The Long Way Home(75)

Chartrand tilted his head a little this way. Then that.

And then a slight smile formed. His trained eye had seen the painted lips.

For the painting was smile-up. It was the giddy, laughing perspective.

“It’s a bit of a mess,” Chartrand said. “Here and here.” He waved his hands over the canvas. “It looks like Peter was just filling in gaps, not sure what to do. There’s no cohesion. But there is, I have to admit, a certain”—he searched for the word—“buoyancy.”

Clara reached out and slowly turned Peter’s painting. Like the rotation of the earth. Around. Slowly around. Until day became night. Smiles became frowns. Laughter became sorrow. Sky became water.

“Oh.”

That was all Chartrand said, and needed to say. His expression said the rest. His body, in its sudden tension, spoke.

Gamache felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. Excusing himself, he stepped out the back door.

“Bonjour? Reine-Marie?”

“Oui. We’re in the airport lounge, catching the next flight back to Montréal. I wanted to give you a quick call.”

“How’d it go?”

“I’m not really sure.”

She filled him in on their visit to the art college and Professor Massey. And Professor Norman.

“So he was from Québec,” said Armand. “But they don’t know where?”

“The office is looking,” she said. “The registrar is a bit overwhelmed right now. Getting ready for her own vacation, but I think I convinced her to look for Professor Norman’s dossier. The old files aren’t on computer, so she’ll have to go through them manually.”

“And she’s willing to do it?”

“Fortunately you only really need that one kidney, right, Armand?”

He grimaced. “As long as that’s the only body part you offered her.”

Reine-Marie’s laughter came down the line and he smiled as he turned in her direction. In the background he heard them calling her flight.

“Armand, what do you know about the Muses?”

“The Muses?” He wasn’t sure he heard her over the general boarding announcement. And then there was another, clearer voice.

“Get off the phone, for chrissake.”

“Is that Ruth?”

“She came with me. I think she has a crush on Professor Massey.”

“Ruth?”

“I know. You should’ve seen her. All giggly and blushing. They even recited part of her poetry together. I just sit where I’m put … That one.”

“Ruth?”

“Hurry up,” came the snarly voice. “If we get on now we might down a Scotch before the f*cking thing takes off.”

Ruth.

“I have to go,” said Reine-Marie. “I’ll tell you more once we’re home. Professor Massey gave me a yearbook. I’ll study it on the flight.”

“Merci,” he called down the line. “Merci.”

But she was gone.

He returned to the office to find the four of them bent over one of the other canvases.

“Anything?” he asked.

“Nothing.” Chartrand shook his head and straightened up as though repulsed by the canvas. “Poor Peter.”

Clara met Gamache’s eye, her fears realized. It felt like Peter’s dirty underwear was spread out on the desk.

“You?” Jean-Guy asked, pointing to the phone still in the Chief’s hand.

“Reine-Marie. She and Ruth are just getting on the flight back to Montréal.”

“Ruth?” asked Clara.

“Yes, she went with Reine-Marie. Seems Professor Massey took a shine to her.”

“He seemed so sane,” said Myrna, shaking her head. “Did he survive?”

“Oh, he survived,” said Gamache. “Ruth even giggled.”

“No ‘numb nuts’?” asked Jean-Guy. “No ‘shithead’? Must be love. Or hate.”

“Did Reine-Marie find out anything?” Clara asked.

“Only that Professor Norman was considered unbalanced. He taught art theory. He’s from Québec. She’s waiting to find out where.”

“I’d forgotten about that,” said Clara. “Had a strange accent, though. Hard to place.”

“Just as their flight was called, she asked if I knew anything about the Muses,” said Gamache. “Does that make sense?”

“The brasserie?” asked Myrna.

“No, I think she meant the actual Greek goddesses.”

Clara snorted. “God, I’d forgotten about that too. Professor Norman was obsessed by the Muses. Peter used to laugh about that.”

“But what’s so funny?” Myrna asked. “Don’t most artists have a muse?”

“Absolutely, but Norman turned it into a sort of mania. A prerequisite.”

“A muse is supposed to inspire an artist, right?” said Jean-Guy.

“Oui,” said Chartrand. “There was Manet’s Victorine and Whistler’s Joanna Hiffernan—” He paused. “How odd.”

“How so?” asked Gamache.

“Both those women inspired works that ended up in the first Salon des Refusés.”