Chapter 16 Chapter Sixteen

"Okay." Gamash sat on a chair with a temporary conference table in front of him, "What do you know?" "Dr. Harris' full report arrived this morning," said Beauvoir, standing in front of some papers taped to the wall, blowing on an uncovered marker under his nose, "Lillian Dyson Her neck was broken, and it was done in one movement." He imitated the movement of twisting her neck, "There are no bruises on her face or arms, except for a small spot on her neck, right after her neck was broken. The place." "What does that tell us?" asked the Inspector.

"It means that death is instantaneous," said Beauvoir, writing it in bold letters.He likes this part of the job best: writing down the facts, the evidence.Put it in ink so that facts become truths. "She was startled, as we thought. Dr. Harris said the killer could have been a man or a woman. Most likely not very old. A certain amount of strength and leverage would have been necessary. The size of the killer Likely to be taller than Mrs Dyson," Beauvoir said, looking at the notes in his hand, "she is only 5 feet 5 inches, and most people will be taller than her."

"How tall is Clara Moreau?" asked Lacoste. The two men looked at each other. "About that high, I think." Beauvoir replied.Gamash nodded. Unfortunately, this is a related question. "No other assaults," Beauvoir continued. "No sexual assaults, no signs of recent sexual activity. She is slightly overweight, but not by much. Dined at McDonald's two hours ago." Beauvoir tried not to imagine the "pleasure package" the coroner found. "Is there anything else in her stomach?" Lacoste asked. "The food that was served at the party?"

"No." "Is there alcohol or drugs in your system?" Garmash asked. "No." The Inspector turned to Lacoste.She looked down at the notes and read: "Lillian Dyson's ex-husband was a jazz trumpeter in New York. He and Lillian met at an art exhibition. He played at a cocktail party and she was a guest at an art exhibition. They were attracted to each other. Obviously, the two Both were alcoholics. They were married, and for a while they both seemed to be sober. Then things went wrong, both of them. He started doing crack cocaine and meth, and he got fired from the band. They got fired from the rental got kicked out of the apartment where she lived. It was a mess. In the end she left him and hooked up with a few more guys. I found two of them but not the rest. Seems like casual relationships, no A real relationship. And, it seems like she's getting hungry."

"Is she also on cocaine and meth?" Garmash asked. "There is no proof," Lacoste replied. "How does she earn a living?" the Inspector continued. "As a painter, or as a critic?" "Neither. She seems to be living on the fringes of the art world," Lacoste said, looking down at his notes. "So what exactly does she do?" Beauvoir asked. "Oh, some illegal work. She doesn't have a work permit in the US. From all the evidence I can gather, she works illegally at an art material store, doing odd jobs here and there." Garmash thought about it.For a 20-year-old, this life might be exciting, but for a woman approaching 50, it can be exhausting, frustrating and discouraging.

"She may not be doing drugs, but has she dealt drugs?" he asked. "Or prostitution?" "Possibly both, but not recently," Lacoste replied. "The coroner said she had no signs of sexually transmitted diseases, no needle marks or scars," Beauvoir said, looking at the typed documents. "We know that most low-level drug dealers also use drugs." "Lillian's parents believe her husband may be dead," the inspector said. "Yes," said Lacoste, "three years ago, an overdose." Beauvoir drew the man's name with a pen.

"Canadian customs records show that she transited by bus from New York City on October 16 last year," Lacoste said. "Nine months ago, she applied for government benefits and received them." "When did she join the AA?" Garmash asked. "I don't know," Lacoste replied. "I tried to contact her leader, Susan Coates, but I couldn't. Schez Nick said she had a few days off." "Was it arranged long ago?" Garmash asked, leaning forward. "I didn't ask." "Be sure to ask." The inspector stood up after finishing speaking. "If you find her, let me know. I also have a few questions for her."

He went to the desk and made a phone call.He could have given Lacoste or Beauvoir his name and number, but he still wanted to do it himself. "Chief Judge's Office." The voice of the staff came from over there. "May I speak to Mr. Judge Pinault? I am Inspector Garmash of the police." "Judge Pinault is out today, Inspector." Gamache froze, very surprised. "Really? Is he sick? I saw him last night. Didn't he mention anything?" Now it was the turn of Judge Pinault's secretary to froze, "He called this morning and said he would be working from home for the next few days."

"Is this an exceptional case?" "The Chief Justice has the authority to do so, Mr. Garmash." She sounded patient, even though it was obvious he shouldn't have asked the question. "Then I'll call his home. Thank you." He next tried to dial another number on his laptop, the number for Nick's Hotel. No, the woman on the other end answered impatiently, Susan wasn't there.She called and said she couldn't come. The woman sounded very upset. "Did she say why?" asked Garmash. "Say she's not feeling well." Garmash thanked her, hung up the phone, and then called Susan's cell phone, but didn't get through.After hanging up the phone, he took the glasses in his hand and tapped them lightly.

It seems that everyone who saw AA on Sunday night has disappeared. Susan Coates is gone, Thierry Pinault is gone. Is this cause for concern?Armand Garmache knew that the disappearance of anyone in a homicide investigation was cause for concern, but not panic. He stood up and went to the window.From where he stood he could see the Beira River and the town of Samson.Just then, he saw a car approaching and stopped.This is a two-seater car, beautiful in shape, brand new and shiny, very expensive, in stark contrast to the old cars parked in front of the resident's yard. A man got out of the car and looked around.He looked hesitant, but not lost.

Then he walked into the tavern with great confidence. Gamache watched, his eyes narrowed. "Ha!" he muttered, turning and looking at the clock on the wall.It's almost noon. The inspector picked up the thick book on the table. "I'm going to the bistro," he said, seeing the knowing smiles on the faces of Lacoste and Beauvoir. Can't blame them for anything. Garmash's eyes gradually adjusted to the darkness in the tavern.It was warm outside, but fires were still burning in the two fireplaces inside. It's like stepping into another world, with its own atmosphere and seasons.It's never too cold or too hot here, and the climate is always right. "Welcome, regular customer!" Gabriel called, waving from behind the long, shiny bar. "Back so soon? Did you miss me?" "Let's never talk about relationships, Gabriel," Gamache quipped. "It's going to be too much for Olivier and Raina Marie." "That's right." Gabriel laughed loudly, ran out from behind the bar, and handed the detective a licorice stick, "I also heard that it's best to suppress your emotions." Garmash put the licorice stick in his mouth, like smoking a cigarette. "Very Continental," said Gabriel, nodding approvingly, "much like Inspector Maigret." "Thank you. It's the way I like it." "Why don't you sit outside?" Gabriel asked, pointing to the terrace.There were some round tables with cherry umbrellas, around which several villagers were sitting sipping coffee, and some were drinking aperitifs. "No, I'm looking for someone." Armand Garmache pointed to the table next to the fire in the back of the tavern.Sitting comfortably there, looking absolutely relaxed and at ease, is none other than gallery owner Dennis Fortin. "However, let me ask you a question first," said Garmash. "Did Mr. Fortin speak to you on the day of the preview of the Clara exhibition?" "In Montreal? Yes." Gabriel laughed. "Of course he did. He apologized." "What did he say?" "His exact words were, 'I'm so sorry I called you a fucking fake bitch.' Quoted." Gabriel stared at Gamash. "I was, you know." "I've heard the rumours, but it's not nice to be called that." Gabriel shook his head. "It's not the first time, and it probably won't be the last. But you're right, never mind, it always feels like a fresh injury." The two looked at the casual art dealer.Fortin looked listless and relaxed. Gabriel smiled, "Actually, I like him quite a bit. Not many people who ever called me that have ever apologized to me. Gotta give him a point. He also apologized to Clara for being that way treated her badly." Looks like the gallery owner was telling the truth, Garmash thought. "He was at the party here on Saturday night, and Clara invited him," said Gabriel, following the Inspector's gaze, "but I noticed he didn't stay long." "He didn't stay long." "Then why is he coming back?" Garmash was thinking about the same thing.He had seen Dennis Fortin a few minutes earlier, and it was for this very question that he had come. "I didn't expect to see you here," said Garmash, walking towards Fortin.The latter stood up from his seat. The two shook hands. "I hadn't planned it. But the gallery is closed on Monday, and I'm thinking about—" "Think about what?" The two sat in armchairs.Gabriel brought Garmash a glass of lemonade. "You just said you were thinking about—?" asked Garmash. "Consider what you said to me yesterday." "About the murder?" Denis Fortin blushed. "Oh, no. It's about François Marois and André Castonguet who are still here." Gammash knew what the gallery owner meant, but still wanted him to go on, "What?" Fortin grinned, a childish, disarming grin. "We in the art world like to think of ourselves as rebels, do-it-yourselfers, free spirits. Intellect and intuition outshine all others. over people. But what they call the 'art establishment' is not for nothing. In fact, most people are followers. If a dealer sniffs around a painter, it won't take long. Others People join in. We like to follow suit. A phenomenon is created. Not because the painter is any better than everyone else, but because dealers have groupthink, or herd mentality. Suddenly, they They all decided they wanted a certain painter.” "them?" "We," he corrected, looking reluctant.Again, Garmash noticed that the irritation never seemed to leave Fortin. "And that painter became the next big hit?" "Very likely. I wouldn't worry if it was just Castongui, or even just Marois. But both of them at the same time?" "How do you know the two of them are still here?" asked Gamash.He knew why, Marois had told him, but he still wanted Fortin's explanation. "Of course the Moreaus." "Is that why you're here?" "What else?" Fear and greed, Marois once said.Such is the force that stirs beneath the glorious veneer of the art world, and that drives Fortin as he sits in this quiet bistro. Jean-Guy Beauvoir picked up the tinkling phone. "Officer Beauvoir? I'm Clara Moreau." Her voice was low, like a whisper. "What's wrong?" Beauvoir instinctively lowered his voice.Agent Lacoste, who was seated at his desk, also leaned forward. "There's a guy in our backyard, a stranger." Beauvoir raised his foot, "What is he doing?" "Looking." Clara whispered, "Looking at the place where Lillian was killed." Detective Lacoste stood on the edge of the village green, vigilant. To her left, Inspector Beauvoir was making his way quietly to the Moreau cottage.To her right, Inspector Garmash was walking softly across the grass.They were careful not to alert anyone behind the house. The villagers who were walking their dogs stopped, and the conversation gradually died down until it disappeared.Soon, the entire Sansong Town fell silent, waiting and watching. Lacoste knew that his task was to protect the villagers, if it got to this point.No matter who was behind, as long as he passed the inspector and Beauvoir, then Lacoste would be the last line of defense. She could reach for the pistol in the holster on her hip, hidden under the stylish top.But she didn't have the gun out, not yet.Inspector Garmash has trained them more than once not to pull the gun out unless you really want to use it. Shoot and make the gangsters stop.Don't aim for the legs or arms, aim for the torso. It doesn't have to be to kill him, but it must not miss the target either.Because once the weapon is drawn, it means that everything else has failed and has been broken free. A scene came to her mind again.The detective fell to the ground, trying to say something.He glared, trying to take aim.His hands were covered in blood, and his wedding ring was soaked in blood.There was so much blood on his hands. She dragged her thoughts back and concentrated. Both Beauvoir and Gamache disappeared.All she could see was the quiet little farmhouse in the sun.All she could hear was her heart beating, beating. Inspector Gamache rounded the corner of the farmhouse and stopped. With his back to him was a woman.He was almost sure who it was, but still wanted to know.He's also almost sure she won't hurt anyone, but wants to be sure before he lets his guard down. Gamache glanced to the left and saw Beauvoir standing there, eyes alert but no longer frightened.The inspector raised his left hand, signaling Beauvoir to stay there and not move. "Hello," called Garmash.The woman jumped up, screamed, and turned around. "My God," cried Susan, "you're scaring the hell out of me." Gamash smiled slightly, "I'm sorry. But you're scaring Clara Moreau to death, too." Susan looked towards the farmhouse and saw Clara standing at the kitchen window.Susan waved her hand lightly and smiled apologetically.Clara hesitated for a moment, then waved her hand. "I'm sorry," Susan said.That's when she noticed Beauvoir, standing a few feet away on the other side of the garden. "I'm not really dangerous, you know. Maybe stupid, but not dangerous." Beauvoir stared at her.In his experience, stupid people were never dangerous, but they were also the most terrifying.Stupidity also leads to many crimes, like anger and greed.He softened his face, walked towards them, and whispered to the inspector. "I'll go and tell Lacoste it's all right here." "Okay." The inspector replied, "I'm in charge here." Beauvoir looked over his shoulder at Susan and shook his head. stupid woman. "Then," asked Garmash, when they were alone, "how did you get here?" "Come and see where Lillian was killed. I couldn't sleep last night. I kept thinking about it and became more and more awake. Lillian was killed, murdered." But she didn't seem to believe that fact. "I've got to go over and see where it happened. You said you'd be here and I want to help you out." "Help? How?" Now it was Susan's turn to be surprised. "Unless it was a mistake or a random attack, someone killed Lillian on purpose. Don't you think so?" Gamash nodded and looked at the woman seriously. "Someone wanted Lillian dead. But who would it be?" "And why?" the inspector continued. "That's right. Maybe I can help answer the 'why' question." "how?" "Really." Susan said with a smile, turning around, seeing the hole in the garden surrounded by yellow police tape fluttering in the wind, the smile disappeared, "I know Lillian better than anyone, even more than her. Parents, probably know better than she does. I can help you." She stared into his dark brown eyes.She is defiant and ready to fight.But she wasn't ready, was seeing something in his eyes, thinking. He was thinking about her words.It's not that I disdain her words, nor that I want to argue with her.Armand Garmache was thinking about what she had said, and what he had heard. The Inspector studied the energetic woman in front of him.Her dress is too tight and doesn't fit properly.Is this creative, or can't wear clothes?Does she not see herself, or does she not care what she looks like at all? She looks stupid and even calls herself stupid. But she is not stupid.Her eyes were shrewd, and her words were even shrewder. She knew the victim better than anyone.She's here to help.But is that what she really came here for? "Hello." Clara said tentatively, came out from the back door of the kitchen, and walked towards them. Susan immediately turned around, stared at the other person, then walked to Clara and held out her hand. "Oh, I'm sorry. I should have knocked first to get your permission, instead of breaking into your garden. I don't know what happened. My name is Susan Coates." When the two women exchanged pleasantries, Garmash turned his gaze from Susan back to the garden, and saw the prayer sticks stuck in the ground.He remembered what Myrna had found under the stick. Beginner wafer, from AA. At first he thought it belonged to the victim, but now he doubts it.Perhaps it belonged to the murderer?Does this explain why Susan showed up in the garden uninvited? Could she be looking for the lost coin?Her own coins?And not knowing they've found it? Clara describing to Susan the discovery of Lillian's body. After speaking, Clara asked, "Are you Lillian's friend?" "Well. We have some friends in common." "Are you a painter?" Clara asked, looking at the older woman in front of her, as well as her clothes. "Barely counted." Susan laughed. "It's not on the same level as you. I think my works are very intuitive, but the critics say they are not very good." Both women burst out laughing. Behind them, visible only to Garmash, the ribbons on the prayer sticks fluttered as if to catch their smiles. "Well, my work has been called 'not so good' for years," Clara admits, "but most of the time, it's just 'nothing' or even noticed. It's my The first art exhibition in memory." The two women exchanged ideas about art, and Garmash listened.This is a record of a painter's life, a record of the balance between self and creation, and a record of the struggle between self and creation. It is trying not to care, not to care too much. "I didn't go to your gallery," said Susan, "that would be too classy for me. I'm more likely to be the one serving the burgers than eating them. But I've heard it's very good, congratulations .I plan to check it out as soon as I get a chance." "We can go together." Clara suggested, "if you're interested." "Thank you," said Susan. "I should have come a few years ago if I knew you were so nice." She looked around and said nothing. "What are you thinking?" Clara asked. Susan smiled and said, "I'm actually thinking about the contrast. The violence that's happening in such a peaceful place, and the ugly things that are happening here." Then they all looked at the peaceful garden, and finally their eyes fell on the area circled by the yellow police tape. "what is that?" "That's a prayer stick," Clara said. All three stared at the intertwined ribbons.Clara suddenly had an idea.She explained the ceremony and asked, "Would you like to tie a ribbon?" Susan thought for a moment, "I'd love to. Thank you." "I'll be back in a few minutes." Clara nodded to the two of them, then turned and walked towards the village. "Very nice woman," said Susan, watching her go. "I hope she stays like this." "You doubt?" asked Garmache. "Success plays with you, but so does failure." She laughed again, then fell silent. "Why do you think Lillian Dyson was murdered?" he asked. "Why do you think I'll know?" "Because I agree with you. You know her better than anyone else, better than herself. You know her secrets, and you're about to tell me now."