The Long Way Home

At about the same time Peter Morrow was staring down at this bed, he was staring down at Peter’s lip painting.

And once more Gamache had turned it around.

Changed the way he was looking at it.

That was what he’d needed to do with this case. Turn it around. They’d presumed so many things. Made so many conclusions fit the facts.

But they actually had it upside down.

If Professor Massey had painted that wonderful picture at the back of his studio, how had Norman, so far away, infected it with asbestos?

How? How?

The answer was, he couldn’t have.

The answer had to be that Professor Massey hadn’t painted that picture.

Norman had.

Norman hadn’t put the asbestos on. Massey had.

Gamache realized he had everything backward.

No Man wasn’t trying to kill Professor Massey.

Massey was trying to kill No Man.

And he’d succeeded.

Professor Norman’s throat might have been cut that morning, but this murder had actually been committed decades ago. With a sprinkle of asbestos on blank canvases. Shipped to the disgraced and dismissed Professor Norman. As a favor.

Norman had eagerly opened the containers of art supplies, like a child at Christmas. Inhaling the asbestos liberated into the air. Then he’d happily, gratefully, unrolled the blank canvases, further disturbing the deadly fibers. As though that wasn’t enough, Norman would then have stretched them onto a frame. And finally he’d have painted them.

All the while believing kindly Professor Massey was his friend.

If Reine-Marie’s and Myrna’s opinions were to be believed, Sébastien Norman had been a gifted, perhaps even masterful, painter. But each stroke of the brush had brought him closer to death. The very act of creation had killed him.

As Massey knew it would.

Gamache felt a fool. He should have seen this sooner, much sooner. Who had access to the asbestos? Not Norman. He was way far away in Baie-Saint-Paul by the time it was taken out of the walls of the art college.

No. Professor Massey had access to it.

“But why would Massey want to kill Norman?” Beauvoir asked. “Shouldn’t it be the other way around? Massey got Norman fired. Why would he then send Norman infected canvases for years?”

Instead of answering, Gamache turned to Peter, who was now standing in the doorway. His eyes averted from the bloody bed.

“We found your paintings. The ones you gave to Bean.”

“Oh.” Peter looked as though Gamache had just pulled down his pants. “Did Clara see them?”

“Would it matter?”

Peter thought about that, and shook his head. “It would have, a year ago. Even a few months ago. But now?” He searched his feelings and almost smiled. “It’s okay.” He looked at them with wonder. “It’s okay. They’re a mess, but they’ll get better. What did Clara think of them?”

This was all that really mattered to him. Not their opinion, only Clara’s.

“Do you want to know?”

He nodded.

“She thought they were a dog’s breakfast.” Gamache studied Peter as he said it. The old Peter would have gotten huffy, taken offense. Been deeply insulted that anything he did could be greeted with anything short of wild applause.

But this Peter just shook his head and smiled. “She’s right.”

“It’s a compliment, you know,” said Gamache. “She said her first efforts were the same. A lump in the throat.”

“Oh, God, I miss her so much.” The little energy Peter had summoned disappeared and he seemed to deflate.

His lower lip trembled and tears welled up. Saltwater. A sea of emotion, withheld. He looked desperate to say all the things unsaid, for decades. But all that came out was ragged breath.

“I want to sit in our garden and hear about her year, and tell her about mine,” he finally said. “I want to hear all about her art. And how she paints and how she feels. Oh, God, what’ve I done?”

*

Clara grabbed Peter’s rolled-up paintings. “I can’t wait any longer.”

“Sit down,” Myrna commanded. “Sit.”

“Could we at least call them?” Clara pulled out her device.

“Give me that,” said Myrna, holding out her hand. “Give it.”

“But—”

“Now. Lives might be at stake. We don’t know what’s happening and we can’t interrupt. Armand said to wait for him.”

“I can’t.”

“You have to. This is what he does. What they both do. Leave them.”

Their coffees were cold and the lemon meringue pie sat untouched in the middle of the table.

“Do you think they’ve found Peter?” Clara asked.

“I hope so.” Myrna looked out the window and couldn’t imagine what might be beyond this place. Where else could they look? Where else could he hide?

“Does the Muse live here?” Clara asked. Of Chartrand.

“Why do you ask me?”

“Because you’ve been here before.”

“No, I haven’t.”

“Are you sure?” Clara’s eyes held his, and wouldn’t let them drop.

“I’ve never been here in my life,” said Chartrand. “But I’m glad I’m here now.”