Chapter 15 Chapter fifteen

Clara came downstairs for breakfast.She smelled coffee and English muffins. When she woke up, she was surprised to find that she had fallen asleep, and the other side was empty.It took her a moment to remember what had happened the night before. Their quarrel. She almost got up and dressed and left him.Start the car, drive to Montreal, and stay in a cheap hotel. and then? Then, something always happens.The rest of her life, it should be.She doesn't care. But Peter finally told her the truth. They talked late into the night, and eventually she fell asleep.Not touched, not yet.They were both too hurt to do it yet.It was as if they had been skinned, dissected, and had their bones removed.Their entrails were taken out and scrutinized, only to be found to be rotting.

They are not married.They just live together. But they also found out that maybe, just maybe, they could try again. will be different.Would it be better? Clara didn't know. "Good morning," said Peter, seeing her appear.Her hair was all glued to one side, and there was a hint of sleepiness on her face. "Good morning," she replied. He poured her a cup of coffee. No sooner had Clara fallen asleep than he heard her heavy breathing and snorting the previous night, and he went downstairs to the living room.He found those newspapers, found those art exhibition reports full of praise.

He sat there all night, reading reviews in The New York Times, reading reviews in The Times.That way he could memorize them. That way, he too can choose what to believe. Then he stared at pictures of her paintings in the report. Talented.But he also already knew.Only in the past, when looking at her portraits, he saw only flaws.Either it was real or he imagined it.A stroke is missing there, the hands could be drawn better here.He deliberately focuses on these details so that he doesn't see the whole. Now, he sees the whole. It would be a lie to say that he was pleased by it; but Peter Morrow was determined not to lie again, either to himself or to Clara.

To be honest, he still gets the sting to see how talented she is.But now, for the first time since meeting Clara, he stopped looking for her flaws. But throughout the night, he was still struggling with one thing.He'd told her everything, every bad thing he'd ever done or thought.Then she knows everything.Then there is nothing to hide, nothing to surprise each other. Except for one thing. Lillian.And what he had said to her at the student art exhibition many years ago.The few words he said, I can count out with my fingers.But each word is a bullet, and each hits its target.Clara.

"Thank you." Clara said, taking the cup of strong coffee, "It smells delicious." And she was determined not to lie again, to stop pretending that everything was ok just because she hoped the fantasy would come true.The truth is, coffee does smell good.At least it's safe to talk about. Peter sat down and worked up his courage and determination to tell her what he had done.He took a breath, closed his eyes, and opened his mouth to confess. "They came back quite early." Clara nodded towards the window, which she had been staring at. Peter saw a Volvo coming and parked it.Inspector Gamache and Jean-Guy Beauvoir got out and went to the bistro.

He kept his mouth shut, feeling that now was not the time. Looking at the two through the window, Clara smiled.She was amused that Officer Beauvoir no longer locked the car now.When they first came to San Pine to investigate Jane's murder, the officers had to lock the car every time.But now, after a few years, they don't bother anymore. Maybe they knew, she guessed, that the people of San Pine occasionally took a life, but they didn't steal cars. Clara looked at the clock in the kitchen, it was not yet 8 o'clock, "They must have left Montreal just after 6 o'clock."

"Ah yes." Peter agreed, watching Gamache and Beauvoir disappear into the tavern, and then he looked at Clara's hand.Clara held the coffee mug in one hand, and rested the other loosely on the old pine table. Does he dare? He reached out, slowly, not to startle or frighten her.He put his large hand on hers, took his hand gently around hers, and kept it safe there, in the little home he had built with his own hands. She didn't move. That's enough, he told himself. No need to tell her the rest, no need to make her sad. "I'm going to—" Beauvoir said slowly.He stared at the menu, and although he had no appetite, he knew he had to order something.Blueberry pancakes, pancakes, eggs benedict, bacon, sausage and freshly baked croissants are on the menu.

He was up at 5am and picked up the inspector at 5.45am.It's almost 7:30 and he's still waiting for the pangs of hunger to set in. Inspector Garmash put down the menu and looked at the waiter. "Let him think first. I'd like a coffee with milk and some blueberry pancakes with sausage." "Okay." The waiter replied, took Gamache's menu, looked at Beauvoir, "what about you, sir?" "Everything here looks good," said Beauvoir. "I want the same thing as the Inspector. Thanks." "I thought you would definitely order eggs benedict," Garmash said with a smile after the waiter had left, "I remember this is your favorite."

"I did it myself yesterday," said Beauvoir.Gamache laughed.Both of them knew it was more likely that he had a "Super Pizza" for breakfast.In fact, lately Beauvoir has just had some coffee, or another bagel. Through the window, they saw Sansong Town in the rising sun.Not many people are out yet.A few villagers are walking their dogs.Several people sat on benches, drinking coffee and reading morning papers.But most are still sleeping. "How do you think Detective Lacoste is doing?" asked the Inspector.That's when their coffee with milk arrived. "Not bad. Did you speak to her last night? I asked her to tell you a few things."

The two drank coffee and compared the records. When breakfast was delivered, Beauvoir looked at his watch, "I asked her to meet us here at 8 o'clock." Now at 7:50, he looked up and saw Lacoste walking across the green of the village towards the small village. The tavern came, holding a dossier in his hand. "I like being a mentor," Beauvoir said. "You are well behaved," said Gamache. "Of course you have a good teacher. Kind, but strict." Beauvoir looked at the inspector with exaggerated surprise, "You? You mean you've been guiding me all these years? No wonder I need therapy."

Gamache looked down at the breakfast and smiled. Lacoste sat beside them and ordered a cappuccino. "One more croissant, sir," she called after the waiter, setting the file on the table. "I read your report on last night's party, Inspector, and did some digging." "Already?" asked Beauvoir. "Well, I'm an early riser. To tell you the truth, I don't like hanging out with painters at B&Bs." "Why?" asked Garmash. "I'm afraid it's because they're bored. I had dinner with Normand and Paulette last night. I wanted to see if I could get some more information about Lillian Dyson out of them, but they seemed I'm not interested anymore." "What did you talk about?" Beauvoir asked. "They spent almost a meal playing up the Ottawa Star's review of Clara's exhibition. They said those reviews would ruin her career." "But who cares what the Ottawa Star says?" Beauvoir asked. "Ten years ago no one would have cared, but now with the Internet, people all over the world can see it," Lacoste said. "Insignificant ideas suddenly become important. As Normand said, people Only the bad reviews will be remembered." "I'm skeptical of that argument," Gamash said. "Have you made any progress searching Lillian Dyson's comments?" Beauvoir asked. "He's a genius, making art like a biological function?" Lacoste quotes, hoping it's referring to Normand and Paulette, though it's probably him, she first thought.Maybe the "he" in this comment is Normand.That might explain why he's so mean, and why he takes so much pleasure in seeing others being criticized. Lacoste then shook his head again, "There is no progress on this review. It's been too long, more than 20 years. I sent an agent to the reference room of the "News" newspaper. We have to filter the microfilms bit by bit. film." "Okay." Beauvoir nodded approvingly. Lacoste broke the warm and crispy croissant in half. "As you ordered, I investigated Lillian Dyson's leader, Inspector," she said, taking a bite of her croissant, putting it down, and picking up the file, "Susan Coates, 62, Waitress at Nick's on Green Street. Do you know this place?" Beauvoir shook his head, but Garmache nodded, "It's a place in the West Hills community." "I called before I came here in the morning and spoke to one of their hostesses, a Lorraine who confirmed that Susan had worked there for 20 years. But when I asked about Susan's hours she was wary ...and this last Lorraine admits that they kept each other secret when they served private parties for extra money. Susan was supposed to be on the lunch shift, but she wasn't on Saturday. However, she was at work yesterday, as usual. She Start working at 11 o'clock." "'Serving a private party,' does that mean—?" asked Beauvoir. "Prostitution?" asked Lacoste. "Come on, this woman is 62 years old. Even though she was doing it years ago. Twice for prostitution, once for breaking and entering. These are the early 1980s and she was charged with stealing." Both Gamache and Beauvoir raised their eyebrows.Of course, this was a long time ago, and these are some distance from murder. "I also checked her tax information. Last year she declared income of $23,000. But she is deeply in debt and maxed out on three credit cards. She seems to feel that the credit line is not her goal. Like Most people who are in debt, she juggles between different creditors, but almost all of them are close to the end." "Does she know herself?" asked Garmache. "It's hard not to know, unless she's delusional." "You haven't met her in person," said Beauvoir. "Parana is an understatement." André Castongui could smell the coffee. He was lying on the bed, on the comfortable mattress, under the soft goose down comforter.He wishes he was dead. He felt as if he had fallen off a cliff, but survived.He was flattened and his whole body was bruised and bruised.He stretched out his trembling hand, reached for the glass beside the bed, drank the remaining water in one gulp, and felt better. He sat up slowly, accustoming himself to each new position.Finally, he stood up and wrapped his bathrobe around his limp body.Never again, he dragged his body and slowly moved towards the bathroom, staring at his own reflection.Never again. But he said so yesterday.And the day before yesterday.And the day before yesterday. The criminal investigation team spent the morning in the case room at the Canadian National Station.This old red brick building is over a century old and sits on the banks of the Beira River in the town of San Pine.The buildings are long abandoned and the trains stopped here decades ago.There is no explanation. For a while, there were still trains roaring past, winding through valleys, zigzag between mountains, and finally disappeared around the bend. Then one day, suddenly there were no more trains passing by, no more 12:00 express, no more 3:00 pm milk wagons to Vermont. There are no longer trains that villagers can use to determine the time. As a result, both the train and the time came to a standstill in Sansong Town. The station remained empty until one day Ruth Sadow had an idea that didn't involve whiskey or ice.The Volunteer Fire Brigade of Samson Township took over the place.So, led by Ruth, they made their way to the lovely old red-brick building, and settled comfortably. Like the Criminal Investigation Unit now.On one side of the large room were some firefighting equipment, axes, hoses, helmets, and a truck.The other half of the room is for desks, computers, printers, scanners, etc.On the walls are some posters of firefighting tips, a large map of the area, photographs of the Governor's Poetry Award winners, including Ruth, and several large boards marked: Suspects, Evidence, Victims, and question. There are many questions.The criminal investigation team spent the morning trying to answer these questions.A detailed autopsy report has been sent and is being processed by Sergeant Beauvoir, who is also handling evidence at the scene.His job is to understand how she died.And Detective Lacoste's job is to find out what she was like when she was alive, what she was like in New York City, about her marriage, her friends, her colleagues.What did she do, what did she think, how did other people see her. In the end Inspector Garmash puts it all together. He sat behind his desk and got to work, a cup of coffee in hand, reading all the reports from the previous day and night. Then he picked up the big blue book on the table and went for a walk.He instinctively walked towards the village and stopped on the stone bridge across the creek. Ruth was sitting on a bench in the village green.Obviously, she wasn't doing anything, but the Inspector didn't think so.She is doing the most difficult thing in the world. She is waiting, she is hoping. He looked at her, and she tilted her gray head up to the sky, listening, as if to a distant sound, say a train, or people coming home from far away, and then her head dropped again. How long, he thought, would she wait?It's almost mid-June already.How many people, mother or father, sat where Ruth sat, waiting, hoping?Listening to the sound of the train, wondering if it will stop.Perhaps a familiar young figure will come, returning from those places full of death, Vimy Ridge, Flanders Fields, Passchendaele. How long do you hope to survive? Ruth tilted her head, looked at the sky, and listened again, to the distant call, and then she looked down again. A kind of eternity, Garmash thought. If hope can last forever, what about hatred? He turned away, not wanting to disturb her.Of course, he didn't want to be disturbed either.He needs quiet time to read and think.So he turned, past the old railway station, to a dirt road that radiated from the village green.He has walked many places in Sansong Town, but he has never walked this road. On both sides of the road are tall maple trees, whose branches and leaves are connected in the air, and the leaves almost block out the sun.But it was not completely covered, the sunlight filtered through the leaves, spilled onto the dirt road, onto his body and the book in his hand, and cast mottled spots of light. Garmash saw a huge gray stone sticking out from the side of the road.He sat down, put on reading glasses, crossed his legs, and opened the book. An hour later, he closed the book and looked forward.He stood up and walked a few more steps along the path full of shade and light.In the woods, he saw dry leaves, bracken, heard chipmunks climbing trees, and birdsong.Everything is in sight, although his thoughts are elsewhere. Finally, he stopped, turned and walked back.His steps were slow and deliberate.