Chapter 3 third chapter

The next morning, Clara got up early.She put on rubber boots and a sweater over her pajamas, poured herself a cup of coffee, and sat down on an outdoor sofa chair in the back garden. The caterer has cleared the gardens and there is now nothing left of last night's big barbecue and dance. She closed her eyes, feeling the early summer sun shining on her upturned face.She heard birdsong and the sound of the Bella River rushing behind the garden.On the peony flowers, the wasps were busy crawling in and out, lost their way, and buzzed. Clara held the warm cup in her hand, smelling the aroma of coffee and freshly cut grass.Lilacs, peonies, and first-scented roses.

This is the village where Clara lived since childhood.A thin wooden door leads to her bedroom.Outside the door, her parents were arguing.The brothers ignored her.The phone rang, but it wasn't for her.People looked past her to others.They're better looking than she is, or funnier.People talked and ignored her; or interrupted her as if she wasn't talking. But when she was a child, Clara always closed her eyes and pulled the sheet over her head, and she could see a beautiful little village in the valley.There are forests, flowers, and kind people. There, clumsiness is a virtue. Ever since she could remember, she has always wanted something, even more desirable than a solo exhibition.Not wealth, not power, not even love.

Clara Moreau wants to belong.And now, at nearly 50, she does. Was this exhibition a mistake?With this exhibition, did she isolate herself from others? Sitting there, the scenes of last night appeared in front of her eyes.Her friends, other painters.And Olivier made eye contact with her, then nodded affirmatively.The excitement when meeting art dealers such as Andre Castongui.The curator's happy face.BBQ party after returning to the village.The food, the drink, the fireworks, the bands, the dancing and the laughing. relief. But now, in broad daylight, that anxiety was back.It wasn't a storm, but it was like a mist that blocked the sun.

Clara knew why. Peter and Olivier went to buy newspapers.They would bring back the text she had waited her entire life to read.Comment.The text of the critics. wonderful.have a vision.masterpiece. boring.Lack of creativity.Nothing new. Which will it be? Clara sat there, sipping coffee, trying not to think about it, trying not to pay attention to the elongated shadow, slowly crawling to her feet as time passed. The car door slammed shut, and Clara twitched in her chair, as if waking up from a dream. "Let's go home—here," hummed Peter. She heard footsteps from the other side of the house.She stood up, ready to meet Peter and Olivier.But the two did not come towards her, they stopped, as if suddenly transformed into sculptures in the garden.

They were not looking at her, but at a flower bed. "What's wrong?" Clara asked, speeding up towards them, and found that their expressions were not right, "What happened?" Peter turned away, dropped the newspaper on the grass, and kept her away. "Call the police!" cried Olivier, moving forward to look towards the flower beds.There are perennial peonies, purslane and poppies. And something else. Inspector Garmash straightened up and sighed. There is no doubt that this is a murder. The neck of the woman at his feet was wrung out.Had she been lying under a flight of stairs he might have thought it an accident; but now she was lying on her back in the soft grass by the flower-bed.

The woman's eyes were open, staring straight at the morning sun. Garmash even thought she should blink. He looked around the delightful garden.He was so familiar with this place, how many times he stood here with Peter, Clara and other friends, holding a beer glass, accompanied by barbecue coals, chatting from north to south. But not today. Peter and Clara, Olivier and Gabriel, were all standing by the river, watching.Between Gamash and them was yellow police tape, the dividing line.On one side is the investigator and on the other side is the subject of the investigation. "White female," said the coroner, Dr. Harris.She crouched beside the victim, as did Detective Isabelle Lacoste.Beauvoir is directing the crime scene team of the Quebec Police Service.The police officers inspected the scene in an orderly manner, collected clues, took pictures, and carefully worked on all the details.

"Middle-aged." The forensic doctor continued calmly and with certainty. Garmash listened carefully, and the information unfolded in front of him bit by bit.He understands the power of facts better than anyone, but he also knows that almost no murderer can easily show up in the facts. "Blonde dyed hair, gray roots just growing in. Slightly overweight. No ring on ring finger." Facts are necessary.They point the way and help people build thinking networks.But tracking the murderer depends not only on facts, but also on feelings.It is some malevolent emotion that turns a man into a murderer.

"The neck was broken at the second vertebra." Inspector Gamache listened and watched.Familiar process, but still scary. It never ceased to shock him that one man's life was taken by another.Even though he has been in charge of the criminal investigation of the Quebec Police Department for so many years, after experiencing so many murders and meeting so many murderers. He still marvels at a man taking another's life. Peter Morrow stared at the red shoes protruding from behind the flower bed.They were worn on the feet of the dead woman.The corpse was lying on the lawn of his house at this time.He couldn't see the body now because it was hidden by tall flowers; but he could see the feet.He looked away, trying to divert his attention.Garmash and a group of police officers were bending over and talking in low voices, as if they were praying together.

Peter noticed that Garmash never took notes.He listened, nodded respectfully, and asked a few thoughtful questions here and there.He left the taking of notes to others.This time, it was Agent Lacoste. Peter tried to look away, to appreciate the beauty of the garden. But every now and then his eyes were drawn back to the corpse in the garden. While Peter was staring at the body, Inspector Garmash suddenly turned sharply and looked at him.Peter immediately lowered his eyes instinctively, as if he had done something shameful. He immediately regretted it, and looked up again.But by this time the Inspector was no longer looking him in the eyes, and actually walked towards them.

Peter considered walking away, in a more natural way, as if he heard a deer running in the forest on the other side of the Bella River. He moved his foot and stopped again. He doesn't need to hide, he told himself.He did nothing wrong.It was of course natural to look at those police officers. Is not it? But Peter Morrow, who was usually very confident, felt the ground shaking under his feet.He didn't know what to do to look natural, where to place his hands, where to look.He didn't even feel the presence of his wife beside him. "Clara." Inspector Garmash greeted, extended his hand to Clara, and kissed her on both cheeks.If the other officers wondered how the detective could kiss the suspect, they didn't show it.Obviously, Garmash didn't care either.

He walked into the crowd, shook hands with each of them, and finally came to Olivier, obviously wanting to be seen by the other party.Garmash held out his hand, and everyone was watching.At that moment people seemed to forget about the body. Olivier shook Garmache's hand without hesitation, but did not meet his gaze. Detective Inspector Garmash smiled across the room, almost apologetically, as if the dead body was his fault.Is this how terrible things happen?Peter thought.No thunder, no screams, no sirens, but a smile?Terrible things have come, but wrapped in graceful manners and civility. But the horrible thing had come and gone, leaving a corpse behind. "How are you?" Garmash asked, looking back at Clara. It wasn't a casual question, he seemed genuinely concerned. Peter felt relieved, as if the body had finally been lifted from his shoulders and given to this strong man. Clara shook her head, "Shocked." She glanced behind her, "Who is she?" "you do not know?" He looked from Clara to Peter, then to Gabriel, and finally to Olivier, and everyone shook their heads. "Isn't she a guest at the party?" "Supposedly?" Clara said, "but I didn't invite her." "Who is she?" Gabriel asked. "Did you see her just now?" Garmash continued to ask, not ready to answer his question. They nodded. "After I called the police station, I went back to the garden and wanted to have a look," Clara said. "why?" "I need to know if I know her, to see if she's a friend or neighbor." "No," Gabriel said. "I was preparing breakfast for our guests at our B&B when Olivier called to tell me something had happened." "And you came here?" asked Garmache. "Don't you know?" The big man asked back. "I'm a criminal detective," said Garmache. "I've got to come anyway. You don't have to." "I'm a nosy fellow," Gabriel replied. "I've got to come anyway. Like Clara, I've got to see if we know her." "Did you tell anyone?" asked Garmache. "Has anyone visited the garden?" Everyone shook their heads. "So you all looked carefully, but no one recognized who she was?" "Who is she?" Clara asked again. "We don't know," Garmash admitted. "She fell on top of her handbag. Dr. Harris doesn't want to move her just yet. We'll find out soon." Gabriel hesitated a little, and turned to Olivier, "Don't you feel anything when you see her?" Olivier was silent, but Peter spoke. "Witch?" "Peter," Clara said at once, "this woman has been murdered, and it's in our garden. It's not kind of you to say that." "I'm sorry," Peter said, also shocked at how he reacted, "but she does look like the Witch of the West, with the red shoes sticking out like that." "We didn't say she was a witch," Gabriel said hastily, "but you can't deny that she doesn't look like she's from Kansas." Clara rolled her eyes, shook her head and muttered, "God." But Garmash had to admit that he and the officers had said the same thing.Not that the woman reminded them of a witch, but that she was clearly not dressed for a country barbecue. "I didn't see her last night," said Peter. "If we see it, we will definitely remember it." Olivier finally said, "It's hard not to pay attention to her." Garmash nodded in agreement.This woman absolutely dominates the crowd in her dazzling bright red dress, and everything about her screams "Look at me!" He looked back at her, searching for memories.Had he seen anyone in a bright red dress that night at the museum?Maybe she came straight from there, like a lot of the guests?But he couldn't remember.Most of the women, with the notable exception of Myrna, were dressed in muted colors. Then he had an idea. "I'm sorry." He said quickly across the grass, exchanged briefly with Beauvoir, and then slowly turned back, thinking. "I've just read the report, but I still want to hear from you how you found her." "Peter and Olivier spotted her first," Clara said, "I was sitting in that chair." She pointed to one of the two yellow outdoor sofa chairs over there, a coffee mug Still on the wooden rail, "The men have gone to Knowlton to get their papers, and I'm waiting for them." "Why?" asked the Inspector. "I want to read the comments." "Ah, yes. That explains why..." He waved to the pile of newspapers lying in yellow police tape on the grass. Clara also looked at the newspaper.She wished she could say she was so shocked by this that she had completely forgotten about reading the comments, but she couldn't. The New York Times, the Globe and Mail in Toronto, and the Times in London, all stacked by Peter on the grass. She can't reach it. Gamash looked at Clara, a little puzzled, "If you are so anxious to see it, why don't you just go online? It should be available online a few hours in advance, isn't it?" Peter asked her the exact same question, and Olivier.How to explain it? “Because I love the way the newspaper feels in my hand,” she says, “I want to read reviews about myself the same way I read reviews of all the artists I love. Hold the paper, smell the ink, and turn the pages.” I've been dreaming of this moment all my life, and it seemed worth waiting an extra hour for it." "So you were alone in the garden for about an hour this morning?" Clara nodded. "From what time to what time?" asked Garmache. "From 7:30 in the morning to 8:30 when they came back." Clara looked at Peter. "Yes." Peter agreed. "Then what did you see when you came back?" Gamache turned to Peter and Olivier. "After we got out of the car, we knew that Clara was in the garden, so we decided to go directly there." Peter pointed to the corner of the house.There was an old lilac tree with some of the last flowers of late spring and early summer on its branches. "I followed Peter, and suddenly he stopped," Olivier continued. "Just as we were rounding the house, I saw something red on the ground," Peter continued. "At the time I thought it was a fallen poppy. But it was huge, so I slowed down and took a closer look. In the past. That's when I found out it was a woman." "Then what did you do?" "I thought one of the guests must have had too much to drink and passed out," said Peter, "and slept in our garden. But I saw her eyes were open, and then her head—" He tilted his head, but obviously he couldn't do that angle.No living person can do it, only the dead. "And you?" Garmache asked Olivier. "I told Clara to call the police," he said, "and then I called Gabriel." "You mean you have guests?" asked Garmash. "Party guests?" Gabriel nodded, "A couple of painters from Montreal decided to stay at our B&B hotel, and a few others stayed at the hot spring hotel." "Is this all a temporary order?" "It's like that at our B&B. They sometimes make reservations on the spur of the moment at parties." Gamache nodded, turned and beckoned Isabelle Lacoste to come.She listened to the detective's whispered instructions, and walked away quickly.She said something to the two young officers, who nodded and left. Clara had always been interested in how Garmash gave orders with ease, and how his subordinates accepted orders calmly.Never shouted, never harsh; never calm, even polite.His orders were expressed almost in the form of requests, but no one misunderstood them. Garmash turned around and focused his attention on the four friends again, "Has any of you moved the corpse?" They looked at each other, shook their heads, and then looked at the Inspector. "No." Peter said firmly.He felt the ground firm now, filled with facts below.Straightforward questions with clear and affirmative answers. Nothing to be afraid of. "You don't mind?" Garmash walked towards the outdoor sofa chair.Even if they mind, it won't matter. "Didn't you notice anything odd when you were sitting here waiting by yourself before they came back?" he asked as they walked.It was obvious that Clara would have said something if she had noticed a dead body in the garden.But it wasn't just about the body that he wanted to know.This is Clara's own garden, she is very familiar with it, very familiar.Maybe something else was wrong, like a plant that was snapped off, a bush that was messed up somewhere. Perhaps the officers overlooked some detail.The details were probably so subtle that Clara didn't notice until he asked her directly. True, she didn't give a smart answer. But Gabriel was smart once, "Like a corpse?" "No," said the Inspector.A group of people came to the chair.He turned and looked at the garden from that angle.That's right, the woman's body was hidden from view by the flower bed at that angle. "I meant something else." He looked at Clara thoughtfully. "Is there anything unusual in the garden this morning?" He glanced at Gabriel as a warning, and Gabriel raised a finger to cover his mouth, "Like something small? A small detail?" Clara looked around.There are some flower beds on the lawn behind the house, some are round and some are rectangular.The tall trees along the river cast dappled shadows, but the lawn was mostly exposed to the bright midday sun.Clara scanned the garden, and the others looked around too. What's wrong?It's hard to say now, with so many people, these newspapers, this event, yellow tape.newspaper.corpse.newspaper. Everything is different from usual. She looked back at Garmash with a cry for help. Garmash didn't want to help her, didn't want to prompt her, maybe that would cause her to see things that weren't really there. "The murderer may have been hiding here," he said at last, "waiting." Garmash didn't say anything anymore, it could be seen that Clara had already understood.She turned to face the garden.Had a murderer been hiding here?In her private sanctuary? He once hid in the flower bed?Crouching behind tall peony bushes?He peeked out behind a mailbox covered in morning glories?He knelt behind a flourishing phlox? waiting? She looked at every plant, every bush, hoping to see something knocked off, something crooked again.A broken branch?A broken bud? But everything is perfect.Myrna and Gabriel have had a busy few days tending the garden and keeping it neat and tidy for the party.It was neat indeed, last night and this morning. In addition to the police officers who were lying on the grass like vermin at this time, there was also the brightly colored corpse.What a shame. "Did you see anything?" she asked Gabriel. "No," he replied, "if the murderer is hiding here, it shouldn't be in a flower bed. Maybe behind a tree?" He pointed to the maples, but Gamache shook his head. "That's too far. It takes a long time to get across the grass and get to the flower bed. Then she can see him coming." "And where is he hiding?" asked Olivier. "He didn't hide it," said Garmash, sitting down on the sofa.From this angle, the body is still not visible.No, Clara couldn't see the dead woman. The detective straightened up, "He didn't hide, he was waiting in the bright place." "And she went straight up to him?" Peter asked. "She knew him?" "Or he walked towards her," added Garmache. "Either way, she wasn't frightened or frightened." "What is she doing in the backyard?" Clara said. "The barbecue party is over there." She pointed to the far side of the house. put it in front of the house." "But are people free to come into the backyard if they want?" Garmash asked, trying to picture the scene in his mind. "Of course," Olivier replied, "if they want to. There's no fence or rope here, but it's not necessary." "Well—" Clara said. Everyone turned to her. "Well, I didn't come here yesterday. But I've done things like this at other parties, just to get quiet for a few minutes, you know?" To everyone's surprise, Gabriel nodded, "Sometimes I do the same, just want to be quiet and away from the crowd." "What about last night?" asked Garmash. Gabriel shook his head, "There were too many things to do last night. Although we have a catering contractor, you still have to supervise it." "Then it's possible that this woman wants to stay here for a while," Gamash speculated, "she may not know that this is your home." He looked at Clara and Peter, "She just wanted to choose a quiet place , away from the crowd." They were silent for a moment, imagining the woman in the bright red "Look at Me" dress, slinking to the side of the old brick building, away from the music, the fireworks, and the gaze. To find a moment of peace and quiet. "She doesn't seem like the shy type," Gabriel said. "Neither are you." Gamache smiled, looking at the garden. There was a question, several questions in fact, but what puzzled the Inspector the most at the moment was that none of the four people around him had ever seen this woman alive at a party. "Hi there." Beauvoir came over.Gabriel smiled and held out his hand as he approached. "I was thinking you were a disaster," Gabriel said. "Every time you come to Three Pines, there's always a dead body here." "I'm also wondering, did you get these corpses just to let me accompany you?" Beauvoir countered.He shook Gabriel's hand warmly, and then took Olivier's. They met yesterday at the preview, only then in the gallery Peter and Clara were the hosts; now at the crime scene Beauvoir is the protagonist. Art frightened him.But pinning a photo of a dead body to the wall, he can look at himself.Or, as it is today, dead bodies in gardens.This he can understand.It's simple, it's always been simple. Someone hated the victim so much that he killed her. His job is to find that person and put him in a cage. There is nothing subjective here.There is no question of good or bad, nor of perspective or detail.There is nothing to cover.There is nothing to understand.This is the case. Gather facts.Sort in the correct order.Find the murderer. Of course, things, while simple and clear, are not always easy. However, at any time, he would choose to solve a murder case instead of going to an art exhibition. Still, like anyone here today, he suspected that the murder and the painting exhibition were one and the same, closely intertwined. The thought frustrates him. "Here is the photo you want." Beauvoir handed the inspector a photo.Garmash studied it carefully. "Thank you, great." He looked up, and the four people around him were staring at him, "I want you to see the photo of the deceased." "But we've seen her," Gabriel said. "I doubt it. When I asked you if you had seen this woman at the party, you all said that she was wearing that red dress and it was difficult not to be noticed. I thought so too. When I tried When thinking about seeing her at the preview yesterday, Clara, I was actually thinking about the woman in the bright red dress. My attention was on her clothes, not on her.” "So?" Gabriel asked. "So," replied Garmash, "let's say the red dress was just changed. She might have been at the preview, just dressed a little more conservatively. She might have even been here—" "And a red dress between parties?" Peter asked, looking in disbelief. "Who would do that?" "Who's going to kill her?" asked Garmash. "Why would a stranger show up at a party? There are all kinds of questions. I'm not saying it's the answer, it's just a possibility. You all All her attention was on her dress, but she didn't really pay attention to her face." He holds up the photo. "This is what she looks like." He handed the photo to Clara first.The woman's eyes are closed, and she appears calm, or lifeless.Even in a state of sleep, a human face should have some kind of life.This, is an expressionless face, completely blank, devoid of any thought or emotion. Clara shook her head and handed the photo to Peter.The photo was passed among the four people, and everyone had the same reaction. Nothing was found. "The coroner is going to remove the body," Beauvoir said. Gamash nodded and put the photo in his pocket.He knew that Beauvoir, Lacoste, and the other officers had one.Everyone went to the corpse. Two assistants stood by the stretcher, preparing to lift the woman into a waiting van.The photographer is also waiting.Everyone looked at Inspector Garmash together, waiting for him to give orders. "Do you know how long she was dead?" Beauvoir asked the coroner.She was standing up, ready to move the dead man's stiff legs. "About twelve to fifteen hours," Dr. Harris replied. Garmash glanced at his watch and calculated.It's 11:30 am on Sunday.That means she was alive at 8:30 last night and was dead by midnight.She didn't see the sun on Sunday. "There are no obvious signs of sexual assault. In fact, except for the broken neck, other parts have not been violated at all." Dr. Harris said, "Death should be an instant thing, without struggle. I suspect the murderer is standing behind her , directly broke her neck." "So simple, Dr. Harris?" asked the Inspector. "I'm afraid so, especially if the victim wasn't tense at the time. If she was relaxed, not vigilant, there was no resistance. Just a twist, a click." "But do most people know how to wring other people's necks?" Lacoste asked, flicking his slacks.Like most Quebecers, she was petite.Even in her country-appropriate outfits, she strives to maintain a casual elegance. "It didn't take much force," Dr. Harris said, "just a twist. But the murderer probably had a backup plan, to strangle her if it didn't break." "You're talking like a business plan," Lacoste said. "It's possible," said the coroner. "Indifferent, rational. Breaking a man's neck may not be very strenuous physically, but believe me, it will be emotionally difficult. That's why most people are killed." Either by being shot, or by being clubbed to the head, or by being cut with a knife. But you do it with your hands? Not in a fight but in a deliberate, cold-blooded action? No." Dr. Harris turned to look Touching the female corpse, "Only very special people can do this." "What do you mean by 'very special'?" asked Gamash. "You see what I mean, Inspector." "But I want to know more exactly." "The murderer either doesn't care at all, he should be a lunatic. Or he cares very much, he wants to do this thing with his own hands—to take her life with his own hands." Dr. Harris stared at Garmash, who nodded. "thanks." He glanced at the coroner's assistants, gestured, and they carried the body onto the stretcher.A piece of cloth was covered on the body of the female corpse, and she was carried away, never to see the sun again. Photographers began taking pictures, and the forensics team continued to work, collecting evidence from beneath the body, including her handbag.The contents were carefully sorted, inspected, photographed, embossed and sent to Beauvoir. Lipstick, foundation, Kleenex, car keys, house keys, and a wallet. Beauvoir opened the wallet, looked at the driver's license inside, and handed it to the inspector. "It has the name, the inspector, and the address." Garmash glanced at the driver's license, then at the four villagers who were looking at him at this moment.He walked across the lawn towards them. "We already know the name of the deceased," Garmash reconfirmed the driver's license, "Lillian Dyson." "What?" Clara exclaimed. "Lillian Dyson?" Garmash turned to her. "You know her?" Clara looked at Garmash in disbelief, looking across the garden, across the meandering Bella River, to the woods. "Of course I don't." She murmured. "Who is she?" Gabriel asked.But Clara seemed to be in a trance, looking at the woods with blurred eyes. "Can I see her picture?" she finally asked. Garmash handed her the driver's license.This is obviously not the most beautiful photo of the deceased, but it is undoubtedly much better than the one taken this morning.Clara studied it carefully, took a deep breath, held it for a moment, and then let it out. "It should be her, the hair is different, blond, much older, fatter, but it should be her." "Who is she?" Gabriel asked again. "Lillian Dyson, of course," Olivier replied. "I know." Gabriel turned to his partner, "but who is she?" "Lillian is—" Peter stopped because Garmash raised his hand.It's not a threat, it's an instruction to keep him from talking.Peter did. "I need to hear what Clara has to say first," said the inspector. "Shall we talk in private?" Clara thought for a while, then nodded. "What? Without us?" Gabriel asked. "Sorry, Gabriel dear," Clara said, "I wanted to tell them in private." Gabriel looked hurt, but had to take it.The two men left around the corner of the house. Gamache and Lacoste looked at each other, nodded, and looked at the two outdoor sofa chairs in front of them, "Can we find two more chairs?" With Peter's help, two other chairs were brought over, and the four of them sat in a circle.If there was another bonfire in the center, they would be telling ghost stories. In a sense, yes.