‘They’re marvelous, Clara. They radiate.’ He turned to look at her in astonishment, as though meeting the woman for the first time. He’d known she was insightful, and courageous and compassionate. But he hadn’t appreciated that she was this gifted. ‘Has anyone seen these?’
‘I gave my portfolio to CC just before Christmas. She’s friends with Denis Fortin.’
‘The gallery owner,’ said Gamache.
‘The best in Quebec, probably in Canada. He has connections to the Musée d’Art contemporain and the Museum of Modern Art in New York. If he likes your stuff you’re launched.’
‘That’s exciting,’ said Gamache.
‘Not really. He hated it.’ She turned away, not able to look any human in the eye as she admitted her failure. ‘CC and Fortin happened to be at Ogilvy’s when I was there for Ruth’s book launch. We passed on the escalator. I was going up and they were going down. I heard CC say to him it was a shame he thought my work was amateurish and banal.’
‘He said that?’ Gamache was surprised.
‘Well, he didn’t, but CC did. She was repeating what he’d said and he didn’t contradict her. Then we’d passed and before I knew it I was out the door. Thank God for the vagrant.’
‘What vagrant?’
Should she tell him? But she already felt skinned and lashed and had no stomach for further exposure even to this man who listened as though she was the only one on earth. She couldn’t admit she believed God was a bag lady.
Did she still believe it?
She paused a moment and considered. Yes, came the simple and clear answer. Yes, she still believed she’d met God on the cold, dark, blessed streets of Montreal at Christmas. Still, she’d embarrassed herself enough this night.
‘Oh, nothing. I gave her a coffee and felt better about myself. Seems to work like that, doesn’t it?’
To kind and compassionate people, thought Gamache, but not to everyone. He knew she was holding something back, but chose not to press. Besides, it couldn’t possibly have anything to do with the case and Armand Gamache had no stomach to breach someone else’s boundaries just because he could.
‘Did CC know you were there when she spoke?’
Clara pretended to think back, but she knew the answer. Had known it from the moment she’d seen CC on the escalator.
‘Yes, we made eye contact briefly. She knew.’
‘That must have been devastating.’
‘I actually thought my heart would stop. I really believed Fortin would like my work. It never occurred to me he wouldn’t. It was my fault, living in a fantasy like that.’
‘When someone stabs you it’s not your fault that you feel pain.’
He looked at her face now and at her fists, balled up, knuckles white, her breathing heavy as though pumping herself up. He knew Clara Morrow to be kind and loving and tolerant. If CC de Poitiers could produce this reaction in Clara, what must she have done to others?
And he added Clara’s name to the long list of suspects. What was she hiding deep down in the room she kept locked and hidden even from herself? What had peeped out at him from that silence a few moments ago?
‘Dessert.’ Gabri poked his head into the studio.
TWENTY-TWO
‘Who do you think killed CC?’ Myrna asked, licking her fork and taking a sip of rich dark coffee. The combination of freshly ground and brewed coffee and chocolate fudge cake made Myrna almost light-headed.
‘I think I first have to figure out who she was,’ admitted Gamache. ‘I think the murderer is hiding in her past.’ He told them then about CC and her fantasy world. Like a storyteller of old, Gamache spoke, his voice deep and calm. The friends formed a circle, their faces glowing amber in the light from the fireplace. They ate their cake and sipped their coffee, their eyes growing wider and wider as the depth of the mystery and deceit became clear.
‘So she wasn’t who she pretended to be,’ said Clara when he’d finished. She hoped triumph wasn’t evident in her voice. CC was nuts after all.
‘But why choose them as parents?’ Myrna jerked her head toward the TV.
‘Don’t know. Do you have any theories?’
Everyone thought.
‘It’s not unusual for children to believe they were adopted,’ said Myrna. ‘Even happy children go through that stage.’
‘That’s true,’ said Clara. ‘I remember believing my real mother was the Queen of England and she’d farmed me out to the colonies to be raised a commoner. Every time the doorbell rang I’d think it was her, come to get me.’
