The Long Way Home(26)

Peter’s sister looked as though Clara was an all-you-can-eat buffet, and Marianna was starving. Ravenous for the bad news Clara was offering.

“He’s missing,” said Clara.

And Myrna watched Marianna’s eyes grow even brighter.

“That’s terrible.”

“When did you last see him?” Clara asked.

Marianna thought. “He had dinner with us this past winter, but I can’t remember when exactly.”

“You invited him over?”

“He invited himself.”

“Why?” asked Clara.

“Why?” Marianna repeated. “Because I’m his sister. And he wanted to see me.”

She appeared to be insulted, but they all knew she wasn’t.

“No, really,” said Clara. “Why?”

“I have no idea,” Marianna Morrow admitted. “Maybe he wanted to see Bean.”

“Bean?” asked Myrna.

“Marianna’s …” Clara hesitated, and hoped the woman across from her would jump in with an answer. But Marianna Morrow just watched. And smiled.

“Marianna’s child,” said Clara at last.

“Ahhh,” said Myrna, though the hesitation puzzled her.

Marianna examined Clara. “When was the last time you saw him?”

To Myrna’s surprise, Clara didn’t hesitate to tell her. “We’ve been separated for more than a year. I haven’t seen or heard from him since last summer. It was supposed to be a trial separation. He was supposed to come back a year after leaving.”

Myrna was watching Clara closely. There was little hint of the load those words carried. Of the weight, as Clara lugged them around, all day. All night.

“But he didn’t.” Marianna still clung to the shreds of concern, but her satisfaction was all too obvious now.

Myrna wondered why Clara didn’t just shut up.

“But please don’t tell anyone.”

“I won’t,” said Marianna. “I know he visited the art college while he was here. He told us that when he came for dinner.”

“Where we went to school,” Clara told Myrna.

“I think he also visited some galleries.”

Now Marianna Morrow was voluble and Myrna understood why Clara had told her so much. She was feeding Marianna, stuffing her. And Marianna ate it up, a glutton at a bad news banquet. Overstuffed, sleepy, her guard down. Drooling information.

“I have an idea. Why don’t you two come over for dinner tonight?”

Myrna saw Clara smile for a moment, and then it was gone. And Myrna looked at her friend with renewed awe.

* * *

“Find anything?” Armand looked up from the book on Scotland.

Reine-Marie shook her head and put down the printouts.

They’d exchanged material, in hopes the other would find something they’d missed.

“You?” she asked.

He took off his reading glasses and rubbed his eyes. “Nothing. But there’s something else that puzzles me about Peter’s travels.” Gamache sat forward at their table outside the bistro. “He went almost directly from here to Paris.”

Reine-Marie nodded. “Oui.”

“And found a place in the 15th arrondissement.”

Now Reine-Marie understood why Armand was perplexed. “Not exactly a haunt of artists.”

“We need a detailed map of Paris,” he said, getting up. “There’s one at home, but I bet the bookstore has one.”

He returned a few minutes later with an old map, an old guidebook, and an old poet.

Ruth sat in Gamache’s chair, grabbing his ginger beer with one hand and the last of the nuts with the other.

“Peter was last heard from in Quebec City,” she said. “So what does Clouseau here come looking for? A map of Paris. Christ. How many people did you have to poison to become Chief Inspector?”

“So many that one more wouldn’t matter,” he said, and Ruth snorted.

She shoved his drink back to him with a wince and flagged down Olivier.

“Pills,” she ordered. “Alcohol.”

Reine-Marie told her about Peter’s choice of neighborhood, and Ruth shook her head. “Crazy. But then, anyone who’d leave Clara must be. Don’t tell her I said that.”

The three of them went over the map and guidebook, scouring the 15th arrondissement for anything that would explain why Peter would stay there.

“Planning a trip?” asked Gabri. He put a small platter of pickles, cold cuts, and olives on their table, then joined them. “Can I come?”

When told what they were doing, he made a face. “The 15th? What was he thinking?”

Twenty minutes later they stared at each other. None the wiser.

What had Peter Morrow been thinking?

* * *

“And this is Bean,” said Marianna.

Standing in front of Clara and Myrna was a child of twelve or thirteen. In jeans and a bulky shirt, with shoulder-length hair.

“Hello,” said Myrna.

“Hi.”

“Bean, you remember Aunt Clara.”

“Sure. How’s Uncle Peter?”

“Well, he’s off painting,” said Clara, and felt the sharp eyes of Bean watching her.