The Long Way Home(19)

“And what would he have to do to earn a spot?” Gamache asked.

“Ah, the age-old question, Chief Inspector? Where does genius come from?”

“Was that what I was asking?”

“Of course you were. I don’t surround myself with mediocrity. When Peter paints a masterpiece I’ll hang it. With the others.”

The works on the wall had taken on a different complexion. A. Y. Jackson, Emily Carr, Tom Thomson. They seemed imprisoned. Hung until dead. As a reminder to a disappointing son. Peter had sat in front of them as a boy, and dreamed of one day joining them. Gamache could almost see the boy, in proper shorts and immaculate hair, sitting cross-legged on the carpet. Staring up at these works of genius. And longing to create a painting so fine it would warrant space in his mother’s home.

And failing.

The walls, the works, now seemed to close in on Gamache and he wanted to leave. But couldn’t. Not yet.

Madame Finney glared at him. How many had looked into those eyes, Gamache wondered. Within sight of the guillotine, the smoldering stake, the noose.

“All the works on your walls are landscapes,” Gamache pointed out, his eyes not leaving hers. “Most painted in Québec villages. These artists found inspiration there, were able to create their best works there. Are you suggesting that muses are confined to large cities? That creation isn’t possible in the countryside?”

“Don’t try to make a fool of me,” she snapped, the veneer cracking. “Every artist is different. I’m his mother. I know Peter. Some might thrive in the middle of nowhere, but Peter needs stimulation. She knew that, and she deliberately isolated him. Crippled him, instead of supporting and encouraging him and his art.”

“As you do?” Gamache asked.

Monsieur Finney’s pilgrim eyes came to an abrupt halt and he stared at the Chief. There was silence.

“I believe I’ve been more supportive of my son than your own parents were of you,” Madame Finney said.

“My parents didn’t have the chance, madame, as you know. They died when I was a child.”

Her eyes never left his face. “I can’t help but wonder how they’d have felt about your choice of career. A police officer.” She shook her head in disappointment. “And one whose own colleagues tried to murder him. That can’t be considered a success. In fact, weren’t you actually shot by one of your own inspectors? That is what happened, isn’t it?”

“Irene,” said Monsieur Finney, a warning in the normally docile voice.

“To be fair, madame, I also shot one of my colleagues. Perhaps it was karma.”

“Killed him, as I remember.” She glared at Gamache. “In the woods, outside that village. I’m surprised it doesn’t haunt you every time you walk by. Unless, of course, you’re proud of what you did.”

How did this happen? Gamache wondered. He was in the cave after all. Dragged there by a smiling, twinkling creature. And eviscerated.

And she wasn’t finished with him yet.

“I wonder how your mother and father would have felt about your decision to quit. To run away and hide in that village. Peter’s off painting, you say? At least he’s still trying.”

“You’re quite right,” he said. “I’ll never know how my parents would have felt about my life.”

He held out his hand. She took it and he bent down so that his face was next to her ear. He could feel her silken hair on his cheek and smell her scent of Chanel No. 5 and baby powder.

“But I know my parents loved me,” he whispered, then pulled back so that his eyes locked on to hers. “Does Peter?”

Gamache straightened up, nodded to Monsieur Finney, and walked back down the dark corridor to the front door.

“Wait.”

The Chief paused at the door and turned to see Finney hobbling toward him.

“You’re worried about Peter, aren’t you?” the older man said.

Gamache studied him, then nodded. “Was there a place he went to as a child? A place that might have been special? A favorite place?” He thought for a moment. “A safe place?”

“You mean a real place?”

“Well, yes. When people are in turmoil they sometimes go back to a place where they were once happy.”

“And Peter’s in turmoil, you think?”

“I do.”

Finney thought, then shook his head. “I’m sorry but nothing comes to mind.”

“Merci,” Gamache said. He shook hands with Finney, then left, trying to keep his pace measured. Trying not to speed up. Speed up. Speed away from this house. He could almost hear Emily Carr and A. Y. Jackson and Clarence Gagnon calling him back. Begging to be taken with him. Begging to be appreciated, and not valued simply for their appreciation.

Once in his car, Gamache took a deep breath, then pulled out his phone and found a message from Beauvoir. Jean-Guy had come into Montréal with him, and Gamache had dropped him at SQ headquarters.

Lunch? the text asked.

Mai Xiang Yuan, Chinatown, Gamache wrote back.

Within moments his device trilled. Jean-Guy would meet him there.

A short while later, over dumplings, they compared notes.





EIGHT

Jean-Guy Beauvoir tore a small hole in the top of a dumpling and dripped in tamari sauce. Then, using a spoon, he put the whole thing in his mouth.