The Long Way Home Read online

  “Embarrassed, do you think?” asked Beauvoir.

  “Maybe.”

  “Come on, man, you can tell me,” said Beauvoir. “Must’ve been pretty weird.”

  “I think he got kinda scared there at the end,” said the man. “Luc really didn’t want to talk about it. I do know he used to ship No Man’s paintings to his gallery, or someplace. You guys, I guess. And Luc used to get in the art supplies No Man used.”

  “They must’ve been close.”

  “Couldn’t have been that close. Luc said No Man just up and left one day. Took off.”

  “Where to?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “Does Luc know? Is he still in touch with No Man?”

  “I never asked. Never cared.”

  “Was No Man from around here?”

  “Don’t think so. Never heard of family or anything.”

  “So he might’ve gone home?”

  “I suppose.”

  Jean-Guy sipped his ginger beer and thought about that.

  “When did Luc open this place?”

  “He bought the brasserie after he left the commune.”

  “Why’d he call it La Muse?”

  “Haven’t you ever heard of an artist’s muse?” the barman asked. “They all seem to either have one or want one. Me, all I want is peace and quiet.”

  He stared at Beauvoir, but Jean-Guy ignored the hint.

  “Does Luc have a muse?”

  “Only her.”

  The barman tapped the menu.

  “Is she real?” asked Jean-Guy.

  “Wouldn’t that be nice?” said the barman. “But no.” He leaned across the bar and whispered, as though sharing a confidence, “Muses aren’t real.”

  “Merci,” said Beauvoir, and once again longed for the heft of his gun in his hand.

  “The owner still paints?”

  “Oui. Goes off a couple weeks of the year. That’s where he is now.” The man paused. “I don’t suppose his paintings will be worth something, since he studied with this No Man?”

  It was clear he had a few of those, either by choice or because he had no choice.

  “Maybe. But please don’t say anything. Let me tell him myself. Can I call him or email?”

  “No. He doesn’t want to be disturbed. He normally goes off at the end of August, but this year he left early. Guess the weather was good. What’s the name of your gallery? Luc’ll want to know.”

  “Désolé. I’m trying to be here incognito.”

  “Ahh,” said the man.

  “Are there any other members of No Man’s art colony still around?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “Anyone you know have any of No Man’s paintings?”

  “No. He had Luc mail them all down south, to his gallery.” The man paused and thrust out his lower lip. “How can Luc get in touch with you, if you’re incognito?”

  It sounded pretty silly. And the man himself sounded suspicious. Beauvoir gave him his cell phone number.

  “I’m sorry, but I have to ask again,” said Beauvoir. “Have you ever heard your boss talk about a muse? His own, maybe, or one that influenced the colony?” He held up the menu.

  “Non.”

  Beauvoir got up and, waving the menu at the barman, he left. Taking the menu with him.

  * * *

  “Find what you were looking for?” one of the backgammon players asked.

  Clara was momentarily taken aback, wondering how they knew about Peter. But Myrna remembered.

  “We did, and you were right. That picture was painted exactly where you said it was.”

  And then Clara remembered that she and Myrna had asked these two men for help in finding out where Peter had done the lip painting. And they had helped.

  “Strange painting,” said one.

  “Strange place,” said the other.

  Clara, Myrna, Chartrand, and Gamache took the table by the edge of the terrasse and ordered drinks. While they waited, Gamache excused himself and returned to the two men.

  “What did you mean just now when you called it a strange place? You mean the river, where that painting was done?”

  “Nah, I mean the one she had in her other hand.”

  “You knew where that was painted too?” asked Gamache.

  “Oh yes. Been there years ago. Helped take down some of the trees.”

  “In the woods.” Gamache waved vaguely in the direction of the forest.

  “Oui. Recognized it.”

  “But you didn’t say anything?” Gamache asked.

  “Wasn’t asked. She only asked about the river painting. Funny pictures.”

  “I liked them,” the other man said, studying the backgammon board.

  “Do you know anything about the art colony that was built in the woods?” Gamache asked.

  “Nothing. I cleared the trees, then left. Saw the guy a few times in the village here. Grew pretty big, I heard. His artist retreat. And then it ended. Everyone left.”

  “Do you know why?”

  “Like all the others, I suppose,” said the elderly man. “It’d run its course.”

  Gamache thought about that. “You called it a strange place. Why?”

  The other elderly man looked up from the board and examined Gamache with a clear eye. “I know you. You’re that cop. Seen you on TV.”

  Gamache nodded and smiled. “Not anymore. We’re just here trying to find a friend. The man who painted those pictures. His name’s Peter Morrow.”

  They shook their heads.

  “Tall,” said Gamache. “Middle-aged. Anglo?” But the two men just gave him blank stares. “He was interested in the fellow who ran that art colony. Norman. Or No Man.”

  “No Man,” the elderly man repeated. “I remember now. Strange name.”

  “Strange man?” asked Gamache.

  The backgammon player considered that. “No more than the rest. Perhaps less. Kept to himself. Seemed to want to be left alone.”

  He laughed.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “So many artists here are desperate for students. They advertise and hold shows and offer all sorts of courses. But this guy builds a small cabin in that clearing, says nothing, and students flock to him.”

  “You know why?” Gamache asked. “Was he charismatic?”

  That brought another laugh. “Anything but. I can tell you one thing, he didn’t look like an artist. Most are pretty scruffy. He seemed, well, more like you.”

  The elderly man eyed him, and Gamache was far from convinced that was a compliment.

  “Can you describe him? What did he look like?”

  The elderly man considered. “Small guy. Wiry. About my age. My age back then, I mean.”

  “Were there ever any women?”

  “Are you suggesting there were orgies?”

  “You made the clearing for orgies, Léon? Wait ’til your wife finds out.”

  “If there were, I wasn’t invited.”

  “No,” said Gamache, pretty sure they were having fun with him. “I’m just asking if it seemed that No Man was married or had a companion.”

  “Not that I ever saw.”

  “No muses?” asked Gamache, and watched their response. But there was no response, except that the one elderly man finally made his move.

  The other man shook his head and clicked his tongue.

  “You said the place was strange. What did you mean?” Gamache asked again.

  “Where it was, for one thing. Is that where you’d choose to live, if you could’ve had that?”

  He waved at the river.

  “Most of the other artist retreats or communities or whatever you call them take advantage of the view. And why not?”

  Gamache considered that. “Why not?” he asked.

  The elderly man shrugged. “Privacy, I guess.”

  “Or secrecy,” said the other man, his head bowed, studying the board. He looked across at his friend. “For orgies.”

  They
laughed and Gamache returned to the table, and considered what a fine line it was, between privacy and secrecy.

  Their drinks had arrived by then.

  “What were you talking about?” Myrna nodded toward the backgammon players.

  “They knew No Man,” said Gamache. “And recognized the place from Peter’s painting.”

  “Did they know Peter?” asked Clara.

  “No.” He told them what the players had said, then he pulled his notebook and pen from his pocket and set them on the table. “Where’re we at?”

  He looked for his pen, but Clara had taken it and turned her paper place mat over.

  Gamache remembered then who was in charge. And who wasn’t.

  THIRTY

  “Did Peter ever talk to you about Scotland?” Clara asked Chartrand.

  “Scotland?”

  “Dumfries, actually,” said Myrna.

  “The Garden of Cosmic Speculation,” said Gamache.

  Chartrand looked momentarily startled, as though his companions had turned into lunatics.

  “Or hares,” said Clara.

  “Hair hair?” Chartrand touched his head. “Or the musical?”

  “The rabbit,” said Myrna, and could see it wasn’t really a clarification.

  “What’re you talking about?”

  “None of this sounds familiar?” asked Gamache.

  “No, it doesn’t sound familiar,” said Chartrand, exasperated. “It doesn’t even sound sensible.” He turned to Clara. “What did you mean about Scotland?”

  “He was there last winter. Visited a garden.”

  Clara explained what they’d learned about Peter and the Garden of Cosmic Speculation, expecting any moment to hear Chartrand laugh.

  But he didn’t. He listened and nodded.

  “The rabbit turned from flesh to stone, and back again,” said Chartrand, as though that was a perfectly reasonable thing for a rabbit to do. “Peter’s river turns from sorrow to joy, and back again. He’s learned the miracle of transformation. He can turn his pain into paint. And his painting into ecstasy.”

  “It’s what makes a great artist,” said Clara.

  “Not many get there,” said Chartrand. “But I think if Peter’s courage holds and he keeps exploring, he’ll be like few others. Van Gogh, Picasso, Vermeer, Gagnon. Clara Morrow. Creating a whole new form, one that doesn’t distinguish between thought and emotion. Between natural and manufactured. Water, and stone, and living tissue. All one. Peter will be among the greats.”

  “It took a hare in the Garden of Cosmic Speculation for him to see it,” said Myrna.

  “It took Peter growing into a brave man,” said Gamache. “Brave enough not to explain it away.”

  “If we find No Man, we find Peter,” said Myrna.

  “And maybe the tenth muse,” said Clara. “I’d like to meet her.”

  “You already have,” said Chartrand. “You might not know who she is, but she’s someone in your life.”

  “Ruth?” Clara mouthed to Myrna, and opened her eyes wide in mock-horror.

  “Rosa?” Myrna mouthed back.

  Clara chuckled at the thought and looked over the railing, to the woods and the rocks and the river. She wondered if the tenth muse could be a place. Like Charlevoix was for Gagnon. Home.

  “I don’t understand why the Greeks would erase the tenth muse,” Myrna said. “You’d think she’d be more important than the other nine Muses, since the Greeks revered art.”

  “Maybe that’s why,” said Gamache.

  Across the terrasse, the backgammon players stopped rolling the dice and looked at him.

  “Power,” he said. “Maybe the tenth muse was too powerful. Maybe she was banished because she was a threat. And what could be more threatening than freedom? Isn’t that what inspiration is? It can’t be locked up, or even channeled. It can’t be contained or controlled. And that’s what the tenth muse was offering.”

  He looked from one to the other and rested his eyes on Clara.

  “Isn’t that what Professor Norman, or No Man, was also offering? Inspiration? Freedom? No more rigid rules, no lockstep, no conformity. He was offering to help the young artists break away. Find their own way. And when their works were rejected by the establishment, he honored them.” Gamache held Clara’s eyes. “With their own Salon. And for his troubles he was despised, laughed at, marginalized.”

  “Expelled,” said Clara.

  “He built a small home here, in a clearing,” said Gamache. “But he wasn’t alone for long. Other artists were drawn to him. But only the failed ones, the desperate ones. The ones who’d tried everything else. And had nowhere else to turn.”

  “A Salon des Refusés,” said Clara. “He’d created not an artist community, but a home for des refusés. Outcasts, misfits, refugees from the conventional art world.”

  “He was their last hope,” said Myrna. Then after a pause she added, “A shame he was crazy.”

  “I’ve been called that, lots of times,” said Clara. “God help me, even Ruth thinks I’m nuts. What’s crazy?”

  Armand Gamache pressed on his device, and there, glowing on the table, was the photograph of a portrait of a madman.

  No Man.

  “That is,” he said.

  * * *

  The menu landed on the table the same instant Jean-Guy Beauvoir landed in a chair.

  “La Muse,” he said. “The owner’s name is Luc Vachon and he was a member of No Man’s community. He drew that.” Beauvoir tapped the menu.

  “What did he say about No Man and the colony?” Gamache asked, picking up the menu and looking at the picture.

  “Nothing. He wasn’t at the brasserie. He takes off painting every year.”

  “At this time?” asked Myrna. “He runs a brasserie and he leaves at the height of the tourist season?”

  “Can you imagine a business owner doing that?” Clara stared at Myrna until the other woman laughed.

  “Touché, little one,” said Myrna, and wondered briefly how her bookstore was doing under the management of Ruth and Rosa.

  “When will this Vachon be back?” Clara asked.

  “Couple of weeks,” said Beauvoir. “And no way to reach him. The fellow I spoke with said Vachon didn’t like talking about his time in the colony. He did admit that Vachon and No Man must’ve been fairly close, since No Man entrusted him with sending his paintings to a gallery down south.”

  “South like Florida?” asked Myrna.

  “No, south like Montréal. No Man apparently had a gallery there, or a representative. He sent art off and got canvases and art supplies in return. The guy didn’t know the name of the gallery, but Vachon would probably know.”

  Gamache had put on his reading glasses and was studying the signature on the drawing.

  “I looked,” said Beauvoir. “It’s signed Vachon. Not No Man.”

  Gamache nodded and gave the menu to Clara. “It’s a nice drawing.”

  “Pretty,” said Clara, her voice neutral.

  It wasn’t, they all felt, the muse. It was Vachon’s idea of a muse. Someone he clearly had not personally met. Yet.

  But it was a lone figure, not the classic nine sisters. La Muse. Not Les Muses.

  “The community fell apart when No Man suddenly took off. Didn’t tell anyone. He just left.”

  Gamache shifted in his seat, but said nothing. He glanced down at the dancing figure on the menu, but in his mind he was seeing the clearing. The bracken, the wildflowers, the bumps and lumps where homes had once been.

  That looked so much like burial mounds.

  He looked at his watch. It was past six in the evening.

  “I’m afraid we might have to impose on you another night,” he said to Chartrand, who smiled.

  “I consider you friends now. You’re welcome for as long as you’d like.”

  “Merci.”

  “What now?” Clara asked. “I think we’ve spoken to everyone in Baie-Saint-Paul.”

  “There is one plac
e we could try,” said Gamache.

  * * *

  Jean-Guy Beauvoir entered first, and this time he brought out his Sûreté ID.

  “Yes, sir. What can I do for you?”

  Beauvoir waited for the young agent behind the counter to size him up, and when she didn’t he looked at her. She was young. Very young. Fifteen years younger than him. She could almost be …

  But while a brave man, he wasn’t quite brave enough to go there. But he did wonder how, and when, it had happened. That he’d gone from clever, young, whip-smart Jean-Guy Beauvoir, the enfant terrible of homicide, to Inspector Beauvoir. Sir.

  Not all transformations were miracles or magical. Or improvements.

  “We’d like to speak to your station chief.”

  The young agent looked at him, then behind him to the others who were crammed into the entrance of the small Sûreté detachment.

  And then her eyes widened.

  Standing at the back, patiently waiting, was a man she recognized.

  She stood up, then sat down. Then stood up again.

  Jean-Guy Beauvoir suppressed a grin. He was used to this reaction and had been expecting it. Waiting for it.

  “Chief Inspector,” the agent said, practically bowing.

  “Armand Gamache.” He stepped forward and, squeezing his arm between Clara and Chartrand, offered his hand.

  “Agent Pagé,” she said, feeling his grip. “Beatrice Pagé.”

  She could have cursed. Why’d she give him her first name? He doesn’t care. He’s the Chief Inspector of fucking Homicide. Or was. Until that whole rotten business. Until he retired.

  Agent Pagé had joined the Sûreté months before it all blew up. And she knew that while she’d spend most of her career with other superiors, this man would always be, in her mind, the Chief Inspector of homicide.

  “I just started,” she said, and her eyes widened. Stop talking, stop talking. He doesn’t care. Shut the fuck up. “My shift, I mean. And in the Sûreté.”

  Oh, dear God. Take me now.

  “This is my first posting.”

  She stared at him.

  “And where are you from?” Gamache asked.

  He looked interested.

  “Baie-Comeau, up the coast.”

  Merde, merde, merde, she thought. He knows where it is. Merde.

  Gamache nodded. “They’ve cleaned up the bay there. A beautiful place.”