Chapter 4 Chapter Four

Gabriel and Olivier were back at the bistro in time for lunch.The inside was full of people, and everyone was talking. As soon as the two stepped through the door, the room immediately fell silent. "Okay," Ruth broke the deadlock, "stop pretending." Like a dam breaking, a flood of problems pours out. "Do we know this man?" "I heard it's someone who lives in a hot spring hotel." "It's a woman." "It must be someone from the party. Does Clara know her?" "Is it from our town?" "Is it a murder?" Ruth asked.

It was Ruth who had broken the silence, and now she was making it again.Everyone stopped talking, and their eyes turned from the old poet to the two owners of the tavern. Gabriel looked at Olivier. "What shall we say?" Olivier shrugged, "Gamache didn't tell us to keep it a secret." "Oh, fuck it," Ruth snapped, "just tell us. Get me another drink, or better get me a drink first and then we'll have a good talk." Everyone chirped again.Olivier raised his hand. "Okay, okay, we'll tell you what we know." He did. The deceased was a woman named Lillian Dyson.Everyone was silent for a while, and then exchanged views in a low voice.But there was no screaming, no one suddenly fainted, and no one tore his clothes in pain.

Nobody knew her. She was found in the Moreau couple's garden, Olivier confirmed. She was murdered. A long pause followed. "There must be something going on here," Ruth said to herself, and paused. "How did she get killed?" "The neck is broken," Olivier replied. "Who the hell is this Lillian?" someone asked from behind the crowd. "Clara seems to know her," Olivier said, "but I've never heard her mention this person." He looked at Gabriel, who shook his head too. At this time, he found that someone had slipped in quietly and stood quietly at the door.

Isabelle Lacoste, who had been sent by Inspector Gamache, had been watching.He knew that these two men would spread everything they knew.The Inspector wondered if there was anyone in the tavern who, upon hearing the news, would reveal himself. "Tell me," said Gamache. He leaned forward in his chair, with his elbows on his knees and his hands lightly clasped together.This is a new pose, but a necessary one. Beside him, Inspector Beauvoir opened his notebook and took out his pen. Clara sank deep into the chair, grasping the wide and warm armrests with both hands, as if to support herself.However, instead of leaning forward, she leaned back.

Clara's thoughts went back to decades ago, leaving home, leaving San Pine Town, returning to Montreal, returning to the Academy of Fine Arts, returning to classes, and those student art exhibitions.Clara's memories flowed from college back to high school, then elementary school, and finally kindergarten. The memory stopped, stopped in front of the little girl with shiny red hair next door. Lillian Dyson. "Lillian was my best friend growing up," Clara said. "She lived next door to me and was two months older. We were very close, but polar opposites. She developed early, I'm tall but I'm not. She's bright at school and I'm slow. I can do some things well, but I don't talk much in the classroom. Because I'm nervous. At first the kids bullied me, but Lillian always protects me. No one dares to mess with Lillian, she is a powerful character."

Clara smiled and recalled Lillian.Lillian, her orange hair gleaming, glared at the girls who were bullying Clara.Clara stands behind Lillian.She wished she could stand shoulder to shoulder with her friends, but she didn't have the courage, not yet. Lillian is her only good companion. precious friend. Lillian is the cute one, Clara is the ridiculous one. They share the same interests and are closer than sisters.They exchanged letters on beautiful stationery, saying that they were each other's forever friends.They even have their own code and set of languages.They pricked their fingers, solemnly mixed their blood, and declared sisterhood.

They like the same male stars.When the Bay Rangers broke up, when The Hardy Boys went off the air, they kissed posters and cried. All this she told Garmache and Beauvoir. "And what happened?" the Inspector asked softly. "How do you know something happened?" "Because you didn't recognize her." Clara shook her head.what happened?How to explain it? "Lillian is my best friend," Clara repeated, as if she needed to hear herself admit again, "she saved my childhood. I would have been miserable without her. I still I don't know why she chose me as her friend. She can pick anyone. Everyone wants to be Lillian's friend. At least, at first."

The men waited for her to continue.The midday sun beat down on them, making them increasingly uncomfortable, but they waited patiently. "But there's a price to being Lillian's friend," Clara said finally. "She's made a wonderful world, fun, safe, but she has to be right, and she has to get ahead of things. That's the price. I didn't think it was a problem at first. She made the rules and I followed them. I was pretty miserable at school anyway, so it wasn't a problem for me, it never seemed to be." Clara took a deep breath, then let it out. "But then, things seemed to start to go wrong. In high school, things changed. I didn't notice at first, but then, like, I called Lillian on a Saturday night and asked if she would like to go out and see a movie. What, she said she would call me back. But she didn't call back. By the time I called her again, she was out with someone else."

Clara looked at the three men.She could see that although they understood her words, they might not be able to understand the emotions inside, especially the feeling of being abandoned for the first time. It sounded so small, so inconsequential, but it was the first rift. Clara didn't realize it at the time, but thought maybe Lillian had forgotten.Besides, Lillian has the right to go out with other friends. Then, one weekend, Clara was also ready to go out with a new friend. As a result, Lillian flew into a rage. "It took months before she forgave me." She saw the look on Beauvoir's face, an expression of disgust.Is it because Lillian treats her like this?Or is it because she bears it so cowardly?How to explain it to him?How could she explain it to herself?

At the time it seemed normal.She loved Lillian, and Lillian loved her.Lillian protects her from bullies.She had never hurt Clara, at least not on purpose. If there was any discord, it was also Clara's fault. In the end, the two settled down, and Lillian and Clara became best friends again.Clara returned to Lillian's shelter again. "When did you first doubt it?" asked Garmache. "What do you suspect?" "Lillian is not your friend." It was the first time she had heard it said so clearly, so simply.Their relationship seems to have always been complicated.Clara is clumsy and will screw up their friendship.Lillian is strong, self-reliant, always forgiving and picking up the pieces.

until one day. "It was near the end of high school. Most girls broke down, either because of boys, or because of cliques, or just a misunderstanding. Teachers and parents thought the classrooms and hallways were full of students, But it’s not, it’s full of emotions, colliding emotions, hurting each other, it’s scary.” Clara's arms moved away from the sofa chair, they were hot from the sun.Now she folded her hands on her stomach. "Me and Lillian were fine and there were no big ups and downs. Then one day, in art class, my favorite teacher praised one of my paintings. It was the only class I was good at, and the only Courses that really matter, although my english and history are not too bad. But art is my favorite, and it's Lillian's favorite. Our minds collide. Now I feel like we are really each other's muses, though I didn’t know the word at the time. I even remember the drawing my teacher complimented me on: a chair with a little bird on it.” Clara turned her head happily to Lillian, eager to meet her eyes.It was a small compliment, a small victory.She wants to be able to share it with the only person who understands her. She did.But, but, the moment Lillian smiled, Clara saw something else—a kind of guard. Then came the happy smile of support.That alertness was fleeting, almost convinced Clara that it was because of her lack of security that she saw something that didn't exist at all. Of course, it was her fault again. But looking back now, Clara knew that the crack had widened again.Some cracks let light in, some let darkness out. The crack allowed her to peer into Lillian's mind, but it wasn't pretty. “We went to art school together and shared a room. By that time I had learned to keep my head down no matter what praise my work got, and to keep telling Lillian how great her work was. It was. Like this. Of course, like all our work, her work is constantly improving. We are trying, at least, I am trying. I even think this is what the art school is about. Not to learn what is right, but Explore what is possible and really capture the essence." Clara paused, looking down at her folded hands. "Lillian didn't like my paintings. My stuff was too weird for her. She felt it reflected her, saying people would think if she was my muse then my paintings must be about her. Since my paintings are so strange, she must be a strange person too." Clara hesitated, "She asked me to stop." For the first time she saw Garmash respond.His eyes narrowed for a moment, and soon his face and demeanor returned to normal.Neutral attitude, no comments. obviously. He didn't say anything, just listened. "So I did," Clara said.She lowered her head and her voice was very low, as if she was talking to her own thigh. She took a deep breath, and then exhaled slowly, feeling her body shrinking and shrinking. This was also what she felt at the time, as if there was a gap in her body, and she was shrinking and shrinking. "I told her time and time again that some of the work was inspired by her, and some of it was just about our friendship, but not about her. She said it didn't matter, but as long as other people thought so, she would It would be uncomfortable. If I still care about her, if I'm still her friend, then I should stop making weird things like this and make them beautiful." "So I did. I destroyed all my previous work and started drawing things that people liked." Clara hurried forward, not daring to look at the audience. "I actually got higher grades too. I convinced myself it was the right thing to do. It was wrong to lose friends for the sake of the cause." She raised her eyes and looked directly at Inspector Garmash, noticing again the deep scar on his temple, and the still, deep-set eyes. "It seemed like a small sacrifice, and then there was the student exhibition. I had a few pieces in, but Lillian didn't. She decided to write a review for her art review class, though. She also wrote one for the school newspaper. review. She praised a few students' work, but slammed mine. Said my work was stupid, empty, and uninspired." Clara could still feel the whirling, volcanic rage of that moment. Their friendship was shattered, not even a single fragment could be seen clearly, and there was no possibility of repairing it. From the ruins rises a deep, deep hostility.A hatred, a mutual hatred. Clara stopped, trembling even now.Peter reached out, helped her loosen her stiff fingers, and stroked her. The sun continued to shine brightly.Gamache stood up, signaling that they should move the chairs into the shade.Clara also stood up, smiled at Peter, and withdrew her hand.They moved their chairs and came to the river.It's cooler here with the shade. "We should take a break," suggested Garmash. "Would you like something to drink?" Clara nodded, still speechless. "Okay," said Gamache, looking over at the busy forensics team, "they'll need it too. If you can order some sandwiches from the bistro," he said to Beauvoir, "Peter and I can make one." Order something to drink." Peter led the inspector to the kitchen, and Beauvoir walked towards the bistro.Clara wandered alone by the river, full of thoughts. "Do you know Lillian?" Garmache asked as soon as Peter and Peter arrived in the kitchen. "Yes." Peter found two jugs and some glasses.Garmash pulled the pink lemonade from the freezer, then poured the frozen concentrate into the jug. "We all met at the Academy of Fine Arts." "What do you think of her?" Peter pouted. "She's beautiful. Vivacious, that's the right word. Great personality." "do you like her?" Two men stood side by side at the kitchen counter, looking out the window.To the right they saw the CID cleaning up the scene; straight ahead, Clara was kicking pebbles into the Beira River. "Clara doesn't know about it," said Peter, looking away from his wife to Gamache. The inspector didn't speak, he could see Peter's inner struggle.Garmash continued to endure the other's silence.He would rather wait a few minutes to hear the whole truth than get a few words in exchange for being urged. Finally, Peter lowered his eyes to the sink and began filling the lemonade jug.With the sound of running water, he muttered softly. "Can you speak louder?" said Garmash, his voice calm and rational. "It was I who told Lillian that Clara's work was stupid," said Peter, raising his head and voice.He was a little angry now, because he had done such a thing, and because Inspector Garmash forced him to tell the truth. "I said Clara's work was mediocre and superficial. Lillian's comment was my fault." Gamache was surprised.In fact, he was shocked.When Peter said that Clara didn't know about it, the Inspector thought it was an affair between Peter and Lillian. He didn't think of this. "I went to the student exhibition and saw Clara's work," Peter said. "I was standing next to Lillian and a bunch of students, and they were snickering. They saw me and asked me what I thought. Clara had started dating, and I think even then, I could see she was an artist. Not pretending to be a painter, but a real painter. She had a creative soul, and still is. .” Peter stopped.He rarely mentions the soul.But when he thought of Clara, that was what he thought of, soul. "I don't know what happened. It seems that when it is very quiet, I want to shout. Or sometimes when I hold something fragile, I always feel like throwing it on the ground. I don't know why." He looked at the large, quiet man beside him, but Garmash continued to be silent, listening. Peter took a few quick breaths, "Maybe I also wanted to impress them at the time, and criticizing others made it easier to look smart. So I said some bad things, and these words appeared in Lilian's comments .” "Clara doesn't know anything?" Peter shook his head, "She and Lillian hardly spoke after that, but we got closer and closer. I even tried to make myself forget that it happened, or that it was important to her. I actually convinced myself that I was doing Clara a favor. Because of breaking up with Lillian, she was able to free her soul to create her own art, to try everything she wanted to do, to really try. Now see the results HOW TO: A Solo Exhibition at the Museum of Modern Art!" "Are you taking credit for yourself?" "I've supported her all these years," Peter said, defensively. "Where would she be without me?" "Without you?" Garmash asked, looking directly at the angry man in front of him. "I don't know. Do you?" Peter clenched his fists. "What did Lillian do after graduating from the Academy of Fine Arts?" asked the inspector. "She wasn't quite a painter, but she turned out to be a good critic. She got a job at a weekly newspaper in Montreal, worked her way through it, and finally wrote reviews for Le Presse." Garmash raised his eyes again. "The News? I've read the comments and don't recall an article by Lillian Dyson. Does she have a pseudonym?" "No," Peter replied. "She worked there many years ago, decades ago now. We were all just starting out, maybe 20 years ago or even earlier." "and then?" "We don't have much contact with her," Peter said, "we only occasionally see her in some art exhibitions, and Clara and I try to avoid her as much as possible. If we really can't avoid it, the superficial small talk is passable, but we Avoid her as much as possible." "You know what the hell happened to her? You said she stopped working at The News 20 years ago. Why?" "I heard she moved to New York. I think she may have realized that the climate here is not for her." "it's too cold?" Peter laughed. "No, by climate I mean the arts climate. As a critic, she doesn't have many friends." "Maybe that's the price of being a critic?" "should be." But Peter sounded unsure. "What's wrong?" the inspector asked. "Most critics are respected in our circle. They are fair, positive and rarely vicious." "Where's Lillian Dyson?" "She's vicious. Her comments can also be clear, thoughtful, positive, even passionate; but every now and then she'll write something that's particularly hurtful. It's funny at first, but then people find her The targets of her attacks are random, and her writing is getting more and more boring. Her attacks are vicious, just like what she said about Clara back then, it’s unfair.” Gammash noticed that he seemed to have let go of the role he had played in it. "Has she ever commented on your exhibition?" Peter nodded, "But she likes it very much." He blushed, "I always suspected that she wrote those passionate comments just to anger Clara and try to create a rift between us. She thought she was mean and jealous, and Ke So should Laila." "Isn't she?" "Clara? Don't get me wrong, she can be maddening, annoying, impatient, and sometimes insecure; but she's definitely happy for others, and happy for me." "Are you happy for her?" "Of course, she deserves the success." This is a lie.Not that she didn't deserve these successes, Garmache knew that to be true, and so did Peter; but both knew he was far from happy for her. Gamash asked this not because he didn't know the answer, but because he wanted to see if Peter would lie. He lied.If he could lie about that, what else had he lied about? Gamache and Beauvoir sat in the garden with the Moreaus for lunch.The forensics team was on the side of the tall evergreen bushes, drinking lemonade and eating assorted sandwiches brought over from the tavern.But Olivier had something special for the four of them to bring back for Beauvoir: chilled cucumbers, mint-sliced ​​melon soup, sliced ​​tomatoes, shiso salad with spices, and chilled fillets of poached salmon. It would have been idyllic were it not for the homicide investigators who occasionally walked by or showed up at the nearby flower beds. Garmache turned Peter and Clara's backs to the investigative activities at the crime scene, which only he and Beauvoir could see.But he knew that this was just self-deception.Of course the Moreaus knew that the soft beauty before them, the creek, the late spring flowers, the peaceful forest, was not the whole picture. Talk also reminds them if they forget. "When was the last time you saw Lillian?" Garmash asked, with a soft voice, sharp eyes, and a kind face.He forked a piece of salmon and dipped it in mayonnaise. But Clara is not stupid.Gamache may be polite, he may be kind, but his job is to find murderers, and you can't do that with kindness alone. "A few years ago," Clara said. She took a sip of the cold mint and melon slice soup, wondering if she could really be this hungry?Strangely, when the corpse was still an unknown woman, she completely lost her appetite; now that she knew it was Lillian, she was starving. She broke off a large loaf of bread, tore off a slice, and dipped it in butter. "Could this be planned?" she asked. "Deliberately planned?" Beauvoir asked back.He picked something to eat, but he wasn't actually hungry.Before lunch, he went to the bathroom and took a painkiller.He didn't want the detective to see him on painkillers, and he didn't want people to know that he was still in pain, months after the shooting. Now, sitting in the cool shade of the tree, he feels less pain and the tension seems to be slowly disappearing. "What do you think?" asked Garmash. "I don't believe it's a coincidence that Lillian was killed here," Clara replied. She squirmed in her chair and saw something move in the thick leaves as the agents scoured for any clues they might find. Lillian was here once, the night of the party, and got murdered. There is no doubt about it. Beauvoir saw Clara turn around in her chair.It's odd that he agrees with her. The only plausible hypothesis is that Clara killed the woman herself.This is her home, her party, her former friends.She has a motive and an opportunity.But Beauvoir didn't know how many painkillers he would have to take before he could believe that Clara was the murderer.He knew that most people could kill.While Gamache believed in goodness in the world, Beauvoir saw it as a temporary state.As long as the sun is shining and poached salmon is on the plate, people will be kind. But take that away and see what happens.Take the food, the chairs, the flowers, the home; take the friends, support your spouse, income, and see what happens. The Inspector believes that if you filter out the evil, at the bottom, you'll find the good.He believed that evil had a limit.Beauvoir doesn't think so.He believed that if you filter out the good, you will see the evil.Evil has no boundaries, no brakes, no limits. What frightened him every day was that Garmash couldn't see this, ignored it.And it is in the blind spots that terrible things can happen. Less than 20 feet from their elegant picnic, someone killed a woman, deliberately, with their bare hands.And that Lillian Dyson died here, in Clara Moreau's beautiful garden, almost certainly couldn't have been a coincidence. "Can we have a look at the guest list for the preview and the BBQ party that followed?" Garmash asked. "Well, I can tell you who we invited, but you have to ask for the complete list from the museum." Peter said, "As for the party here in Sanpine Town last night..." He looked at the smiling Clara. "We didn't know who came," she admitted. "The whole village and most of the surrounding villages were invited. We told them they were free to come and go." "But you said that some of the people who visited the preview of the Montreal art exhibition also came?" Garmache asked. "That's right," Clara said. "I can tell you who we invited. I'll make a list for you." "Isn't everyone who came to the preview invited?" Garmash asked.He and René Marie were invited, as was Beauvoir.They didn't come, he thought it was an open invitation to everyone.But apparently not. "No. Previews are for critiques of paintings, for rapport, for light conversation," Clara said. "We want the party to be more relaxed, celebratory." "Yes, but..." Peter said. "What?" Clara asked. "Where's Andre Castongui?" "Oh him." "Castongue Gallery?" asked Garmache. "He went to the preview?" "And came here," said Peter. Clara nodded.She didn't tell Peter that the only reason she invited Castongui and some other art dealers to the barbecue party was for him, hoping they would give him a chance. "I did invite some great people," Clara said, "and a few painters. It's interesting." She even enjoys it herself.It was really interesting to see Myrne gossiping with François Marois, and Ruth exchanging insults with a few drunken painter friends.See Billy Williams laughing with the local farmers and chatting with those classy gallery owners. When the clock struck midnight, everyone danced. Except Lillian, who was lying in Clara's garden at this moment. Ding, boom.Clara thought.The witch is dead.