A Trick of the Light (33 page)

Across the table Chief Inspector Gamache took a forkful of grilled garlic shrimp and the quinoa mango salad with genuine enjoyment.

They’d both looked up when André Castonguay had raised his voice.

Beauvoir had even gone to get up, but the Chief had stopped him. Wanting to see how this would play out. Like the rest of the patrons, they watched Denis Fortin walk stiffly away, his back straight, his arms at his side.

Like a little soldier, Gamache had thought, reminded of his son Daniel as a child, marching around the park. Either into or away from a battle. Resolute.

Pretending.

Denis Fortin was retreating, Gamache knew. To nurse his wounds.

“I suspect you don’t agree?” said Beauvoir.

“That people don’t change?” asked Gamache, looking up from his plate. “No, I don’t agree. I believe people can and do.”

“But not as much as the victim appeared to change,” said Beauvoir. “That would be very chiaroscuro.”

“Very what?” Gamache lowered his knife and fork and stared at his second in command.

“It means a bold contrast. The play of light and dark.”

“Is that so? And did you make up that word?”

“I did not. Heard it at Clara’s
vernissage
and even used it a few times. Such a snooty crowd. All I had to do was say ‘chiaroscuro’ a few times and they were convinced I was the critic for
Le Monde.
”

Gamache picked his knife and fork back up and shook his head. “So it could’ve meant anything and you still used it?”

“Didn’t you notice? The more ridiculous the statement the more it was accepted. Did you see their faces when they realized I wasn’t with
Le Monde
?”

“Very schadenfreude of you,” said Gamache and wasn’t surprised to see the suspicious look on Beauvoir’s face. “So you looked up ‘chiaroscuro’ this morning. Is that what you do when I’m not around?”

“That and Free Cell. And porn, of course, but we only do that on your computer.”

Beauvoir grinned and took a bite of his burger.

“You think the victim was very chiaroscuro?” asked Gamache.

“I don’t actually. Just said that to show off. I think it’s all bullshit. One moment she’s a bitch, the next she’s this wonderful person? Come on. That’s crap.”

“I can see how they’d mistake you for a formidable critic,” said Gamache.

“Fucking right. Listen, people don’t change. You think the trout in the Bella Bella are there because they love Three Pines? But maybe next year they’ll go somewhere else?” Beauvoir jerked his head toward the river.

Gamache looked at his Inspector. “What do you think?”

“I think the trout have no choice. They return because they’re trout. That’s what trout do. Life is that simple. Ducks return to the same place every year. Geese do it. Salmon and butterflies and deer. Jeez, deer are such creatures of habit they wear a trail through the woods and never deviate. That’s why so many are shot, as we know. They never change. People are the same. We are what we are. We are who we are.”

“We don’t change?” Gamache took a piece of fresh asparagus.

“Exactly. You taught me that people, that cases, are basically very simple. We’re the ones who complicate it.”

“And the Dyson case? Are we complicating it?”

“I think so. I think she was killed by someone she screwed. End of story. A sad story, but a simple one.”

“Someone from her past?” Gamache asked.

“No, that’s where I think you’re wrong. The people who knew the new Lillian after she stopped drinking say she’d become a decent person. And the people who knew the old one, before she stopped drinking, say she was a bitch.”

Beauvoir was holding up both hands, one was clutching the massive burger, the other held a french fry. Between them was space, a divide.

“And I’m saying the old and new are the same person.” He brought his hands together. “There’s only one Lillian. Just as there’s only one me. Only one you. She might have gotten better at hiding it after she joined AA, but believe me, that bitter, nasty, horrible woman was still there.”

“And still hurting people?” the Chief asked.

Beauvoir ate the fry and nodded. This was his favorite part of an investigation. Not the food, though in Three Pines that was never a hardship. He could remember other cases, in other places, when he and the Chief had gone days with barely anything to eat, or shared cold canned peas and Spam. Even that, he had to admit, had been fun. In retrospect. But this little village produced bodies and gourmet meals in equal proportion.

He liked the food, but what he mostly loved were the conversations with the Chief. Just the two of them.

“One theory is that Lillian Dyson came here to make amends to someone,” said Gamache. “To apologize.”

“If she did I bet she wasn’t sincere.”

“So why would she have been here, if she wasn’t sincere?”

“To do what it was in her nature to do. To screw someone.”

“Clara?” Gamache asked.

“Maybe. Or someone else. She had lots to choose from.”

“And it went wrong,” said Gamache.

“Well, it sure didn’t go right, for her anyway.”

Was the answer so simple? Gamache wondered. Was Lillian Dyson just being true to who she really was?

A selfish, destructive, hurtful person. Drunk or sober.

The same person, with the same instincts and nature.

To hurt.

“But,” said Gamache, “how’d she know about this party? It was a private party. By invitation only. And we all know Three Pines is hard to find. How did Lillian know about the party, and how’d she find it? And how did the murderer know she’d even be here?”

Beauvoir took a deep breath, trying to think, then shook his head.

“I got us this far, Chief. It’s your turn to do something useful.”

Gamache sipped his beer and grew quiet. So quiet, in fact, that Beauvoir became concerned. Maybe he’d upset the Chief with his flippant remark.

“What is it?” Beauvoir asked. “Something wrong?”

“No, not really.” Gamache looked at Beauvoir, as though trying to make up his mind about something. “You say people don’t change, but you and Enid loved each other once, right?”

Beauvoir nodded.

“But now you’re separated, on your way to a divorce. So what happened?” Gamache asked. “Did you change? Did Enid? Something changed.”

Beauvoir looked at Gamache with surprise. The Chief was genuinely perturbed.

“You’re right,” admitted Beauvoir. “Something changed. But I don’t think it was us really. I think we just realized that we weren’t the people we pretended to be.”

“I’m sorry?” asked Gamache, leaning forward.

Beauvoir collected his scattered thoughts. “I mean, we were young. I think we didn’t know what we wanted. Everyone was getting married and it seemed like fun. I liked her. She liked me. But I don’t think it was ever really love. And I think I was pretending, really. Trying to be someone I wasn’t. The man Enid wanted.”

“So what happened?”

“After the shootings, I realized I had to be the man I was. And that man didn’t love Enid enough to stay.”

Gamache was quiet for a few moments, immobile, thinking.

“You spoke to Annie Saturday night, before the
vernissage,
” said Gamache finally.

Beauvoir froze. The Chief went on, not needing a reply.

“And you saw her and David together at the party.”

Beauvoir willed himself to blink. To breathe. But he couldn’t. He wondered how long before he passed out.

“You know Annie well.”

Beauvoir’s brain was shrieking. Wanting this to be over, for the Chief to just say what was on his mind. Gamache finally looked up, directly at Beauvoir. His eyes, far from angry, were imploring.

“Did she tell you about her marriage?”

“Pardon?”
Beauvoir barely whispered.

“I thought she might have said something to you, asked your advice or something. Knowing about you and Enid.”

Beauvoir’s head swam. None of this was making sense.

Gamache leaned back and exhaled deeply, throwing his balled-up napkin onto his plate. “I feel such a fool. We’d had little signs that things weren’t well. David canceling dinners together, showing up late, like on Saturday night. Leaving early. They weren’t as demonstrative as before. Madame Gamache and I had talked about it, but thought it might just be their relationship evolving. Less in each other’s pockets. And couples grow apart, then come back together again.”

Beauvoir felt his heart start again. With a mighty thump.

“Are Annie and David growing apart?”

“She didn’t say anything to you?”

Beauvoir shook his head. His brain sloshing about in there. With only one thought now. Annie and David were growing apart.

“Had you noticed anything?”

Had he? How much was real and how much was imagined, exaggerated? He remembered Annie’s hand on David’s arm. And David not caring. Not listening. Distracted.

Beauvoir had seen all that, but had been afraid to believe it was anything other than a shame. Affection wasted on a man who didn’t care. His own jealousy speaking, and not the truth. But now—

“What’re you saying, sir?”

“Annie came over last night for dinner and to talk. She and David are having a difficult time.” Gamache sighed. “I’d hoped she’d said something to you. For all your arguing, I know Annie’s like a little sister to you. You’ve known her since she was, what?”

“Fifteen.”

“Has it been that long?” asked Gamache, with amazement. “Not a happy year for Annie. Her first crush, and it had to be on you.”

“She had a crush on me?”

“Didn’t you know? Oh yes. Madame Gamache and I had to hear about it every time you visited. Jean Guy this and Jean Guy that. We tried to tell her what a degenerate you were but that just seemed to add to the attraction.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

Gamache looked at him with amusement. “You’d have wanted to know? You were already teasing her, it would’ve been intolerable. Besides, she begged us not to tell you.”

“But now you have.”

“A confidence broken. I trust you not to tell her.”

“I’ll do my best. What’s the problem with David?” Beauvoir looked down at his half-eaten burger, as though it had suddenly done something fascinating.

“She won’t be specific.”

“Are they separating?” he asked, hoping he sounded politely disinterested.

“I’m not sure,” said Gamache. “There’s so much happening in her life, so many changes. She’s taken another job, as you know. In the Family Court office.”

“But Annie hates children.”

“Well, she’s not very good with them, but I don’t think she hates them. She adores Florence and Zora.”

“She has to,” said Beauvoir. “They’re family. She’s probably depending on them, in her old age. She’ll be bitter Auntie Annie, with the stale chocolates and the doorknob collection. And they’ll have to look after her. So she can’t drop them on their heads now.”

Gamache laughed while Beauvoir remembered Annie with the Chief’s first granddaughter, Florence. Three years ago. When Florence had been an infant. It might have been the first time his feelings for Annie had breached the surface. Shocking him with their size and ferocity. Crashing down. Swamping in. Capsizing him.

But the moment itself had been so tiny, so delicate.

There was Annie. Smiling, cradling her niece. Whispering to the tiny little girl.

And Beauvoir had suddenly realized he wanted children. And he wanted them with Annie. No one else.

Annie. Holding their own daughter or son.

Annie. Holding him.

He felt his heart tug, as tethers he never knew existed were released.

“We suggested she try to work it out with David.”

“What?” asked Beauvoir, shocked back to the present.

“We just don’t want to see her make a mistake.”

“But,” said Beauvoir, his mind racing. “Maybe she’s already made the mistake. Maybe David’s the mistake.”

“Maybe. But she has to be sure.”

“So what did you suggest?”

“We told her we’d support whatever she decided, but we did gently suggest couple’s counseling,” said the Chief, putting his large, expressive hands on the wooden table and trying to hold Beauvoir’s eyes. But all he saw was his daughter, his little girl, in their living room Sunday night.

She’d swung from sobbing to raging. From hating David, to hating herself, to hating her parents for suggesting counseling.

“Is there something you’re not telling us?” Gamache had finally asked.

“Like what?” Annie had demanded.

Her father had been quiet for a moment. Reine-Marie sat beside him on the sofa, looking from him to their daughter.

“Has he hurt you?” Gamache had asked. Clearly. His eyes firmly on his daughter. Searching for the truth.

“Physically?” Annie asked. “Has he hit me, do you mean?”

“I do.”

“Never. David would never do that.”

“Has he hurt you in other ways? Emotionally? Is he abusive?”

Annie shook her head. Gamache held his daughter’s eyes. He’d peered into the faces of so many suspects trying to glean the truth. But never did anything feel so important.

If David had abused his daughter—

He could feel the rage roil up, just at the thought. What would he do if he found out the man had actually—

Gamache had pulled himself back from that precipice and nodded. Accepting her answer. He’d sat beside her then, and folded her into his arms. Rocking her. Feeling her head in the hollow by his shoulder. Her tears through his shirt. Just as he’d done when she’d cried for Humpty Dumpty. But this time she was the one who’d had a great fall.

Eventually Annie pulled away and Reine-Marie handed her some tissues.

“Would you like me to shoot David?” Gamache had asked as she blew her nose with a mighty honk.

Annie laughed, catching her breath in snags. “Maybe just knee cap him.”

“I’ll move it to the very top of my to-do list,” said her father. Then he bent down so that they were eye to eye, his face serious now. “Whatever you decide to do, we’re behind you. Understand?”

She nodded, and wiped her face. “I know.”

Like Reine-Marie, he wasn’t necessarily shocked, but he was perplexed. There seemed something Annie wasn’t telling them. Something that didn’t quite add up. Every couple had difficult periods. He and Reine-Marie argued at times. Hurt each other’s feelings, at times. Never intentionally, but when people lived that close it was bound to happen.