Chapter 9 Chapter nine

Inspector Garmash bent over the edge of the flower bed.This is already the second time that day. The first time he was staring at a female corpse, this time he was staring at a prayer stick.Brightly colored streamers dance lightly in the breeze.According to Mona, they are capturing positive energy.If she's right, there's a lot of positive energy here because the streamers are constantly bobbing and dancing. He stood up and patted his knee.Beside him, Beauvoir glared at the place where the coin was found. That's what he missed. Beauvoir was in charge of the crime scene investigation and had personally searched the area around the body.

"Is this where you found it?" The Inspector pointed to the small mound next to the prayer stick. Myrna and Clara approached.Beauvoir had already called Lacoste, and at this moment she also rushed over with the crime scene file box. "That's right," Myrna said. "It's in the flower bed. It's buried under it and covered with dirt, so it's hard to find." "I'll get this," Beauvoir said, grabbing the crime scene file.He was irritated by Myrna's answer, as if he wanted him to thank him, as if he needed her to make excuses for his mistakes.He bent down to study the soil there.

"Why didn't we find out before?" asked the inspector. He's not criticizing his team.Gamache was indeed perplexed.They were professional and the search was thorough, but something went wrong.But one silver coin lying in a flowerbed two feet from the body should not be missed. "I know how it was left out," Myrna said. "Gabriel can tell you that too, anyone who knows a gardener's work knows that. We just weeded yesterday and covered the flower beds with soil so it's earthy and fresh, It's dark enough to set off the bright colors of the flowers. Gardeners call this 'loose soil'. But let the soil loosen and it falls apart. I almost lost my tools. Leave them there and they slow down Sink in slowly, and it can be half buried."

"It's a flowerbed," said Garmash, "and it's not the Himalayas. Can it really be swallowed?" "you try." The inspector walked to the other side of the flower bed, "Is the soil loose here?" "It's been loose everywhere," Myrna said, "try it." Garmash squatted down and threw a one-dollar coin into the flower bed.It's on the soil surface, obviously.Gamash picked it up and straightened up looking at Myrna. "Any other suggestions?" She glanced at the soil there, "It's probably already hard. If the soil has just been loosened, it will definitely be like what I said."

She took a shovel from Clara's flower shed and dug up the soil, dug it up, pesong. "Okay, try again." Gamache crouched down again and threw the coin into the flower bed again.This time it rolled a bit and slowly sank into a small crevice. "See?" Myrna said. "Well, I did. I saw the coin," said Garmash, "but I'm still not sure. It couldn't have been there for a while? Maybe it fell into a flowerbed years ago. Because of the texture It's plastic, so it hasn't rusted or aged." "I doubt it," said Clara. "If that's the case, we'd have seen it long ago. They've seen it when they weeded and loosened the soil. Don't you think so?"

"I don't want to think about it," Myrna said. They returned to where Beauvoir had searched. "There's nothing more, Inspector," he said, standing up abruptly, brushing the dirt off his knees. "I still can't believe we missed it the first time." "Well, but we've got it now." Garmash glanced at the coins in the evidence bag Lacoste was holding.This is not currency, not the currency of any country.At first he wondered maybe it came from some Middle Eastern country.What's up with the camel?But if Canadian currency can have moose, why can't Saudi currency have camels?

But the above text is in English, and there is no sign of face value. On one side is a camel and on the other side is a prayer. "Are you sure it's not yours or Peter's?" he asked Clara. "I'm sure. Just now Ruth said it was hers, but Myrna said it couldn't be hers." Garmash turned to look at the large robed woman beside him, raising his eyebrows. "How did you know?" "Because I know what it is, and I know Ruth could never have it. I thought you recognized it." "I don't know what this is." Everyone stared at the coin in the bag again.

"Can I see it?" Myrna asked.Gamache nodded, and Lacoste handed her the bag.Myrna watched through the plastic bag. "God," she read, "give me peace of mind, "To accept the things I cannot change, "Give me the courage to do the things I can change, "Give me the wisdom to know the difference between the two." "It's an AA beginner's chip," she said. "It's for people who've just quit drinking." "How do you know?" the inspector asked. "Because when I was in business, I once advised some clients to join AA. Later, some people showed me this thing, and they called it a beginner's chip, just like that thing." She pointed to the bag that was taken back by Lacoste , "The person who dropped this thing must be a member of the AA."

"Then I see why you say it can't be Ruth's," said Beauvoir. Gamache thanked them and saw Clara and Myrna back in the house, among the other two friends. Beauvoir and Lacoste talked, exchanging ideas and discoveries.Beauvoir was to give her some instructions, Garmache knew, some clues to follow as they went to Montreal. He was walking around in the garden.A mystery has been solved, the coin is AA's starter chip. But who lost it?Did Lillian Dyson drop it when she fell?But even if it was hers, his experiments showed that the coin would stay on the ground, and the agents would see it right away.

Was it dropped by the murderer?But if he had wrung her neck with both hands, he couldn't have held a coin.The same reasoning just now applies to the murderer.If he lost it, why didn't the agents find it?How could it be buried? The inspector stood quietly in the sunny garden, imagining a murder.Someone sneaked up behind Lillian Dyson in the dark, grabbed her neck violently, and snapped it open.She had no time to shout, no time to struggle. But she will do something.She would wave her arms, even if just once. Then, he clearly realized that he had made a mistake. He went back to the flower bed, called Beauvoir and Lacoste, and they quickly joined in.

He took the one-dollar coin out of his pocket again, threw it into the air, watched it land on the soft soil that had just been turned over, stayed on it briefly, and then slowly sank and disappeared into the soil . "My God, it's really gone," cried Lacoste. "Was it real?" "I'm afraid so," said the inspector, watching Lacoste retrieve the coin from the soil and handing it to himself. "The first time I tried it, I was kneeling on the ground, very close to the ground. But if it happened in a murder , it should have been dropped from standing height, higher and with greater force. Her arms should have stretched out, almost in convulsions, as the killer grabbed her by the neck. Coins were thrown from her body Get out, and hit the ground with enough impact to disappear into the soft soil." "That's how it should have been buried, so we missed it," Lacoste said. "Well," said the Inspector, turning away, "meaning Lillian Dyson should have been holding the coin. Why, then, is she standing in the garden holding an AA beginner's chip?" However, Beauvoir suspected that the inspector had something else on his mind.Beauvoir screwed up.He should have seen the coin instead of being spotted by four crazy women who worshiped a stick.In court, that didn't sound like much, and it wasn't good for either of them. The women left, the officers left.With everyone gone, Peter and Clara can finally be alone. Peter took Clara in his arms, hugged her tightly, and whispered, "I've been waiting for you all day. I've heard about the reviews, and they're all great. Congratulations!" "It's all good, isn't it?" Clara said. "Huh, can you believe it?" "Are you kidding me?" Peter asked back, letting go of Clara and striding towards the kitchen. "I'm sure of that." "Oh, stop pretending," Clara laughed, "you don't even like my work." "I like." "And what do you like about them?" she teased. "Well, they're beautiful, and you've covered most of the numbers with paint." He reached into the refrigerator and turned, an extra bottle of champagne in his hand. "My dad gave me this for my 21st birthday. He said I could open it up and celebrate myself when I had a big personal achievement." He lifted the foil from the cork. "Before I left yesterday, I Just put it in the freezer. Now let's celebrate your success!" "No, wait, Peter," Clara said, "we should keep it." "Why? Wait for my own solo exhibition? We both know that's impossible." "But you will. If it happens to me, then—" "Happens to anyone?" "You know what I mean. I really think we should wait—" The cork popped open. "It's too late," Peter said with a broad smile, "I got a call while you were out." He carefully filled their glasses. "Who is calling?" "Andre Castongui." He handed her a glass. "Really? What does he want?" "Want to talk to you. Talk to us. Talk to both of us. Cheers!" He tilted his glass and touched her glass, "Congratulations again!" "Thank you. Do you want to see him?" Clara's cup hung in the air, not touching her lips.Her nose felt the crashing bubbles of champagne.Finally freed.Like her, they have waited many, many years, decades, for this moment. "If you want," said Peter. "Can we wait? Wait until everything is calm and peaceful?" "whatever." But she heard the disappointment in his voice. "If you really want to, Peter, then we'll meet him. Why not? I mean, he's here now anyway, and it doesn't hurt to see him." "No, no, it's okay." He smiled at her. "If he's serious, he'll wait. Honestly, Clara, this is your moment to shine. Whether it's Lillian's death, or Ann Not even Andre Castongui can steal it." More bubbles burst, and Clara wondered if they burst on their own, or if they were pricked by some thin, barely visible needle, like the one Peter had just used.Even as they celebrated their success, she was reminded of the murder in the garden. She picked up the glass and felt the wine go into her mouth.Through the slender glass she stared at Peter, as if he had suddenly become smaller, as if hollow, like a foam, and floated away. I'm going out of my life, she thought as she drank, not waving, but calling for help. What was that sentence before this?Clara slowly placed the glass on the bar.Peter took a long sip of champagne, or rather, a gulp, a manly, even menacing booze. It should be these two sentences, Clara thought, staring at Peter. The wine was sour on the lips, and it had been many years.But Peter, who had just taken a big sip, was smiling. It's like nothing is wrong. When is he already dead?Clara wondered, why hadn't she noticed? "No, I understand," Beauvoir said. Gamache looked at Beauvoir in the driver's seat.They were driving across the Champlain Bridge into Montreal.Beauvoir stared at the road ahead with a calm and relaxed expression. But his hands on the steering wheel were tense. “I wanted to see how Agent Lacoste would handle the extra task if she was going to be promoted to police officer,” Gamash said. “So I gave her the full file.” He knew he didn't have to explain his decision, but he wanted to.The people he works with are not children, but thinking, intelligent adults.If he doesn't want them to act like children, it's best not to treat them like children.He needed independent thinkers, and he had them.The men and women who deserve to know why they took a decision. "I'm just giving Agent Lacoste more authority, that's all. This is your investigation, and she knows it. I hope you understand that too. There's no confusion." "Understood." Beauvoir replied, "I just hope you can tell me in advance." "You're right, I should. I'm sorry. Actually, I was thinking that you should guide Lacoste, be her mentor. If she is going to be promoted to a police officer and be your second-in-command, then it's up to you Come train her." Beauvoir nodded, and his hands on the steering wheel relaxed a lot.They talked again about the case, about Lacoste's strengths and weaknesses, and fell silent again. Garmash's thoughts turned elsewhere as he watched the beautiful bridge across the St. Lawrence approach.He's been thinking about it for a while. "One more thing." "Oh?" Beauvoir looked at him. Gamache had planned to speak to Beauvoir about this in a quiet place.Maybe at dinner, maybe on a walk in the mountains, not while speeding down the highway at 120km/h. However, having spoken, Garmache could only go on. "We need to discuss your condition. There's something wrong, you're not getting better, are you?" This is not an interrogative sentence. "I'm sorry about the coin thing, stupid..." "I'm not talking about the coin thing, that's just a mistake, and people make mistakes. God knows, I've made some mistakes in my life." He saw Beauvoir smile. "And what do you mean, sir?" "Painkillers. Why are you still taking them?" There was silence in the car, and Quebec was gradually being left behind. "How do you know?" Beauvoir finally asked. "I just doubt it. You carry them with you, in your coat pocket." "Have you looked for it?" Beauvoir asked sharply. "No, but I'm watching you." Garmash was right, his deputy had always been so agile, energetic, and arrogant.He's full of energy, but full of himself at the same time.Sometimes he annoys Garmache, but mostly, when Beauvoir bursts headlong into life, Garmache happily admires his fighting spirit, though sometimes finds him funny. But now, the young man seemed listless and unhappy, as if each day was a struggle, as if dragging an anvil behind him. "I'm fine," Beauvoir said, realizing how weak his voice was. "The doctors and physiotherapists say I'm recovering well. I feel better every day." Gamache didn't want to go on, but he had to. "Your wound still hurts." Again, this is not an interrogative sentence. "It's going to take time," Beauvoir said, glancing at Garmache. "I'm really feeling better. Always." But he doesn't look like it.It was this that worried Garmache. The inspector said nothing.He himself has never felt better physically, or at least, hasn't in years.He now walks more than he used to, and physiotherapy has restored his strength and agility.He works out in the gym at police headquarters three times a week.It was humiliating at first, as he struggled lifting doughnut-sized dumbbells or exercising for minutes on the Skywalk machine. But he persisted.Slowly, not only did his physical strength fully recover, it even surpassed the state before he was attacked. There are also some physiological residual reactions.His right hand would shake if he was tired or stressed.When you first wake up in the morning, or when you stand up after sitting for a long time, your body will ache.Although there were several physical pains, it was far less than the mental pain.He struggles with the latter every day. Some days are fine.Some are not, like today. He suspects that Beauvoir is also struggling, and he knows recovery will take time and patience.But Beauvoir's condition seems to be going from bad to worse. "Is there anything I can do for you?" he asked. "Do you need to focus some time on your health? I know Daniel and Roslyn would welcome you to Paris. Maybe it will help?" Beauvoir laughed and said, "Do you want to kill me?" Garmash grinned.It's hard to imagine what could ruin a trip to Paris, but spending a week in a tiny apartment with his son, daughter-in-law and two young grandchildren gives you a try.Whenever he and Raina Marie visit them, they rent a small apartment nearby. "Thank you, sir. I'd rather go after a cold-blooded killer." Gamache laughed.Ahead, across the river, the silhouette of Montreal looms.Mount Royal rises from the center of the city.The huge cross on the top of the mountain is not yet visible, but every night, it shines brightly, like a lighthouse that guides all living beings.Although people no longer believe in the church, they believe in family and friends, culture and humanity. The cross didn't seem to care, it was still as bright as ever. "The separation from Enid is not good for you," said the inspector. "It's actually a good thing," Beauvoir said.The car drove onto the bridge and the speed slowed down.Garmash, who had been staring at the horizon ahead, turned his head and looked at him. "How could it be a good thing?" "It was a relief, I felt free. I'm sorry to say that might hurt Enid. But it was one of the best things that happened after everything." "How do you say it?" "I felt like I had another chance. So many people died, I didn't die. But when I took a closer look at my life, I realized how unhappy I was and how I couldn't get better. It wasn't Enid's fault, we weren't right for each other. But I was afraid of change, of admitting I made a mistake, of hurting her. But I really couldn't stand it. Surviving the shooting gave me the courage to do it Something that should have been done many years ago." "The courage to change." "what?" "That's a line from the prayer on that coin," said Gamash. "Well, it should be. Anyway, I can only see my life stretching forward and getting worse. Don't get me wrong, Enid is a good person—" "We've always liked her, a lot." "She likes you too, you know. But she's not for me." "Do you know who is right for you?" "have no idea." Beauvoir glanced at the inspector.Garmache looked out the windshield, thoughtfully, then back to Beauvoir. "You'll know," he said. Beauvoir nodded, pensive.Finally, he finally spoke. "What would you do, sir? If you were married to someone else, and you met Madame Gamache?" Gamache looked at Beauvoir with sharp eyes, "I remember what you said just now that you haven't met anyone suitable for you yet?" Beauvoir hesitated.He had already started, and Garmash took it up.Now, Garmash was watching him, waiting for an answer.Beauvoir almost told him.Tell him everything.He had been longing to open up to the man in front of him.He had told Garmash everything else in his life.About his unhappiness with Enid, about his family, what he wants and what he doesn't want. Jean-Guy Beauvoir believed in Gamache with his life. He opened his mouth, and the words were on the tip of his tongue, on his lips.It was as if a boulder had rolled aside, and those incredible words were about to emerge.under the sun. i love your daughter.i love annie. Gamache waited patiently as if he had all the time in the world, as if nothing was more important than Beauvoir's personal life. The city ahead became increasingly clear, although the cross was still invisible.They have crossed the bridge. "I haven't met anyone yet," Beauvoir said, "but I want to be ready. Then I can't be married, or it won't be fair to Enid." It was a moment before Garmash said, "It's not fair to the husband of your loved one." This is not an accusation, not even a warning.Beauvoir knew that if Garmache had doubts, he would say something.He was not playing a game with Beauvoir, although Beauvoir was playing a game with Gamache. No, it's not a game, and it's not even a secret.It's just a feeling, a feeling of unfulfilled, feeling of not yet acted on. I love your daughter, sir. But the words were swallowed, too, and returned to the darkness to join the ranks of other unsaid things. They found the apartment building in Montreal's NDG district.The boxy gray concrete building was probably designed in the 1960s. The grass was white with dog urine and there were lumps of dog poop on it.Weeds and shrubs grew in the flower beds.The concrete path leading to the front door cracked in places and bulged in places. There was a smell of urine in the building, echoed with the sound of someone slamming the door, and the sound of people yelling. Mr and Mrs Dyson lived on the top floor.The handrail beside the concrete stairs was sticky, and Beauvoir immediately took his hand away. They climbed three floors without stopping to catch their breath, but they didn't run up either.They walked slowly and cautiously.On the top floor, they saw the door of Dyson's house. Inspector Garmash raised his hand, then stopped again. Give the Dysons one more moment of peace before shattering their lives?Or give yourself a little more time before facing them? Garmash tapped on the door. The door opened a crack, and behind the security chain was a terrified face. "Who?" "Mrs. Dyson? My name is Armand Garmache, and I am from the Quebec Police Department." He had already taken out his ID and handed it to the other party.She looked down and then up into Garmache's face. "This is my colleague, Inspector Beauvoir. Can we speak to you?" The thin face visibly relaxed.How many times had she opened the door a crack only to see the children taunting her?Or is the landlord asking for rent?Or see the evil of hypocrisy? But not this time.These two men belonged to the police department, and they would not harm her.People her age still believe that.It was written all over her dimpled face. The door is closed.The safety chain undid and the door opened. She is not tall.In an armchair sat a man who looked like a puppet, short, stiff, and thin.He struggled to his feet, but Garmash stepped forward quickly. "No, Mr. Dyson. Don't be troubled. Please sit down." They shook hands.He reintroduced himself, louder, clearer, and slower than usual. "Tea?" asked Mrs. Dyson. Oh, no, no, no.Beauvoir thought to himself.The place smells like pain oil and a little bit of urine. "Okay, thank you. Can I help?" Garmache followed her into the kitchen, leaving Beauvoir alone with the puppet.He tried to chat with the old man, but after a few words about the weather, he had nothing to say. "It's a nice place," he said at last.Mr. Dyson looked at him as if he were looking at a fool. Beauvoir looked around at the surrounding walls.Above the dining table is a crucifix, with a smiling Jesus surrounded by lights.But the rest of the walls are hung with photos of just one person: their daughter, Lillian.Her life unfolds with the smiling Jesus.The pictures of her when she was a child were closest to the Jesus statue, and then as she grew up, slowly, the pictures hung all over the walls.Some photos are of a person, and some are with others.There are also photos of the Dysons and Lillian at all ages, from the beaming young couple holding their newborn baby, their only child, standing in front of a neat little house, to the child's first Christmas, to One child's birthday after another. Beauvoir looked at the wall for a photo of Lillian and Clara together, then realized that if there was such a photo, it would have been a long, long time ago. The little girl who lost her front teeth hugged a huge stuffed toy dog ​​with shiny orange hair; the older one stood next to a bicycle and wore a big bow.Toys, gifts, everything a little girl could want. And love.No, not just love, but petting.This child, this woman, is pampered. Beauvoir felt his appetite stir.As he was lying on the factory floor in a pool of blood, something seemed to crawl into his body. sorrow. Since then, death has never been the same, nor has life. he does not like. He tried to think of Lillian Dyson 40 years after these pictures were taken.Thick, heavy makeup, hair dyed straw blond.The bright red dress seemed to say, "Look at me." It was almost a laughingstock, vulgar and exaggerated. He saw Lillian Dyson again as a young girl.She is loved by all kinds of people, and she is confident to step into this world, which her parents know must be chained to the outside world. However, they still opened the door a crack.One seam is enough.If there is something vicious and murderous outside the door, a crack is enough to hurt someone. "Okay." The detective's voice came from behind.Beauvoir turned to see Garmache carrying a tin tray with a teapot, milk, sugar cubes, and some fine china cups. "Where do you want me to put these things?" The Inspector's words sounded warm and friendly, but not happy.He didn't want to deceive the two old men, and he didn't want to give each other the wrong impression that they had brought some good news. "It's right here." Mrs. Dyson hurried to clear the TV guide and remote control on a faux wood-grained table next to the sofa, but Beauvoir grabbed them first and handed them to her. Her eyes met his, and she smiled.Not that kind of exaggerated smile, like her daughter's smile, but softer and sadder.Beauvoir now knew where Lillian got her smile. He wondered if the two old men already knew the purpose of their trip, maybe they didn't know the exact news.Not their only daughter was dead, murdered.But Mrs. Dyson's glance at Beauvoir just now shows that she realizes that something has happened, something wrong. But she was still very kind.Or maybe she just hoped that whatever news they had, they wouldn't say it yet?Let them keep silent first, and then give yourself a little precious time? "Some milk and sugar?" she asked the puppet. Mr. Dyson sat forward. "It's a special occasion," he pretended to confess to his guests. "Normally, she doesn't give me milk." The two old people probably couldn't afford milk at ordinary times, which made Beauvoir's heart ache.What little they had was now brought out to entertain guests. "There, father," said Mrs. Dyson, handing the Inspector his teacup and tray to pass to her husband.She also pretended to say something secret, "Yeah, I think you'll have to wait about 20 minutes for your first sip." All four had teacups.After sitting down, Inspector Garmash took a sip, put the delicate bone china teacup back on the small tray, and leaned towards the old couple.Mrs. Dyson reached out and took her husband's. After today, would she still call him "Dad"?Beauvoir was thinking.Or is this the last time?Will it be too painful?Lillian must have called him that. Will he still be a father?Even without children? "I have very sad news," said the Inspector, "about your daughter Lillian." As he spoke, he looked into their eyes and saw their lives changed, forever from that moment on.Before and after knowing the news, two completely different lives. "She's dead." He used short declarative sentences, his voice calm, deep, and clear.He needs to tell them quickly, without delay, and clearly, without any doubts. "I don't understand," said Mrs. Dyson, but her eyes showed that she understood perfectly.She was terrified.Through that gap came the monster that every mother dreads.It had taken her baby, and now it sat in their living room. Mrs. Dyson turned to look at her husband, who was struggling forward in his chair, perhaps trying to get up.Face the news, face the words, type them back, let them roll out of his living room, his house, away from his door.Give those words a good beating so that they reveal their true colors as lies. But he couldn't. "And," said the Inspector, still looking into their eyes, "Lillian was murdered." "Oh, God, no." Lillian's mother looked terrified.She covered her mouth with her hand, and then slowly slid down to her chest, where she limply stopped. Both stared at Garmash.They stared at each other. "I regret to bring you this news," he said.Although he knew it sounded weak, he also knew that it would be worse if he didn't say it. Mrs. and Mr. Dyson disappeared.They emigrated to the continent where their grieving parents lived.It looks like the rest of the world on the outside, but it is quite different.The colors here are all pale, the music is just notes, and the books are no longer consoling.Food is just the nutrients needed to survive and no longer has taste.Breathing is sighing. They know things that others don't.They know how lucky the rest of the world is. "Murdered how?" murmured Mrs. Dyson.Beside her, her husband was too angry to speak.But his face was contorted, his eyes were burning, and he stared at Garmash. "Her neck was broken," replied Garmash. "Soon, she didn't have time to realize it." "Why?" she asked. "Why would someone kill Lillian?" "We don't know either, but we'll find out who did it." Garmash held out his hands to her.An expression of consolation. Beauvoir noticed that the Inspector's right hand was shaking slightly. This is also a problem that only happened after the factory attack. Mrs. Dyson took her hand from her breast and put it in Garmache's.He closed his hands and held hers tightly. He said nothing more.Neither did she. They sat in silence for an indeterminate amount of time. Beauvoir glanced at Mr. Dyson.His anger had now turned to confusion.A man who spoke in action when he was young can only be imprisoned in an easy chair, unable to save his daughter or comfort his wife. Beauvoir stood up and stretched out his arms to the old man.Mr. Dyson stared at them, and took Beauvoir's arm with both hands.Beauvoir helped him to his feet, supporting him.The old man turned to his wife and held out his arms. She stood and walked into his arms. They supported each other and cried. Finally, they separated. Beauvoir found tissues and handed each a handful.When they had calmed down a bit, Inspector Garmash asked each of them some questions. "Lillian lived in New York for many years. Can you describe her life there?" "She's a painter," said Mr. Dyson. "A very good painter. We don't see her very often, but she comes home every two or three years." To Garmash it sounded vaguely like an exaggeration. "She makes a living out of art?" he asked. "Yes," said Mrs. Dyson, "she has been very successful." "Has she been married once?" asked the Inspector. "His name is Morgan," added Mrs. Dyson. "No, it's not Morgan," corrected her husband, "but it's a close pronunciation, last name Madison." "Yes, that's right. It was a long time ago, and their marriage didn't last very long. We never met him, but he was not a nice guy, a drunk. Poor Lillian was totally taken in by him. He was very Charming, as liars often are." Gamache noticed that Beauvoir had produced his notebook. "You said he was drinking?" asked the Inspector. "How do you know that?" "Lillian told us. She ended up kicking him out, but that was a long time ago." "Do you know if he ever quit drinking?" Garmash asked. "Maybe in Alcoholics Anonymous?" They seemed dazed. "We never saw him, Inspector," she repeated. "I thought maybe, before he died." "He died?" asked Beauvoir. "Do you know when?" "Oh, it should be a few years ago, Lillian told us. Maybe he died of drunkenness." "Has your daughter talked about any of her friends?" "She has a lot of friends. We call once a week and she's always going to parties, art shows and stuff." "Did she mention anyone's name?" asked Garmache.The old couple shook their heads. "Did she mention a friend named Clara in Quebec?" "Clara? She used to be Lillian's best friend. They were like one. When we lived in the old house, she used to come over for dinner." "But they didn't stay well?" “克莱拉剽窃了莉莲的一些想法，然后就把莉莲给甩了。过河拆桥，这深深地伤害了莉莲。” “你们女儿为什么要去纽约？”加马什问。 “她感觉蒙特利尔的艺术界不太适合她。当她批评他们的作品时，他们会不高兴。但作为评论家，这是她的工作啊。她想去艺术家们更成熟的地方。” “她提起过谁吗？也许有谁希望她倒霉？” “以前？她曾说每个人都很坏。” “那最近呢？她什么时候回的蒙特利尔？” “去年10月16日。”戴森先生说。 “你记得确切的日期？”加马什转向他。 “你也会的，如果你有个女儿。” 探长点点头，“你说得对。我确实有个女儿，我也会记得她回家的日子。” 两个男人盯着对方看了一会儿。 “莉莲是否告诉过你们她为什么回来了？”加马什心里快速地计算了一下。那应该是八个月前。那之后不久，她就买了那辆车，开始到处参观画展。 “她只是说她想家了。”戴森夫人说，“当时我们感觉自己是最幸福的人了。” 加马什顿了一下，等她回过神来。两个警官都知道在告诉亲人噩耗后，在他们被完全击垮之前，在震惊退去，而痛苦开始之前，有一扇小窗户。 那一刻很快要来了，那扇窗户就要关闭。他们必须认真斟酌每个问题。 “她这次在蒙特利尔愉快吗？”加马什问。 “我从未见她这么高兴过。”戴森先生说，“我以为她可能找到了个男友。我们问她，但她总是大笑着否认。但我也不确定。” “为什么这么说？”加马什问。 “她来家吃饭总不会待久。”戴森夫人说，“7点半之前就回去了。我们与她开玩笑说她是要去赴约。” "How did she answer?" “她总是笑。但是，”她迟疑道，“还是有点什么事儿。” "What's the meaning?" 戴森夫人深吸了口气，似乎努力让自己坚持下去，尽量坚持下去帮助警官，帮助他找到杀害女儿的凶手。 “我也不知道该怎么说。而她以前是不早走的，然后突然有一天就开始了。但她不告诉我们为什么。” “你女儿喜欢喝吗？” “喝？”戴森夫人问，“我不明白这个问题。喝什么？” “酒。我们在现场发现了个东西，可能是嗜酒者互诫协会的。你们知道莉莲是不是AA的吗？” “莉莲？”戴森夫人看起来很惊讶，“我这辈子没见过她喝酒。开派对时，大家总是让她开车。她有时也会喝点酒，但绝不会喝多。” “我们家甚至从来没有酒。”戴森先生说。 “为什么？”加马什问。 “我们就是没有兴趣。”戴森先生回答，“我们的退休金有很多其他的用场。” 加马什点点头，站起来。“可以吗？”他示意了一下墙上的照片。 “请吧。”戴森夫人也走了过来。 “很好看。”他说。他们看着墙上的照片。随着他们一步步走过，莉莲长大了，变老了。从娇贵的新生儿，到被宠爱的孩子，到一头金发的可爱年轻女子。 “你们的女儿是在一个花园里被发现的。”他说，尽量使语气听起来不那么可怕，“花园是她朋友克莱拉家的。” 戴森夫人停了下来，盯着探长，“克莱拉？但那不可能。莉莲绝不会去那里的。她宁愿见魔鬼也不愿意见那个女人。” “你们是说莉莲在克莱拉家被害的吗？”戴森先生质问。 “是的，在她家后院。” “那么你们就应该知道是谁杀害了莉莲。”戴森先生说，“你们没有逮捕她吗？” “还没有。”加马什说，“还有其他的可能性。自从你们女儿回到蒙特利尔，她没有谈起过别的什么人吗？有谁想伤害她？” “没有谁比克莱拉更明显了。”戴森先生抢白道。 “我知道这很难，”加马什平静地说，停了片刻后继续道，“但你们需要考虑我的问题。这很关键。她谈起过别的什么人吗？她最近和谁有什么不愉快吗？” “没有谁。”戴森夫人最后说道，“我们说了，她从来没有这么高兴过。” 加马什和波伏瓦对戴森夫妇提供的帮助表示感谢，递给他们名片。 “请给我们打电话，”探长站在门口说，“如果你们想起了什么事，或者需要什么帮助。” “我们与谁——？”戴森夫人开口道。 “我会派人过来，和你们谈谈要安排的事情。这样可以吗？” They nodded.戴森先生努力站起来，并肩站在妻子身边，看着加马什。两个男人，两位父亲，却已然属于不同的大陆。 他们走下楼梯，脚步声在楼梯间回荡着。加马什在想，这样的两个人怎么会生出克莱拉描述的那种女人。 卑鄙，嫉妒，愤恨，刻薄。 但是，戴森夫妇对克莱拉的评价也是这样。 有太多值得怀疑的地方。 戴森夫人那么确定她的女儿不会去克莱拉·莫罗的家，绝不会主动去。 难道莉莲·戴森是被骗的？被骗到那里却不知道那是克莱拉的家？但如果是这样的话，她为什么又被杀害？为什么又是在那里？