Chapter 10 chapter Ten

After exorcising all the evil spirits in the garden, Myrna, Dominique, and Ruth sat together in the attic of Myrna's house. "What do you guys think about that coin?" Dominique asked, leaning back relaxed on the sofa. "More evil," Ruth replied.The two women looked at her. "What do you mean?" Mona asked. "AA?" Ruth demanded. "A group of demon worshipers, a cult. Thought control, the devil, diverting people from the normal path." "Not a drunkard?" Mona asked with a smile. Ruth stared at her suspiciously. "I don't expect the Witch Gardener to understand me."

"You'd be surprised what you can learn in the garden," Myrna replied, "and witches." That's when Clara walked in, looking distraught. "Are you okay?" Dominique asked. "It's fine. Peter has a bottle of champagne in the fridge to celebrate. This is the first time the two of us have had the chance to celebrate the art show alone." Clara poured an iced tea from Myrna's fridge and joined them. conversation. "That's good," Dominique said. "Aha." Clara agreed.Mona looked at her, but said nothing. "What were you talking about?" Clara asked.

"Talking about the dead body in your garden," said Ruth. "Did you kill her?" "Okay," Clara said, "I'm only saying this once, so I hope you remember. Are you listening?" They nodded, except Ruth. "Ruth?" "what?" "You asked a question, and I'm going to answer it now." "It's too late, I'm not interested now. Shall we get something to eat?" "Listen clearly," Clara said clearly and slowly, looking at everyone, "I-didn't-killed-Lillian." "Do you have paper?" Dominique asked. "I'm not sure I can remember."

Ruth laughed. "So," Myrna said, "we'll assume we all believe you. Now the question is, who was the murderer?" "It must have been someone at the party," Clara said. "But who will it be, Holmes?" asked Myrna. "Who hates her so much that he wants to kill her?" Dominique asked. "Anyone who has met her," Clara replied. "But that's not fair," Myrna said. "You haven't seen her in over 20 years, and it's possible that she's just been mean to you. There are things like that. We trigger something in someone, and it's exposed. The worst sides of each other."

"Lillian isn't," Clara said. "She's never stingy about hurting people. She hates everyone, and everyone ends up hating her, like you said before, the frog in the frying pan. She heats of." "I hope it's not our lunch?" said Ruth, "because that's what I had for breakfast." Everyone looked at her.She smiled. "Well, maybe an egg." Everyone turned back to Myrna. "Maybe it wasn't a frying pan," Ruth went on, "it was a glass. Come to think of it, I wasn't eating eggs at all." They turned to Ruth again.

"It's Scotch." They refocused on Myrna, who explained a psychological phenomenon. "I've always hated myself for being with her for so long, for letting Lillian hurt me for so long before actually leaving. I never will again," Clara said.To her surprise, Myrna didn't respond. "Gamash probably thinks I did it." Clara finally broke the silence, "I'm finished." "I have to agree," Ruth said. "Of course not," said Dominique. "Actually, quite the opposite." "What's the meaning?" "You have something that the Inspector doesn't," Dominique said. "You know the art world, you know most of the people at the party. What's your biggest problem right now?"

"Except who killed her? Well, that's what the hell is Lillian here for?" "Very good," said Dominique, standing up. "Good question. Why don't we ask?" "Ask who?" "Guests who are still in Sansong Town." Clara thought for a while, "It's worth a try." "Waste of time," said Ruth, "I still think you did it." "Be careful, old woman," Clara said. "You'll be next." At Lillian Dyson's Montreal apartment, the scene inspection team joined Inspector Garmache and Sergeant Beauvoir.They were collecting fingerprints and collecting specimens, while Garmache and Beauvoir looked around.

It was a modest apartment on the top floor of a three-story building.There are no high-rise buildings in the Royal Heights area, so Lillian's apartment is small but bright. Beauvoir walked briskly to the master bedroom and got to work.But Garmash stopped, feeling the place.The air is not fresh, it smells of oil paint, and the smell of not opening the windows for a long time.The furniture is old, but not antique, high street. There is a drab rug on the laminate floor.Unlike some artists who cared about the aesthetics of a room, Lillian seemed indifferent to what was inside.All she cared about was what was hanging on the wall.

painting.Luminous, dazzling paintings.Not bright or ostentatious, but dazzling.Is she the one who collected these works?Perhaps a painter friend from New York? He stepped forward to see the signature. Lillian Dyson. Inspector Gamache stepped back and stared at the paintings, shocked.This dead woman had painted these pictures!He looked at painting after painting, reading the signatures and dates, just to be sure, but he knew there was no doubt about it.The style is so distinct, so prominent. These were all written by Lillian Dyson, and all were written over the past seven months. He had never seen this kind of painting before.

Her paintings are rich in color and bold in style.In her pen, the cityscape of Montreal is like a forest, both visually and in feeling.The buildings are tall and crooked, like big trees that grow differently, adapting to nature rather than letting nature adapt to them.She painted the buildings as living creatures, as if someone had planted them, watered them, fertilized them, and grown out of the concrete.Attractive, as all living things are. What she portrays is not a relaxing world; but at the same time, it is not threatening. He liked the paintings very much, very much. "Here's more, Inspector," cried Beauvoir, noticing Garmache staring at the paintings. "It looks as if she's turned her bedroom into a studio."

Garmache walked past field personnel who were busy taking fingerprints and specimens, and joined Beauvoir in a small bedroom.A single bed, neatly made, leaned against one wall, and a chest of drawers.But the rest of the modest room is taken up by brushes soaking in tin cans and canvases against the walls.There was a tarpaulin on the floor and the room smelled of oil and detergent. Gamache went to the easel. This is an unfinished painting.Above it was a church, bright red, as if on fire; but it wasn't on fire, it just glowed.The road next to the church is like a meandering river, and passers-by are like reeds.No painter he knew had this style.It's like Lillian Dyson created a whole new artistic trend, like the Cubists or the Impressionists, or the Postmodernists or the Abstract Expressionists. Garmash could hardly look away.The Montreal in Lillian's paintings seems to be the work of nature, not human beings.They show the power, energy and beauty of nature, and wildness. It seemed clear that she was experimenting with this new style, gradually harnessing it.The earliest work, seven months ago, showed some potential, but only tentatively.Around Christmas, there seemed to be a breakthrough, before bold styles finally took hold. "Inspector, look at this." Beauvoir is standing by a bedside table with a thick book in a blue cover.The inspector took a pen from his pocket and opened the book to the page with the bookmark. A sentence inside was highlighted with a yellow highlighter and underlined.The act of drawing lines seems violent. "Alcohol is like a tornado," Inspector Garmash read, "sweeping other people's lives. Hearts are broken. Sweet relationships die." The book is closed.In bold white print on the royal blue cover: Alcoholics Anonymous. "I think we now know who the AA is," Beauvoir said. "It should be," Gamash said. "We need to ask these people some questions." After the on-site team checked everything, the inspector handed Beauvoir a booklet in the drawer.It was curled at the corners, dirty, and obviously old.Beauvoir flipped the page roughly, and then came across the front page. Alcoholics Anonymous meeting schedule. Inside A Sunday Night Party circled the pen. The four women were in pairs, which they thought would be safer. "Obviously you don't watch too many horror movies," Dominique said. "Women are always in pairs. One dies in horror, and the other screams." "I'm going to be the screaming one," Ruth said. "My dear, I'm afraid you're the one who made trouble," Clara said. "Well, I'm reassured about that. Are you coming?" Ruth asked Dominique, who was looking at Myrna and Clara teasingly. Myrna watched the two go first, then turned to Clara. "How is Peter?" "Peter? How did you ask him?" "I just thought of him." Clara stared at Myrna, "You never think about anything casually. What's going on?" "You didn't look very happy when you came in. You said you two celebrated your exhibition. Is that all?" Clara thought of Peter standing in the kitchen, drinking champagne sour.Celebrating her solo exhibition with spoiled wine, and that little smile of his. But Clara didn't want to talk about this yet, she stared at Myrna, wondering what questions the other party would ask. "It's been a difficult time for Peter," she concluded. "I think we all know that." She noticed that Myrna's gaze sharpened, then softened. "He's trying to do his best," Myrna said. Clara thought, this is a kind of diplomatic rhetoric. On the other side of the village green, they saw Gabriel and Olivier sitting on the porch of the B&B, sipping a beer and relaxing before the afternoon rush in the pub. "Matt and Jeff." Gabriel waved to the two women. "Bert and Ernie," Myrna responded.She and Clara walked up the porch steps. "Your painter friends are still here," said Olivier, standing up and kissing the women on the cheeks. "Obviously a few more days." Gabriel was unhappy.His conception of the ideal B&B is one that is unoccupied. "Gamash's people said the others could leave, so they left. They probably didn't find it interesting. Apparently one murder wasn't enough to get their attention." Myrna and Clara walked into the hotel and told them to continue monitoring the village. "What are you two up to?" Clara asked Paulette.They talked for a few minutes.Of course, it's about the weather, and Clara's exhibition.Both Paulette and Normand had a few words with Clara. "Still drawing that wonderful series of birds?" "Yes, there's actually a gallery in Drummondville that's interested, and there's a juried show in Boston that we might be in." "Great!" Clara turned to Myrna. "Their series of wings is amazing." Myrna nearly choked.If she heard someone say "amazing work" again, she would really throw up.She wondered what the word really meant.crappy?ugly?So far, Normand has described Clara's paintings as "amazing", although he clearly doesn't like them.Paulette said Normand is planning some masterpieces, and she promised that everyone will think it will be "amazing". And it was clear that they were both stunned by Clara's success. At the same time, they also admitted that Lillian's murder shocked them. "So," Clara said, nonchalantly picking through a bowl of assorted licorice candies on the living room table, "I was wondering how Lillian got here yesterday. Do you know who invited her?" "Isn't it you?" Paulette asked. Clara shook her head. Myrna leaned back in her chair and listened attentively as they speculated about who might be connected to Lillian. "She's been back in Montreal for a few months, you know," Paulette said. Clara didn't know. "Well," Normand said, "she even came over to talk to us at one art show, apologizing for something she did years ago." "Really?" Clara asked. "What did Lillian do?" "We felt like she was just sucking up," Paulette said. "We were nobody when she left, but we're pretty well developed now." "She needs us now," Normand said, "used to be." "Why?" Clara asked. "She said she came back to create, said she wanted to show us her portfolio." Normand replied. "What did you say?" The couple looked at each other. "We said we didn't have time. We weren't being rude, we just didn't want to have anything to do with her anymore." Clara nodded.She might do the same.Polite, but distant.Forgiving is one thing, but crawling back into the cage to be with the bear is quite another.Even the bear is wearing a tutu and smiling.Or, how did Mona draw an analogy? frying pan. "Maybe she just came here uninvited, a lot of people do," Normand said, "like Dennis Fortin." When Normand mentioned the gallery owner's name, his voice was very soft, as if he had mentioned it accidentally, but it was like a sharp sword piercing deep into the bone, with the intention of hurting someone.He stared at Clara.Myrna stared at him. She leaned forward, wondering how Clara would respond to the attack.Because this is indeed an attack.Civilized, clever, said it with a smile, like a neutron bomb.The intention is to kill people while keeping the frame of this civilized conversation from collapsing. Listening to the couple speak for half an hour, Myrna admitted the attack did not shock her.So does Clara. "But he was invited," Clara said softly, echoing Normand's tone, "I personally invited Dennis." Myrna almost laughed out loud.Clara's first-name address to Fortin was a knockout blow to them, as if she and the well-known gallerist were close friends. Both Normand and Paulette were stunned. However, two puzzling questions remain unanswered. Who invited Lillian to Clara's party? Why did she accept the invitation again?