“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 Québec knows that. It was Lillian’s finest moment. As a critic, that is. Her pièce de résistance. 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.
“The case,” he lied.
“I see.”
They both looked over to the village green. There wasn’t much activity. Ruth was trying to stone the birds, a few villagers were working in their gardens. One was walking a dog. And the Chief Inspector and some strange woman were walking along the dirt road.
“Who’s she?”
“Someone who knew the dead woman,” said Beauvoir. No need to say too much.
Myrna nodded and took a few plump cashews from the bowl of mixed nuts.
“It’s good to see the Chief Inspector looking so much better. Has he recovered do you think?”
“Of course he has. Long ago.”
“Well, it could hardly be long ago,” she said, reasonably. “Since it only happened just before Christmas.”
Was that all it was, Beauvoir asked himself, amazed. Only six months? It seemed ages ago.
“Well, he’s fine, as am I.”
“Fucked up, insecure, neurotic and egotistical? Ruth’s definition of fine?”
This brought an involuntary smile to his lips. He tried to turn it into a grimace, but couldn’t quite.
“I can’t speak for the Chief, but I think that’s just about right for me.”
Myrna smiled and took a sip of her beer. She followed Beauvoir, who was following Gamache.
“It wasn’t your fault, you know.”
Beauvoir tensed, an involuntary spasm. “What d’you mean?”
“What happened, in the factory. To him. There was nothing you could have done.”
“I know that,” he snapped.
“I wonder if you do. It must’ve been horrible, what you saw.”