The Long Way Home(62)

Jean-Guy had gone to the back door and pounded, hoping the curator or someone else would still be there, but it was locked up tight.

Now, sitting on the verandah of La Muse, Gamache realized why he felt so relaxed here.

He was, essentially, sitting in a Clarence Gagnon painting, not unlike the one he’d seen on the wall of Peter’s mother’s home. Lucky man, Peter, to have been raised with a Gagnon. Though he’d also been raised with a gorgon. Not so lucky.

Gamache squinted slightly. If he took away the people, it would look almost exactly like the works the old master had painted of Baie-Saint-Paul more than seventy years ago. The brightly colored homes lining the village street. The sweep and swoop of the mansard roofs. The pointy dormers. The tall spires of the churches in the background. It was quaint and comforting and very Québécois.

All that was missing was a workhorse pulling a cart in the background, or kids playing. Or snow. So many of Gagnon’s works featured snow. And yet the images were far from frigid.

He called Reine-Marie and brought her up to speed on the search.

“And the other three galleries?” she’d asked.

“Two were really more framing places, but we asked anyway and they didn’t know Peter and showed no interest in the painting. The other carried works by contemporary local artists. Some really wonderful pieces.”

“But no Peter Morrow?”

“No. The owner hadn’t even heard of him.”

“Did you show him Peter’s canvas?” Reine-Marie asked.

“Yes. He was…” Gamache searched for the word.

“Repulsed?”

Armand laughed. “Polite. He was polite.”

He heard Reine-Marie groan.

“It is worse, isn’t it?” he said.

“Have you found a place to stay yet?”

“No. Jean-Guy’s gone off to see if there’ve been any cancellations. I’ll let you know.”

“And do you have a plan B?” she asked.

“As a matter of fact, I do. There’s a very nice park bench across the way,” he said.

“Vagrancy. My mother said it would come to this. I’m sitting on our porch with a gin and tonic and some old cheese.”

“And me,” came a familiar voice.

“You’re the ‘some old cheese,’” said Reine-Marie, and Gamache heard Ruth’s grinding laugh. “She’s been telling me all about her misspent youth. Did you know she was—”

And they got cut off.

Gamache stared at his phone and smiled. He suspected Reine-Marie had hung up on purpose, to tease him. A minute later he received an email saying she loved him and to hurry home.

“Nothing, patron,” said Beauvoir, taking his seat beside the Chief.

Nothing. Their search of Baie-Saint-Paul had yielded no Peter, no sign of Peter and no bed for the night. This might not, Gamache thought, have been his very best idea.

Jean-Guy nudged him and pointed down the winding street. Clara and Myrna were walking quickly toward them. Clara was waving the rolled-up canvases and both men could see both women were pleased.

Something. Finally something. Beauvoir was so relieved he forgot to be annoyed that Clara and Myrna were the ones who’d found something.

They joined the men on the terrasse of La Muse and Clara wasted no time. She unrolled one of Peter’s paintings, while Myrna unfolded a map of Charlevoix.

“There.” Clara’s finger, like a bolt of lightning, hit the map. “This is where Peter painted that.”

They looked from the map to the lip painting, then back again.

“One of the galleries told you?” Gamache asked.

As he looked up from the map, he noticed a man across the terrasse staring at them. The man quickly looked away as soon as Gamache met his eyes.

The former Chief Inspector was used to that, after all the times he’d been on the news. Still, Gamache had the impression the man wasn’t so much staring at him as past him, to Clara.

“No, the galleries were mostly closed,” Clara was saying. “Myrna and I were on our way here when I suddenly thought about someone else to ask.”

“Who?” asked Beauvoir.

Gamache listened, but kept the man in his peripheral vision. He was again staring in their direction.

“Those two old guys playing backgammon,” said Myrna. “They looked like they’d been here forever—”

“And they have been.” Clara picked up the story. “Their families have been here for generations. As far back as anyone can remember. They even knew Clarence Gagnon. Split his wood for him when they were kids.” She was silent for a moment. “Imagine meeting Gagnon? He painted villages and landscapes, but unlike anything that was being done at the time. It was like Gagnon stripped the skin off the world and painted the muscle and sinew and veins of a place. I make it sound grotesque, but you know what I mean.”

“I know.”

But it wasn’t one of her companions who’d spoken. It was the man across the terrasse.

As Clara was talking, Gamache had noticed the man get up, drop some money on his table and then walk in their direction.

Gamache could see that Jean-Guy had also noticed. And was watching. Wary. Ready.

“Excusez-moi.” The man was now standing beside their table. “I’m sorry to disturb you.”