TWENTY-FIVE
Mariana Morrow plunked at the piano keys in the Great Room, glad of the peace.
Rich, she was going to be rich one day. As long as Mommy didn’t leave everything to that Finney, and he didn’t leave everything to some cats’ home. Well, she’d done the best she could. She at least had produced a child. She looked over at Bean.
She regretted naming the child Bean, now. What had she been thinking? River would have been better. Or Salmon. Or Salmon River. No, too normal.
Bean had definitely been a mistake. Mariana’s mother had been appalled at first, her only grandchild named after a vegetable. The only reason Mariana had had Bean baptized was to force her mother to listen to the minister declare, in front of the entire congregation, not to mention God, the name of Bean Morrow.
A glorious moment.
But her mother had proved more resilient than Mariana had thought, like a new strain of superbug. She’d become immune to the name.
Aorta, maybe. Aorta Morrow. Or Burp.
Damn, that would’ve been perfect.
‘And now, in the presence of this congregation, and before God, I give you Burp Morrow.’
Another opportunity missed. Perhaps it wasn’t too late.
‘Bean, dear, come to Mommy.’
Mariana patted the piano bench and the child walked over and leaned against it. Mariana thumped the bench with more force, but Bean didn’t budge.
‘Come on, Bean. Up you get. Sit beside Mommy.’
Bean ignored the thumping, glancing down at the everpresent book instead. ‘Mommy, have you ever seen a flying horse?’
‘Only once, dear. In Morocco after a particularly good party. I’ve also seen a few fairies.’
‘You mean Uncle Scott and Uncle Derek?’
‘I do. They fly sometimes, you know, but I don’t think either could be called a stud.’
Bean nodded.
‘Bean, do you like your name? I mean, wouldn’t you like Mommy to change it for you?’ She looked at the serious child. ‘Why don’t you jump?’
Bean, used to Mommy’s verbal veers, followed easily. ‘Why should I?’
‘Well, people do. That’s why we have knees, and arches on our feet. And ankles. Ankles are little wings, you know.’
She made fluttering actions with her fingers, but Bean looked sceptical.
‘They don’t look like wings, they look like bones.’
‘Well, yours have probably fallen off. Disuse. It happens.’
‘I think you jump enough for both of us. I like it here. On the ground.’
‘You know what would make Mommy happy? If I could change your name. What do you think about that?’
Bean shrugged. ‘Suppose. But you won’t make it stranger than Bean, will you?’
The little eyes narrowed.
Chlamydia Morrow.
Very pretty. Too pretty, perhaps. Not quite right. Soon everyone would know if Bean was a boy or a girl and that little secret would be blown. The best way to infuriate Mother would be to give her only grandchild a really ridiculous name.
Mariana looked at the child, strange by even her family’s standards.
Syphilis.
Mariana smiled. Perfect.
Syphilis Morrow. Leads to madness.
Jean Guy Beauvoir leaned back in his chair in the library and looked around. Not really taking in his surroundings, but feeling at ease. Normally he’d be making notes on his computer, checking messages, sending messages, surfing the web. Googling.
But there was no computer. Just a pen and paper. He chewed the pen and stared ahead, using his brain to make connections.
He’d spent much of the afternoon going over writing samples, trying to find out who’d written those notes to Julia. Someone had reached out to her, and from what little they were gathering about the lonely woman, she’d be almost incapable of not reaching back.
Had it killed her? Had she been murdered by her needs?
Beauvoir had had a need of his own. For the first hour and a half he’d concentrated on one suspect. The man he knew had done it. Pierre Patenaude. Far from being difficult to find, samples of his writing were everywhere. Notes on menus, staff rotation lists, evaluation forms and even French tests he’d given the young staff, trying to teach them that the night wasn’t a strawberry and that flaming mice wasn’t a menu option. It seemed the only thing the maître d’ hadn’t written were the notes to Julia Martin.
But after another hour of digging and comparing, of leaning over an old-fashioned magnifying glass taken from a display of butterflies, Beauvoir had his answer. He knew beyond doubt who’d written to Julia.
Bert Finney drew the curtains to block out the sun and watched as his wife undressed for her nap. Not a moment of any day went by when he wasn’t astonished by his good fortune. He was rich beyond the dreams of avarice.
He was patient, but then he’d learned that years ago. And it had paid off. He was even willing to pick up after her, since it got him what he wanted. He gathered the clothes from the floor where she dropped them, trying not to notice the little gasps of pain coming from this tiny woman. Who felt so much, but mostly felt she couldn’t show it. The only argument they’d ever had, and that only once, had been when he’d tried to persuade her to explain all this to the children. She’d refused.
And now Irene Finney stood naked in the centre of the dim room, tears streaming down her cheeks. He knew they would end soon. They always did. But lately they’d been going on longer.
‘What is it?’ he asked, and knew immediately how ridiculous it sounded.
‘Nothing.’
‘Tell me.’ He picked up her slip and bra and underwear and looked up into her face.
‘It’s the smell.’
And that might be true, but he thought it was more than that.
Irene Morrow stood at the Manoir Bellechasse sink, her young, pink hands ladling lukewarm water over Julia. Tiny Julia, so much more petite than Thomas, who was already bathed and in a huge white towel in Charles’s arms. Now it was his baby sister’s turn. Their room at the Manoir hadn’t changed since she’d been going there as a girl herself. The same taps, the same black rubber stopper, the same buoyant Ivory soap.
Now her hands supported her baby in the sink, protecting her from the hard taps, holding her secure so she didn’t slip. Making certain even the mild soap didn’t get into the trusting eyes.
It would be perfect, if it hadn’t been for the pain. Neuralgia they’d later diagnose, a women’s problem her doctors had told Charles at the time. He’d believed them. So had she. After Thomas. But the pain had grown after Julia until she could barely stand to be touched, though she’d never admit that to Charles. Her Victorian parents had made clear two things: the husband must be obeyed, and she must never show weakness, especially to that husband.
And so she’d bathed her beautiful baby, and cried. And Charles had mistaken those tears as a sign of joy. And she’d let him.
And now Julia was gone, and Charles was gone and even the ruse of joy was gone, not even pretended to any more.
And all that was left was pain and a sink and old taps and the scent of Ivory soap.
‘Bonjour, is this the clogging queen?’
‘Oui, c’est la reine du clogging,’ sang the cheery voice down the phone line. She sounded so far away and yet she was just over the line of mountains on the other side of the lake. In the next valley.
‘Is that the stable boy?’ Reine-Marie asked.
‘Oui, mademoiselle.’ Gamache could feel the laughter start. ‘I understand your handsome husband has been called away on very important state business.’
‘Actually, he’s in detox. Again. The coast is clear.’
She was much better at this than he. Gamache always started laughing first and he did now.
‘I miss you.’ He didn’t bother whispering, not caring who heard. ‘Will you come for dinner tonight? I can pick you up in an hour.’
Arrangements were made, but before he left he met with the team. It was teatime and they sat balancing fine bone china cups and saucers and tiny plates with delicate doilies. On the table in front of them were notes on murder and crustless cucumber sandwiches. Lists of suspects and éclairs. Bits of evidence and petits fours.
‘May I be mother?’ Gamache asked.
Beauvoir had actually heard odder things from the Chief Inspector so he just nodded. Isabelle Lacoste smiled and said, ‘S’il vous plaît.’
He poured and they took the food, Beauvoir counting to make sure he got his fair share.
As they ate they talked.
‘OK,’ said Isabelle Lacoste. ‘I have the background information. First Sandra Morrow, née Kent. Affluent background. Father a banker, mother involved in volunteer activities. Born and raised in Montreal. Both parents dead. Inherited a modest amount by the time it was split among all the heirs and taxes were paid. She’s a management consultant in the firm of Bodmin Davies, in Toronto. A junior vice president.’
Gamache raised his eyebrows.
‘Not as impressive as you might think, sir. Almost everyone is called a junior vice president, except the senior VPs. She seems to have hit a glass ceiling a while ago.
‘Her husband Thomas Morrow. Went to the Mantle private school in Montreal then McGill University. Barely scraped by with a general arts degree, though he made a few of the sports teams. Took a job at the Toronto investment firm Drum and Mitchell and he’s still there.’
‘He’s the success story,’ said Beauvoir.
‘Actually, not,’ said Lacoste. ‘But you’d think so to hear him tell it.’
‘To hear the whole family tell it,’ said Beauvoir. ‘They all point to Thomas as the success. Is he hiding something?’
‘Doesn’t actually seem all that big a secret. His office is a cubicle, he does a few million dollars’ worth of business, but I understand in the investment world that’s considered next to nothing.’
‘Not even close. No, that’s his clients’ money. According to his latest tax return he made seventy-six thousand dollars last year.’
‘And he lives in Toronto?’ Beauvoir asked. Toronto was a ridiculously expensive city. Lacoste nodded.
‘Is he in debt?’
‘Not that we could find. Sandra Morrow makes more than him, about a hundred and twenty last year, so between them they make almost two hundred thousand dollars. And as you discovered, they inherited over a million dollars from his father. That was a few years ago and I bet there’s not much left. I’ll keep digging.
‘Peter and Clara Morrow we know about. They own their own cottage in Three Pines. He’s a member of the Royal Academy of Arts in Canada. Very prestigious, but you can’t eat the honour. They lived hand to mouth until Clara inherited money from their neighbour a few years ago. Now they’re comfortable, though far from wealthy. They live modestly. He hasn’t had a solo show in a few years, but he always sells out when he does. His works go for about ten thousand dollars each.’
‘And hers?’ asked Beauvoir.
‘That’s a little harder to say. Until recently she was selling her works for Canadian Tire money.’
Gamache smiled, seeing the wads of the store’s credit bills they gave out with every purchase, like Monopoly money. He had a pile in his glove compartment. Perhaps he should buy an original Clara Morrow while he still could.
‘But then her art started attracting more attention,’ Lacoste continued. ‘As you know, she has a huge solo show coming up.’
‘That brings us to Mariana Morrow,’ said Beauvoir, taking a delicate sip of tea. He imagined Chef Véronique scooping the loose dried leaves into the pretty floral pot, then grasping the large iron kettle and pouring the steaming water in. For him. She’d know it was coming to him, and probably added an extra scoop. And trimmed the crusts from the cucumber sandwiches.
‘Right, Mariana Morrow,’ said Lacoste, turning the page of her notebook. ‘Lives in Toronto too. In an area called Rosedale. I gather it’s like Westmount. Very posh.’
‘Divorced?’ asked Beauvoir.
‘Never married. This is the interesting part. She’s selfmade. Has her own company. She’s an architect. Got a huge break right out of school. For her thesis she designed a small, energy efficient low cost home. Not one of those ugly concrete blocks, but something pretty cool. A place low income people needn’t be ashamed to live in. She made a fortune from it.’
Beauvoir snorted. Trust a Morrow to make money from the poor.
‘She goes all over the world,’ continued Lacoste. ‘Speaks French, Italian, Spanish and Chinese. She makes massive amounts of money. Her last tax form shows her income last year at well over two million dollars. And that’s just what she declares.’
‘Wait a minute,’ said Beauvoir, almost choking on an éclair. ‘You’re saying that woman all wrapped in scarves who drifts around and is late for everything is a self-made millionaire?’
‘More successful than even her father,’ Lacoste nodded. She was secretly pleased. It gave her pleasure to think this most marginalized of Morrows was actually the most successful.
‘Do we know who the kid’s father is?’ Beauvoir asked.
Lacoste shook her head. ‘Maybe there isn’t one. Maybe it was a virgin birth.’
She liked screwing with Beauvoir’s head. ‘I think I can guarantee you that’s not true,’ said Beauvoir, but a look at Gamache removed his smirk. ‘Now, you’re not telling me you believe it, Chief? I’m not going to be the one putting that in the official report. Suspects, Thomas, Peter, Mariana, oh yes and the Second Coming.’
‘You believe in the first, don’t you? Why not the second?’ asked Agent Lacoste.
‘Come on,’ he sputtered. ‘Do you really want me to believe the Second Coming is a child named Bean?’
‘A bean is a seed,’ said Gamache. ‘It’s an old allegory for faith. I have a feeling Bean is a very special child. Nothing is impossible with Bean.’
‘Except to tell if it’s a boy or a girl,’ said Beauvoir, miffed.
‘Does it matter?’ asked Gamache.
‘It matters in that all secrets in a murder investigation matter.’
Gamache nodded slowly. ‘That’s true. Often after a day or so it’s obvious who’s genuine and who isn’t. In this case it’s getting muddier and muddier. Thomas told us about a plant in the desert. If it showed itself for what it really was predators would eat it. So it learned to disguise itself, to hide its true nature. The Morrows are the same. Somehow, somewhere along the line they learned to hide who they really are, what they really think and feel. Nothing is as it seems with them.’
‘Except Peter and Clara,’ said Agent Lacoste. ‘I presume they’re not suspects.’
Gamache looked at her thoughtfully.
‘Do you remember that first case in Three Pines? The murder of Miss Jane Neal?’
They nodded. It was where they first met the Morrows.
‘After we’d made an arrest I was still uncomfortable.’
‘You think we arrested the wrong person?’ asked Beauvoir, aghast.
‘No, we got the murderer, there’s no doubt. But I also knew there was someone else in Three Pines I felt was capable of murder. Someone who needed watching.’
‘Clara,’ said Lacoste. Emotional, temperamental, passionate. So much can go wrong with a personality like that.
‘No, Peter. Closed off, complex, so placid and relaxed on the surface but God only knows what’s happening underneath.’
‘Well, I at least have some good news,’ said Beauvoir. ‘I know who wrote these.’ He held up the crumpled notes from Julia’s grate. ‘Elliot.’
‘The waiter?’ asked Lacoste, amazed.
Beauvoir nodded and showed them the samples of Elliot’s writing next to the notes. Gamache put on his half-moon reading glasses and bent over. Then he sat up.
‘Well done.’
‘Should I speak to him?’
Gamache thought about it for a moment then shook his head. ‘No, I’d like to put a few more things together first, but this is interesting.’
‘There’s more,’ said Beauvoir. ‘He’s not only from Vancouver, but he lived in the same neighbourhood as Julia and David Martin. His parents might have known them.’
‘Find out,’ said Gamache, rising and heading for the door to pick up his wife.
Elliot Byrne seemed to have breached the boundary set out by Madame Dubois. Had young Elliot conquered lonely and defenceless Julia Martin? What had he wanted? An older lover? Attention? Perhaps he’d wanted to finally and absolutely infuriate his boss, the maître d’.
Or was it simpler than that, as it often was? Did he want money? Was he tired of waiting tables for a pittance? And when he got money from Julia, did he kill her?
At the door to the library Gamache paused and looked back at the sheet of foolscap hanging up and the large red letters at the top.
WHO BENEFITS?
Who didn’t benefit from Julia’s death, he was beginning to wonder.