TWENTY-TWO

Glad I found you.’ Mariana stumbled to catch up with her brother. ‘I wanted to talk. It wasn’t me, you know, who told Mother what you said to that cop. It was Sandra.’

Peter looked at her. She’d always been a crybaby, the tattle-tale.

‘Fucking Sandra,’ said Mariana, falling into step beside him. ‘Always going behind people’s backs. And Thomas, what a piece of work he’s turned into. Snot. What’re we going to do?’ She stopped and whispered.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, someone killed Julia. It wasn’t me, and I don’t think it was you. That leaves one of them. If they’d kill Julia, they’ll kill us.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

‘I’m not being.’ She sounded petulant. ‘I’m tired of all this crap. Tired of these reunions. Each is worse than the last, and this is the worst yet.’

‘Let’s hope.’

‘I’m not coming back,’ she said, yanking a flower from its bush. ‘No power on earth’ll get me back to one of these. I’m tired of it all. All this pretending, yes Mother, no Mother, can I get you anything Mother? Who cares what the old bitch thinks anyway? She’s probably disinherited us long ago. That Finney got her to do it, Thomas thinks. So why’re we even bothering?’

‘Because she’s our mother?’

Mariana gave him a look and continued to shred the flower.

‘I’d have thought,’ said Peter, ‘having a child of your own would make you more sympathetic to your own mother.’

‘It has. It’s shown me just how horrible our home life was.’

‘Well, she was better than Father.’

‘You think?’ asked Mariana. ‘At least he listened to us.’

‘Right. And did fuck all. He knew what we wanted and ignored us. Remember that year we all asked for new skis for Christmas? He gave us mittens. He could’ve bought the ski hill and he gave us mittens. Why would he do that?’

Mariana nodded. She remembered. ‘But at least Dad smelled the milk before he gave it to us. Mom never did.’

He smelled the milk and felt the bathwater, he blew on their hot food. They all thought it was disgusting. But a strange new thought started to form in a part of her brain that hadn’t had a new thought in decades.

‘Did you know, when I left home I found a note in my suitcase from him?’ she said, another old memory staggering back.

Peter looked at her, amazed, and afraid. Afraid he was about to lose the one tiny scrap that was his alone. The cipher, the puzzle. The special code from his father.

Never use the first stall in a public washroom.

‘Is Bean a boy or a girl?’ he asked, knowing that would take Mariana off course.

She hesitated then went after the bait. ‘Why should I tell you? Besides, you’ll tell Mother.’

Her mother had stopped harping at Mariana about it years ago. Now there was silence, as though she no longer cared if she had a grandson or a granddaughter. But Mariana knew her mother, and she knew not knowing was killing her. If only it would hurry up.

‘Of course I won’t tell Mother. Come on, tell me.’

Mariana sure as hell knew enough not to tell Peter. Spot.

Peter watched Mariana think. Frankly, he didn’t care whether Bean was animal, vegetable or mineral. He just wanted his sister to shut up, to not steal the only thing his father had given him alone.

But Peter knew it was too late. Knew that Father must have written the same note to all his children, and once again Peter felt a fool. For forty years he’d lugged that sentence around, thinking he was special. Secretly selected by their father because he loved and trusted Peter the most. Never use the first stall in a public washroom. All the magic had gone from it now. It sounded just stupid. Well, he could finally let it go.

He turned and stomped off in search of Clara.

‘Peter,’ his sister called after him. He turned back reluctantly. ‘You sat in some jam,’ she said, gesturing.

He walked away.

She watched him go, remembering the note her father had left. The note she’d memorized and was about to tell Peter about, as a peace offering. But he’d refused it, as he refused all offers of help.

You can’t get milk from a hardware store.

It was a funny sort of thing for a father to tell a daughter. It seemed obvious. And then with all the superstores you could find milk in one aisle and hammers in the next. But by then she’d broken the code, and knew what her father had been trying to tell her. And what she’d just tried to tell Peter.

You can’t get milk from a hardware store.

So stop asking for something that can’t be given. And look for what is offered. She saw the fork of food, and the thin lips that rarely smiled at them, blowing on it.

Agent Lacoste walked along the shore of Lac Massawippi. It was hot, and made hotter by the sun shimmering off the water. She glanced around. Nobody. She imagined stripping off her light summer dress, kicking away her sandals, laying the notebook and pen on the grass, and diving in. She imagined how the refreshing water would feel as her perspiring body splashed into it.

Thinking about it actually made it worse, so she contented herself with taking her sandals off and walking through the shallows, feeling the cool water on her feet.

Then she spotted Clara Morrow sitting on a rock jutting into the lake. Agent Lacoste stopped and watched. Clara Morrow’s hair was groomed under the sensible, floppy sun hat. Her shorts and shirt were neat, her face without smears or smudges or pastry. She was impeccable. Lacoste barely recognized her.

Lacoste got out of the water, wiped her feet on the grass and slipped her sandals back on. As she cleared her throat Clara started and looked over.

‘Bonjour.’ Clara waved and smiled. ‘Come on over.’ She patted the flat stone beside her and Isabelle Lacoste picked her way along the shore and out onto the rocks. The stone was warm on her bottom.

‘Sorry to interrupt.’

‘Never. I was just creating my next work.’

Lacoste looked around for the sketch pad. Nothing. Not even a pencil.

‘Really? It looked as though—’ She stopped herself, but not quite in time.

Clara laughed. ‘As though I was doing nothing? It’s all right, that’s what most people think. It’s a shame that creativity and sloth look exactly the same.’

‘Are you going to paint this?’ Lacoste indicated their surroundings.

‘I don’t think so. I was thinking about painting Mrs Morrow … Finney. Whatever.’ Clara laughed. ‘Maybe that’ll become my specialty. Embittered women. First Ruth and now Peter’s mother.’

But she always painted groups of three. Who would be the last bitter old woman? She hoped it wasn’t herself, but at times Clara could feel herself slipping in that direction. Was that why she was fascinated by them? Maybe she knew that beneath her civilized and supportive exterior there lived a shrivelled, judgemental, negative old thing, waiting.

‘Well, you had a series called the Warrior Uterus,’ said Lacoste. ‘About young women. Maybe this is the other end, so to speak.’

‘I can call it the Hysterectomies,’ said Clara. She also had the series on the Three Graces. Faith, Hope and Charity. What would this series be called? Pride, Despair and Greed? The broken-hearted.

‘Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?’ asked Agent Lacoste.

‘Fire away.’

‘When you heard that Julia Martin had been killed, what did you think?’

‘I was stunned, like everybody. I thought it was an accident. Still do, in some ways. I just can’t figure out how that statue could’ve fallen.’

‘Neither can we,’ admitted Lacoste. ‘The night she died there was a scene in the library.’

‘Sure was.’

‘Do you think that had anything to do with her death?’

‘It does seem a coincidence,’ Clara admitted reluctantly. ‘I’ve watched the Morrows for twenty-five years. The angrier they get the quieter they get. They haven’t really spoken in decades.’

Lacoste could believe it.

‘But Julia, she was an outlier. Different. No, that’s not right, not really different, but distant. She’d been away. I always think the Morrows have like a layer of polyethylene. They’re dipped in it as kids, like Achilles. To protect them. Make them able to withstand high pressures and being dropped on their heads. And once a year they need to be close to Mother to kinda top it up. Get all buffed and polished and hardened again. But Julia had been away so long her coating had worn thin. It took a few days, but eventually she cracked. Exploded really. And said some things she didn’t mean.’

‘The Chief Inspector has the impression she meant every word.’

Clara was surprised, and thought about that.

‘She might have meant it, but that didn’t make what she said true.’

Lacoste nodded and consulted her notes. This was the delicate part.

‘She accused your husband of being the worst. Of being,’ she read from her notes, ‘cruel, greedy and empty.’

Clara began to speak but Lacoste stopped her with a gesture. ‘There’s more. She said he’d destroy anything to get what he wanted.’ Lacoste looked up. ‘It doesn’t sound like the Peter Morrow we know. What did she mean?’

‘She was just trying to hurt him, that’s all.’

‘Did she?’

‘Peter wasn’t very close to her. I don’t think he cared much about her opinion.’

‘Is that possible?’ Lacoste asked. ‘I know we say we don’t care, but they’re family. Don’t you think at some level he cared?’

‘Enough to kill, you mean?’

Lacoste said nothing.

‘The Morrows are used to wounding each other. Normally they do it more subtly. The stone in the snowball, the sting in the tail. You don’t see it coming. You think you’re safe.’

‘Julia came home at a time of stress, to be with her family,’ said Lacoste. ‘She must’ve thought she was safe. But one of them got her.’

Clara said nothing.

‘Who do you think did it?’ Lacoste asked.

‘Not Peter,’ Clara said. Lacoste stared at her, then nodded and closed her book.

‘Julia Martin said one other thing,’ said Lacoste, getting up. ‘She said she’d finally figured out their father’s secret. What did she mean by that?’

Clara shrugged. ‘I asked Peter the same thing. He thinks she was just raving by then, trying to hurt. People do, you know. Like Mrs Morrow this morning and the terrible lies about the Chief Inspector.’

‘She was talking about his father, not him.’

‘But the hurt was directed at him.’

‘Perhaps, but the Chief Inspector isn’t easily hurt. Besides, you’re mistaken. Everything she said about Honoré Gamache was true. He was a coward.’

Gamache and Beauvoir arrived back at the Manoir Bellechasse just as the call came from the Nanaimo Correctional Centre in British Columbia.

‘You’ll have to take it in there,’ said Madame Dubois, pointing to the tiny office. Beauvoir thanked her and sat down behind the desk which seemed to be never used, the proprietor obviously preferring to be in the centre of activity.

‘Monsieur David Martin?’

‘Oui.’

‘I’m calling about the death of your ex-wife.’

‘Wife. We weren’t divorced yet. Just separated.’

Beauvoir thought he must have fitted right in with the Morrows. Appropriate that he would end up in a corrections facility.

‘I’m sorry for your loss.’

He said it by rote, but the man’s response surprised him.

‘Thank you. I still can’t believe she’s gone.’ And he sounded genuinely sad. The first one so far. ‘What can I do to help?’

‘I need to know all about her. How you met, when you met, how well you know the family. Anything at all.’

‘I didn’t know the Morrows all that well. I saw them when I came back to Montreal, but even those visits tapered out. I know Julia was very upset by what happened.’

‘What happened?’

‘Well, when her father kicked her out of the house.’

‘We’d heard that she left.’

There was a hesitation. ‘Yes, I suppose that’s right, but sometimes people can make your life such hell you have no choice.’

‘Charles Morrow made his daughter’s life hell? How?’

‘He believed some malicious gossip. Well, I’m not even sure he believed it.’ David Martin suddenly sounded exhausted. ‘Someone wrote nasty stuff about Julia, her father saw it and got very angry.’

‘Was it true what was written?’

He knew the story but he wanted this man’s version.

‘It said Julia gave good head.’ The disgust was clear in his voice. ‘If you’d ever met Julia you’d know it was ridiculous. She was gracious and kind. A lady. An old-fashioned word, I realize, but it described her. Always made others feel comfortable. And she adored her father. That’s why his reaction hurt so much.’

‘And her mother? What kind of relationship did she have with her?’

David Martin laughed. ‘The further Julia moved away, and the longer she was gone, the better it got. Space and time. That’s relativity for the Morrows.’ But he didn’t seem amused.

‘You have no children?’

‘No. We tried, but Julia didn’t seem too keen. She did it for my sake, but once I realized she didn’t really want them I stopped insisting. She was very wounded, Inspector. I thought I could make it better and look where it led me.’

‘You’re not saying you stole all that money and ruined so many lives for your wife?’

‘No, that was greed,’ he admitted.

‘If you’re so greedy, why wasn’t your wife insured?’

There was another hesitation.

‘Because I couldn’t imagine her dying. Not before me. I’m older than her, I should’ve gone first. I wanted to go first. I could never take money from her death.’

‘Do you know what’s in your wife’s will?’

‘She might’ve made a new one,’ Martin cleared his throat and his voice came back stronger, ‘but the last I heard it all came to me, except for some bequests to charities.’

‘Like?’

‘Oh, the children’s hospital, the animal shelter, the local library. Nothing very big.’

‘Nothing to her family?’

‘Nothing. I can’t imagine they expected anything, but you never know.’

‘How much money did she have?’

‘Well, she might’ve had more but her father left most of his money to his wife when he died. The kids got just enough to ruin them.’

Now the disdain was clear.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Charles Morrow lived in terror his children would squander the family fortune.’

‘Beware the third generation, oui, I heard,’ said Beauvoir.

‘His father had told him that, and he believed it. Each of the kids inherited about a million from their father, except Peter,’ Martin continued. ‘He declined his inheritance.’

‘Quoi?’

‘I know, foolish. He gave it back to the estate and it was split among his siblings and mother.’

Beauvoir was so surprised his formidable brain stopped for a moment. How could someone turn down a million dollars? He hated to think what he’d do for that money, and he couldn’t begin to imagine what would make him turn it down.

‘Why?’ was all he could manage. Fortunately it was enough.

A chuckle came all the way across the continent. ‘I never asked, but I can guess. Revenge. I think he wanted to prove to his father that he’d been wrong. That he of all the kids wasn’t interested in his fortune.’

‘But his father was dead.’ Beauvoir didn’t get it.

‘Families are complicated,’ said David Martin.

‘My family’s complicated, monsieur. This is just weird.’

Beauvoir didn’t like weird.

‘How did you meet your wife?’

‘At a dance. She was the most beautiful woman there, still was the most beautiful woman in any room. I fell in love and came back to Montreal to ask her father to let me marry her. He told me I was welcome to her. It wasn’t very gracious. We didn’t have much to do with each other after that. I’d actually tried to get them to reconcile, but after I met the family I lost enthusiasm for that.’

‘Who do you think killed your wife?’ Might as well ask.

‘I don’t honestly know, but I do know who I think wrote those terrible things in the men’s room at the Ritz.’

Beauvoir already knew it was probably Thomas Morrow so he was uninterested in what came next.

‘Her brother, Peter.’

Beauvoir was suddenly interested.

Peter strode into his brother’s room, not bothering to knock. Best to be forceful, assured.

‘You’re late. God, you look a mess. Doesn’t that wife of yours look after you? Or maybe she’s too busy painting. What’s it like to have a wife far more successful than you?’

Rattatatatat. Peter stood stunned. Once he recovered he knew this was his chance to stand up for Clara, to tell this smug, smarmy, smiling nemesis how she’d saved his life, given him love. How brilliant and kind she was. He’d tell Thomas—

‘Thought so,’ said Thomas, waving him into the room.

Silenced, Peter did as he was told, looking around as he entered. It was much more splendid than his room, the bed canopied, the sofa facing the balcony and the lake. The huge armoire was almost dwarfed by the scale. But Peter’s eyes found the tiniest thing in there. Sitting on the bedside table.

Cufflinks. Left there, he knew, to be seen.

‘We have to do something, Spot.’

‘What do you mean?’ With alarm Peter noticed crumbs on his shirt and quickly brushed them off.

‘Someone killed Julia and that idiot of a detective thinks it was one of us.’

Now was his chance to stand up for Gamache, to tell Thomas what a remarkable man he was, astute, courageous, kind.

‘Mother thinks he’s trying to compensate for his father,’ said Thomas. ‘Must be hard to have a traitor and a coward for a father. For all the stuff we could say about the pater, he was no coward. Bully, perhaps, but no coward.’

‘Bullies are cowards,’ said Peter.

‘That would make your friend’s father both a bully and a coward. That’s not a very nice thing to say, Peter. It’s a wonder you have any friends at all. But I didn’t ask you here to chat about you. This is about Julia, so please focus. It’s obvious who killed her.’

‘Finney,’ said Peter, finding his voice again.

‘Well done.’ Thomas turned his back on Peter and looked out the window. ‘Not that he didn’t do us a favour.’

‘Pardon?’

‘Oh, come on, you can’t tell me you haven’t done the math.

Four minus one?’

His voice was wheedling, insisting Peter answer a rhetorical question.

‘What are you saying?’

‘You’re not really this thick, are you?’

‘Mother might leave all her money to Finney,’ said Peter. ‘Julia’s death doesn’t mean we’ll get a bigger inheritance. Besides, I don’t care. Remember who turned down Father’s inheritance? Money means nothing to me.’

And he knew Thomas couldn’t argue. It was the one incontrovertible fact, bought for a million dollars. The thing that made him different, separated him from his siblings. They knew he’d refused the inheritance, but in true Morrow fashion had said nothing. And he’d said nothing, reserving the words for just this moment.

‘Oh, come on,’ said Thomas, his voice dripping reason. ‘If it meant nothing to you you’d have taken the inheritance.’

‘You’re wrong,’ said Peter, but the rock solid ground beneath him shifted. The territory he’d bought in exchange for his inheritance, in exchange for security for himself and Clara, had proved worthless. He was sinking.

‘Spot claiming not to care that Julia’s death makes us richer?’ said Mariana, stepping in without knocking. ‘Three to inherit,’ she sang to them.

‘You’re late, Magilla,’ said Thomas.

‘It’s comforting, isn’t it, knowing you’ll be rich one day?’ cooed Mariana. Peter could smell her stale perfume and powder and sweat. She smelled of decay.

‘I don’t care about those things, never have.’

‘Now, that might work with Gamache. It might even work with Clara,’ said Thomas. ‘But we know you, Spot. We love fine things,’ he looked around the room, ‘and I bet your room’s spartan compared to this.’

It was.

‘But you’re still the greediest of us,’ Mariana finished her brother’s thought.

‘That’s not true.’ Peter raised his voice.

‘Ah ha.’ Thomas waggled his finger at his brother then raised it to his lips.

‘Of course it’s true,’ said Mariana. ‘Why do you think we call you Spot?’

Peter turned astonished eyes on her. He brought up his hands, to show them the paint spots tattooed there.

‘My painting,’ he said. But he could see in their faces he was wrong. Had been wrong all his life. Or had he? Had he known the truth all along, and denied it?

‘We call you Spot because of the way you used to follow Father around,’ said Thomas, his voice calm, explaining nicely this devastating fact. ‘Like a puppy.’

‘And what do puppies want?’ Mariana asked.

‘Affection,’ said Thomas, ‘and stroking. They want to be cuddled and told how wonderful they are. But it wasn’t enough when Father said it to you. You wanted it all. Every ounce of affection he had. You hated it when he paid any attention to Julia. You were greedy then, Peter, and you’re greedy now. Love, attention, praise, Spot. Good boy, Spot. And after Father died you turned to Mother. Love me, love me, love me, pleeeease.’

‘And you shit on us because all we want from Mother is her money. We at least ask for something she can give,’ said Mariana.

‘You’re wrong,’ Peter exploded. His rage burst out of him with such force he thought the room would shake and tremble and shatter. ‘I never wanted anything from them. Nothing.’

He screamed so loud the last word was barely audible. He thought he’d stripped his vocal cords. He looked around the room for something to throw. Mariana was staring at him, frightened. He liked that. But Thomas? Thomas was smiling.

Peter stepped towards him. He finally knew how to get that smile off his face.

‘You want to kill me, don’t you?’ said Thomas, actually walking to meet Peter. ‘I knew it. Always knew you were the unstable one. Everyone thought it was Julia or Mariana—’

‘Hey—’

‘But it’s always the quiet ones. Isn’t that what your neighbours in that dreary little village will be telling the CBC tomorrow? He always seemed so nice, so normal. Never a harsh word, never a complaint. You going to throw me off the balcony, Peter? Then there’ll only be two of you to inherit. Will that be enough? Or should Mariana start worrying too? All the affection and all the money. The mother-lode.’

Peter could see himself tilting his head back and opening his mouth, and flames spewing out, like vomit. From the tips of his toes the rage would streak through his body, and shoot out, destroying everything around him. He was Nagasaki and Hiroshima, he was the Bikini Atoll and Chernobyl. He would annihilate everything.

Instead he clamped his mouth shut and felt the bitterness and bile burn in his throat and chest. He fought to shove the rage back in, stuffing it down there with anger and jealousy and fear and hate, hate, hate.

But Pandora’s box wouldn’t be shut. Not again. The demons had already escaped and were swirling around the Manoir Bellechasse, feeding and growing. And killing.

Peter turned a twisted, pinched face on Mariana.

‘I might be a puppy, but you’re something much worse, Magilla.’

He spat the last word in her fearful face. It felt good to see her afraid. Then he turned to Thomas.

‘Magilla and Spot,’ he said to the smug face. ‘And do you know what we called you?’

Thomas waited.

‘Nothing. You were nothing to us then and still are. Nothing.’

Peter walked out, feeling calmer than he had in days. But he knew that was because he was curled up in the back seat, and something else was driving. Something rancid and stinking and horrible. The something he’d hidden all his life. It was finally in charge.