“Why do you think I’d know?”
“Because I agree with you. You knew her better than anyone. Better than she knew herself. You knew her secrets, and now you’re going to tell me.”
SEVENTEEN
“Helloooo,” called Clara. “Bonjour.”
She could hear voices, shouts. But they seemed tinny, far away. As though on TV. Then they stopped and there was silence. The place felt empty, though she knew it probably wasn’t.
She advanced a little further into the old railway station, past the shiny red fire truck, past their equipment. Clara saw her own helmet and boots. Everyone in Three Pines was a member of the volunteer fire department. And Ruth Zardo was the chief, since she alone was more terrifying than any conflagration. Given a choice between Ruth and a burning building, most would choose the building.
“Oui, âllo?”
A man’s voice echoed through the large room and Clara, coming around the truck, saw Inspector Beauvoir at a desk looking in her direction.
He smiled and greeted her with a kiss on both cheeks.
“Come, sit. What can I do for you?” he asked.
His manner was cheery, energetic. But Clara had still been shocked to see him at the vernissage, and now. Haggard, tired. Thin even for the always wiry man. Like everyone else, she knew what he’d been through. At least, like everyone else, she knew the words, the story. But Clara realized she didn’t really “know.” Could never know.
“I came for advice,” she said, sitting in the swivel chair beside Beauvoir’s.
“From me?” His surprise was obvious, as was his delight.
“From you.” She saw this and was happy she hadn’t told him the reason she wasn’t asking Gamache was because he wasn’t alone. And Beauvoir was.
“Coffee?” Jean Guy gestured toward a full pot already brewed.
“I’d love one, thanks.”
They got up and poured coffees into chipped white mugs, and each got a couple of Fig Newtons, then sat back down.
“So, what’s the story?” Beauvoir leaned back and looked at her. In a way that was all his own yet reminiscent of Gamache.
It was very comforting, and Clara was glad she’d decided to speak with this young Inspector.
“It’s about Lillian’s parents. Mr. and Mrs. Dyson. I knew them, you know. Quite well at one stage. I was wondering if they’re still alive.”
“They are. We went to see them yesterday. To tell them about their daughter.”
Clara paused, trying to imagine what that was like, for both parties.
“It must have been horrible. They adored her. She was their only child.”
“It’s always horrible,” admitted Beauvoir.
“I liked them a lot. Even when Lillian and I fell out I tried to keep in touch but they weren’t interested. They believed what Lillian told them about me. It’s understandable, I guess.” She sounded, though, less than convinced.
Beauvoir said nothing, but remembered the venom in Mr. Dyson’s voice when he all but accused Clara of their daughter’s murder.
“I was thinking of visiting them,” said Clara. “Of telling them how sorry I am. What is it?”
The look on Beauvoir’s face had stopped her.
“I wouldn’t do that,” he said, putting his mug down and leaning forward. “They’re very upset. I think a visit from you wouldn’t help.”
“But why? I know they believed the terrible things Lillian said, but maybe my going could ease some of that. Lillian and I were best friends growing up, don’t you think they’d like to talk about her with someone who loved her?” Clara paused. “Once.”
“Maybe, eventually. But not now. Give them time.”
It was, more or less, the advice Myrna had given her. Clara had gone to the bookstore for ribbon and the dried sage and sweetgrass cigar. But she’d also gone for advice. Should she drive into Montréal to visit the Dysons?
When Myrna had asked why she’d want to do such a thing, Clara had explained.
“They’re old and alone,” Clara had said, shocked her friend needed to be told. “This is the worst thing that could happen. I just want to offer them some comfort. Believe me, the last thing I want to do is drive in to Montréal and do this, but it just seems the right thing to do. To put all the hard feelings behind.”
The ribbon was twisted tight around Clara’s fingers, strangling them.
“For you, maybe,” Myrna had said. “But what about them?”
“How do you know they haven’t let all that go?” Clara unwound the ribbon, then fidgeted with it. Winding it. Worrying it. “Maybe they’re sitting there all alone, devastated. And I’m not going because I’m afraid?”