the two Adirondack chairs in front of them. “Could we find two more chairs?”
With Peter’s help two more Adirondack chairs were brought over and the four of them sat in a circle. Had there been a campfire in the center it might have felt like a ghost story.
And in a way, it was.
FOUR
Gabri and Olivier returned to the bistro in time for the lunch hour rush. The place was packed, but all conversation, all activity stopped when the two men entered.
“Well,” demanded Ruth into the silence. “Who kakked?”
That broke the dam and a flood of questions followed.
“Was it someone we know?”
“I heard it was someone from the inn and spa.”
“A woman.”
“Must have been someone from the party. Did Clara know her?”
“Was it a villager?”
“Was it murder?” Ruth demanded.
And while she’d broken the silence, now she created it. All questions stopped and eyes swung from the old poet to the two owners of the bistro.
Gabri turned to Olivier.
“What should we say?”
Olivier shrugged. “Gamache didn’t tell us to be quiet.”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” snapped Ruth, “just tell us. And get me a drink. Better still, get me a drink, then tell us.”
There was a round of debate and Olivier raised his arms. “OK, OK. We’ll tell you what we know.”
And he did.
The body was a woman named Lillian Dyson. That was met with silence, then a small buzz as people compared notes. But there were no shrieks, no sudden faints, no rending of shirts.
No recognition.
She was found in the Morrows’ garden, Olivier confirmed.
Murdered.
There was a long pause after the word.
“Must be something in the water,” muttered Ruth, who paused neither for life nor death. “How was she killed?”
“Broken neck,” said Olivier.
“Who was this Lillian?” someone at the back of the crowded bistro asked.
“Clara seems to know her,” said Olivier. “But she never mentioned her to me.”
He looked over at Gabri, who shook his head.
In doing that he noticed that someone else had slipped in after them and was standing quietly by the door.
Agent Isabelle Lacoste had been watching the whole thing, sent there by Chief Inspector Gamache, who understood that the two men would give away all they knew. And the Chief wanted to know whether someone in the bistro, on hearing it, would then give themselves away.
* * *
“Tell me,” said Gamache.
He was leaning forward in his chair, elbows resting on his knees. One hand held the other lightly. In a new, but necessary, gesture.
Beside him, Inspector Beauvoir had his notebook and pen out.
Clara sat back in the deep wooden chair and held on to the wide warm armrests, as though bracing herself. But instead of hurtling forward, she was plunging backward.
Back through the decades, out the door of their home and out of Three Pines. Back to Montréal. Into art college, into the classes, into the student shows. Clara Morrow slammed backward out of college and into high school, then elementary school. And nursery school.
Before skidding to a stop in front of the little girl with the shining red hair next door.
Lillian Dyson.
“Lillian was my best friend growing up,” said Clara. “She lived next door and was two months older than me. We were inseparable. But were opposites, really. She grew fast and tall and I didn’t. She was smart, clever in school. I kinda plodded along. I was good at some things, but sort of froze up in the classroom. I got nervous. Kids started picking on me early, but Lillian always protected me. Nobody messed with Lillian. She was a tough kid.”
Clara smiled at the memory of Lillian, her orange hair gleaming, staring down a bunch of girls who were being mean to Clara. Daring them. Clara standing behind her. Longing to stand beside her friend, but not having the courage. Not yet.
Lillian, the precious only child.
The precious friend.
Lillian the pretty one, Clara the character.
They were closer than sisters. Kindred spirits,
With Peter’s help two more Adirondack chairs were brought over and the four of them sat in a circle. Had there been a campfire in the center it might have felt like a ghost story.
And in a way, it was.
FOUR
Gabri and Olivier returned to the bistro in time for the lunch hour rush. The place was packed, but all conversation, all activity stopped when the two men entered.
“Well,” demanded Ruth into the silence. “Who kakked?”
That broke the dam and a flood of questions followed.
“Was it someone we know?”
“I heard it was someone from the inn and spa.”
“A woman.”
“Must have been someone from the party. Did Clara know her?”
“Was it a villager?”
“Was it murder?” Ruth demanded.
And while she’d broken the silence, now she created it. All questions stopped and eyes swung from the old poet to the two owners of the bistro.
Gabri turned to Olivier.
“What should we say?”
Olivier shrugged. “Gamache didn’t tell us to be quiet.”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” snapped Ruth, “just tell us. And get me a drink. Better still, get me a drink, then tell us.”
There was a round of debate and Olivier raised his arms. “OK, OK. We’ll tell you what we know.”
And he did.
The body was a woman named Lillian Dyson. That was met with silence, then a small buzz as people compared notes. But there were no shrieks, no sudden faints, no rending of shirts.
No recognition.
She was found in the Morrows’ garden, Olivier confirmed.
Murdered.
There was a long pause after the word.
“Must be something in the water,” muttered Ruth, who paused neither for life nor death. “How was she killed?”
“Broken neck,” said Olivier.
“Who was this Lillian?” someone at the back of the crowded bistro asked.
“Clara seems to know her,” said Olivier. “But she never mentioned her to me.”
He looked over at Gabri, who shook his head.
In doing that he noticed that someone else had slipped in after them and was standing quietly by the door.
Agent Isabelle Lacoste had been watching the whole thing, sent there by Chief Inspector Gamache, who understood that the two men would give away all they knew. And the Chief wanted to know whether someone in the bistro, on hearing it, would then give themselves away.
* * *
“Tell me,” said Gamache.
He was leaning forward in his chair, elbows resting on his knees. One hand held the other lightly. In a new, but necessary, gesture.
Beside him, Inspector Beauvoir had his notebook and pen out.
Clara sat back in the deep wooden chair and held on to the wide warm armrests, as though bracing herself. But instead of hurtling forward, she was plunging backward.
Back through the decades, out the door of their home and out of Three Pines. Back to Montréal. Into art college, into the classes, into the student shows. Clara Morrow slammed backward out of college and into high school, then elementary school. And nursery school.
Before skidding to a stop in front of the little girl with the shining red hair next door.
Lillian Dyson.
“Lillian was my best friend growing up,” said Clara. “She lived next door and was two months older than me. We were inseparable. But were opposites, really. She grew fast and tall and I didn’t. She was smart, clever in school. I kinda plodded along. I was good at some things, but sort of froze up in the classroom. I got nervous. Kids started picking on me early, but Lillian always protected me. Nobody messed with Lillian. She was a tough kid.”
Clara smiled at the memory of Lillian, her orange hair gleaming, staring down a bunch of girls who were being mean to Clara. Daring them. Clara standing behind her. Longing to stand beside her friend, but not having the courage. Not yet.
Lillian, the precious only child.
The precious friend.
Lillian the pretty one, Clara the character.
They were closer than sisters. Kindred spirits,
Similar Books
