the terrasse. Beauvoir gestured toward his beer and Gamache nodded.

“Twenty-three years,” repeated Gamache when they resumed their walk. “You stopped drinking about the time Lillian left for New York.”

“I guess I did.”

“Was that just coincidence?”

“She wasn’t part of my life. Lillian had nothing to do with me getting drunk or getting sober.”

Suzanne’s voice had developed an edge. A slight annoyance.

“Do you still paint?” Gamache asked.

“Some. Mostly I dabble. Take some courses, teach some courses, go to vernissages where there’s free food and drink.”

“Did Lillian mention Clara or her show?”

“She never mentioned Clara, not by name anyway. But she did say she needed to make amends to a lot of artists and dealers and gallery owners. Clara might have been among them.”

“And were they among them, do you think?” With a small movement of his head Gamache indicated the two people sitting on the porch of the B and B, watching them.

“Paulette and Normand? No, she didn’t talk about them either. But I wouldn’t be surprised if she owed them an apology. She wasn’t very nice when she was drinking.”

“Or writing. He’s a natural, producing art like it’s a bodily function,” quoted Gamache.

“Oh, you know about that, do you?”

“Obviously you do too.”

“Every artist in Quebec knows that. It was Lillian’s finest moment. As a critic, that is. Her piece de resistance. A near perfect assassination.”

“Do you know who it was about?”

“Don’t you?”

“Would I be asking?”

Suzanne studied Gamache for a moment. “You might. You’re very tricky, I think. But no, I don’t know.”

A near perfect assassination. And that was what it had been. Lillian had delivered a mortal blow with that line. Had the victim waited decades and then returned the favor?

*   *   *

“Mind if I join you?”

But it was too late. Myrna had taken a seat, and once down she was not ever going to be easy to shift.

Beauvoir looked at her. His expression was not very inviting.

“Fine. No problem.”

He scanned the terrasse. A few others were sitting at tables in the sunshine, nursing beers or lemonades or iced tea. But there were some empty tables. Why had Myrna decided to sit with him?

The only possible answer was the only one he dreaded.

“How are you?” she asked.

That she wanted to talk. He took a long sip of beer.

“I’m doing well, thank you.”

Myrna nodded, playing with the moisture on her own beer glass.

“Nice day,” she finally said.

Beauvoir continued to stare ahead, judging this wasn’t worth responding to. Perhaps she’d get the point. He wanted to be alone with his thoughts.

“What’re you thinking about?”

Now he did look at her. There was a mild expression on her face. Interested, but not piercing. Not searching.

A pleasant look.