The Long Way Home (18 page)

“How could I have missed it, Armand?” She turned to him, then back to the painting.

“I missed it too. It was Jean-Guy who found them.”

“
Merci
,” she said to her son-in-law, who bowed slightly in acknowledgment. She wondered if he realized that was one of Armand’s mannerisms.

While Reine-Marie turned back to the painting, Gamache turned his attention to the other two canvases on the floor. Clara was staring down at them.

“Anything?” he asked.

She shook her head, then leaned closer to the paintings. Then stepped back.

Was there something in those pictures like the lips? An image, an emotion Peter had embedded there, waiting to be discovered, like a country or planet or strange new species.

If there was, neither Gamache nor Clara could see it.

Gamache sensed eyes on him and assumed they were Beauvoir’s, but the younger man was busy making sandwiches in the kitchen.

Reine-Marie was still smiling down at the lip painting. Clara was examining the other two canvases.

And Myrna was examining him.

She led him away from the others.

“Is this too much, Armand?”

“What do you mean?”

She gave him a shrewd look and he grinned.

“You noticed the little exchange with Beauvoir.”

“I did.” She studied him for a moment. “Clara would understand if you told her you needed to stop.”

“Stop?” He looked at her with astonishment. “Why would I do that?”

“Why did you snap at Beauvoir just now?”

“He was standing on a chair. An old pine chair. It could’ve broken.”

“‘It’ could’ve broken?”

“Oh, come on.” Gamache laughed. “Don’t you think you’re reading more into this than it deserves? I was momentarily angry with Jean-Guy and showed it.
Point final.
No big deal. Drop it.”

His voice, on the last two words, had hardened. And his eyes contained a warning.
Do not cross this line.

“Life is made up of ‘no big deals,’” said Myrna, crossing the line. “You know that. Isn’t that what you say about murders? They’re rarely provoked by one huge event, but by a series of tiny, almost invisible, events. No big deals, that combine to create a catastrophe.”

“What’s your point?” His eyes hadn’t wavered.

“You know my point. I’d be a fool to ignore what just happened. And so would you. It was, on the surface, a small thing. He got up on a chair, you chastised him. He got off. And if I didn’t know you, didn’t know what had happened, I would’ve thought nothing of it. But I do know you. And I know Jean-Guy. And I know that ‘broken’ means more to you, and him, than to most people.”

They stared at each other, Gamache not relenting. Not accepting that Myrna could be right.

“It’s just a chair,” he said, his voice low but not soft.

Myrna nodded. “But it’s not just a man. It’s Jean-Guy.”

“If the chair had broken he wouldn’t have been hurt,” said Gamache. “He was a foot and a half off the ground.”

“I know that. You know that,” said Myrna. “But it’s no longer a matter of knowing, is it? If life was purely rational there’d be fewer wars, or poverty, or crime. Or murders. Fewer things would be broken. Your reaction wasn’t rational, Armand.”

Gamache was silent.

She looked at him closely. “Is this too much?”

“Too much? Do you have any idea what I’ve seen? And done?”

“I have an idea,” she said.

“I don’t think you have.” He stared at her and a wave of images washed over Myrna. Of mangled bodies. Of glassy eyes. Of harrowing scenes. Of the very worst one person can do to another.

And it had been his job to follow the bloody trail. Into the cave. To face whatever was in there.

And then to do it again. And again.

The miracle wasn’t that the killer was caught, but that the man before her had kept his own humanity throughout it all. Even after he himself had been dragged into the cave. And so deeply hurt.

And now he was offering to get up and help once again.

And she was offering to give him a pass. But he wasn’t taking it.

“I’m not that fragile, you know,” said Gamache. “Besides, this is simply a missing person, not a murder. Easy.”

He tried to sound relaxed and managed to sound simply weary.

“Are you so sure?” she asked.

“That it’s not a murder?” he asked. “Or that it’s easy?”

“Both.”

“No,” he admitted. “And you’re right about one thing. I’d rather stay here in Three Pines. Sleep in, enjoy a lemonade at the bistro, or garden—”

He held up his hand to stop her from commenting on his so-called gardening.

“I’d love to only do what Reine-Marie and I want.”

As he spoke, Myrna could feel the depth of his longing.

“Sometimes there’s no choice,” he said softly.

“There is a choice, Armand. There’s always a choice.”

“Are you so sure?”

“Are you saying that you can’t refuse to help Clara?”

“I’m saying that sometimes refusing does more damage.”

He let that sit there between them.

“Why did you help me, months ago?” he asked. “You knew the danger. You knew to help could bring terrible consequences to you, to the village. In fact, it almost certainly would. But still you did it.”

“You know why.”

“Why?”

“Because my life and this village would lose all meaning, if we turned our backs.”

He smiled. “
C’est ça.
The same for me now. What’s the use of healing, if the life that’s saved is callow and selfish and ruled by fear? There’s a difference between being in sanctuary and being in hiding.”

“So you have to leave sanctuary in order to have it?” she asked.

“You did,” he said.

She watched him walk back across the kitchen. The limp barely noticeable anymore. The tremble in his right hand all but gone.

Gamache joined Clara and Reine-Marie.

“Anything?”

But he could tell by their expressions they’d found nothing else in the paintings.

“Doesn’t mean there isn’t something there…” Clara’s voice trailed off.

The odd thing was, Gamache realized as he stared at the other two canvases on the floor, that while there was no overt image that evoked a feeling, he actually did feel something as he looked at them.

They were, as far as he could tell, simply tangles of clashing paint.

Why had Peter sent these as well as the joyous lip painting? What did Peter see in them that escaped Gamache? And escaped Clara? Escaped them all?

What was escaping from these paintings, undetected?

“Jean-Guy?” Gamache called, and the younger man put down the bread knife and joined him.

“
Oui?
”

“Can you help me?”

Gamache picked one of the canvases off the floor.

“Clara, can we put this up on the wall?”

Jean-Guy held one corner, Gamache the other, while Clara nailed it into place. Then they nailed the others. Three crimes against art, nailed to the wall.

Once again, they all stepped back to better consider the paintings.

Then they stepped back again. Considered. Stepped. Considered. Like a very, very slow retreat. Or a dirge.

They stopped when their backs hit the far wall. Distance and perspective had not improved the paintings.

“Well, I’m hungry.”

Beauvoir walked over to the kitchen island and picked up the platter of sandwiches he’d made. Myrna got the pitcher of lemonade she’d refilled, and together they made for the garden door, drawing the others to them. Away from the paintings and into the warm summer day.

*   *   *

Flies rested on Clara’s ham sandwich. She didn’t bat them away. They could have it.

She wasn’t hungry. Her stomach was upset. Not nauseous exactly. Nothing she’d eaten. More like something she’d seen.

Those paintings were upsetting her. As her friends ate and talked, she thought about the pictures.

When she’d first seen them, in Bean’s bedroom, she’d been amused. Especially by the lips. But seeing them in her own home had made her queasy. It was a sort of seasickness. The horizon was no longer steady. Some shift, some upheaval, had occurred.

Was she jealous? Was that possible? Was she worried that these paintings by Peter really did signal an important departure for him as an artist? While laughable right now, might they actually lead to genius? And at the pointy end of that thought, another thought perched. A genius greater than hers?

After feeling quietly smug about Peter and his petty jealousy, was she no better? Worse, in fact? Jealous and hypocritical and judgmental. Oh, my.

But there was more. Somewhere else her thoughts were leading. Something else was running for cover.

Her friends were in an animated discussion about the paintings and why Peter had mailed them to Bean.

“I asked that an hour ago,” Jean-Guy protested. “And no one listened. Myrna asks it now and suddenly it’s a brilliant question?”

“The cruel fate of the avant-garde,
mon beau
,” said Reine-Marie, then turned back to Myrna.

“So what do you think?”

As they discussed it, Clara held her lemonade, the glass slippery with condensation, and examined her feelings.

“Clara?”

“Huh?”

She looked at Myrna, who was smiling at her in obvious amusement.

“Where’d you go?” Myrna asked.

“Oh, just enjoying the garden. Wondering if I should put up more sweet pea on that trellis.”

Myrna now looked at Clara with less amusement. Like most people, Myrna Landers did not like being lied to. But unlike most people, she was willing to call them on it.

“What were you really thinking?”

Clara took a deep, deep breath. “I was thinking about Peter’s paintings and how they made me feel.”

“And how was that?” Reine-Marie asked.

Clara looked at the faces watching her.

“Unsettled,” she said. “I think the paintings frightened me a little.”

“Why?” asked Gamache.

“Because I think I know why he mailed them to Bean.”

They leaned toward her.

“Why?” Beauvoir asked.

“What makes Bean different from most other people?” Clara asked.

“Well, we don’t know if he’s a girl—” said Reine-Marie.

“—or she’s a boy,” said Gamache.

“Bean’s a child,” said Beauvoir.

“True,” said Clara. “All true. But there’s something else that distinguishes Bean.”

“Bean’s different,” said Myrna. “In the Morrow family where everyone’s expected to conform, Bean doesn’t. Peter probably identifies with that. Might even want to reward that.”

“And sending those awful paintings is a reward?” asked Beauvoir.

“Of sorts,” said Myrna. “The act is often more important than the actual object.”

“Tell that to a kid who gets socks for Christmas,” said Beauvoir.

“Ask a child who gets a gold star in their workbook,” said Myrna. “The sticker is useless, but the act is priceless. Symbols are powerful, especially for kids. Why do you think they want trophies and badges? Not because they can play with them, or buy things with them, but because of what they mean.”

“Approval,” agreed Reine-Marie.

“Right,” said Myrna. “And Uncle Peter sending Bean the paintings made Bean feel special. I think Peter identifies with Bean, sympathizes with the child, and wanted to let Bean know it’s okay to be different.”

Myrna looked at Clara, waiting for her approval. Waiting for the gold star.

“That could be the reason,” said Clara. “But I actually think it’s far simpler than that.”

“Like what?” asked Beauvoir.

“I think Peter knew that Bean could keep a secret.”

Bean had kept the secret of his or her own sex. The pressure to tell must have been enormous, but Bean had told no one. Not family. Not schoolmates. Not teachers. No one.

“Peter knew the paintings would be safe with Bean,” said Reine-Marie.

“But if they’re secret, why didn’t he keep them himself?” Jean-Guy asked. “Wouldn’t they be safest with him?”

“Maybe he believed he wasn’t safe,” said Gamache. “That’s what you’re thinking, isn’t it?”

Clara nodded. That was the feeling in the pit of her stomach. Peter needed to keep these paintings secret.

She looked toward her house.

But what was hidden in those odd paintings? What did they reveal?

EIGHTEEN

“
A poem begins as a lump in the throat
,” said Armand Gamache as he took a seat on one of Ruth’s white preformed chairs.

“You make it sound like a fur ball,” said Ruth. She slopped Scotch into a glass, not offering him any. “Something horked up. My poems are finely honed, each fucking word carefully chosen.”

Rosa was asleep in her nest of blankets beside Ruth’s chair, though Gamache thought he noticed the duck’s eyes open a slit. Watching him.

It would have been unnerving if he didn’t keep reminding himself it was just a duck. Just a duck. An unnerving duck.

“Well, you’re the one who said it.” Gamache tore his eyes from the watch duck.

“Did I?”

“You did.”

Ruth’s kitchen was filled with found objects, including the plastic chairs and table. Including the Scotch bottle, found in Gabri’s liquor cabinet. Including Rosa. Found as an egg, Gamache knew. Ruth had spotted the nest by the pond on the village green one Easter morning and had touched the two eggs inside. The touch had tainted them, and the eggs had been abandoned by their mother. So Ruth took them home. Everyone had naturally assumed she’d meant to make an omelet. But instead the old poet had done something unnatural, for her. She’d made a tiny incubator out of flannel, and warmed the eggs in the oven. She’d turned them, watched them, stayed up late into the night in case they started to hatch and needed her. Ruth paid her Hydro-Québec bill, to make sure her power wasn’t cut off. She paid it with money she’d found at Clara’s.

She prayed.

Rosa had hatched on her own but her sister, Flora, had fought to get out. So Ruth had helped. Peeling back the shell. Cracking it further.

And there, inside, was Flora. Looking up into those weary, wary old eyes.

Flora and Rosa had bonded with Ruth. And Ruth had bonded with them.