SEVEN
The ugliest man alive opened the door and gave Gamache a grotesque smile.
“Armand.” He held out his hand and Gamache took it.
“Monsieur Finney,” said the Chief.
Bowed by arthritis, the elderly man’s body was twisted and humped.
With effort, Gamache held Finney’s eyes, or at least one of them. And even that was no mean feat. Finney’s protruding eyes rolled in all directions, as though in perpetual disapproval. The only thing stopping them from rolling together was his bulbous purple nose, a venous Maginot Line, with vast trenches on either side from which a war on life was being waged and lost.
“Comment allez-vous?” asked Gamache, losing his hold on the wild eye.
“I’m doing well, merci. You?” Monsieur Finney asked. His eyes spun swiftly over the large man who towered over him. Scanning him. “You’re looking well.”
But before Gamache could answer, a pleasant singsong voice came down the hallway.
“Bert, who is it?”
“It’s Peter’s friend. Armand Gamache.” Monsieur Finney stepped back to allow Armand into the Montréal home belonging to Peter Morrow’s mother and stepfather.
“Oh, how nice.”
Bert Finney turned to their guest. “Irene will be happy to see you.”
He smiled, the sort of grin that wide-eyed children imagined beneath their beds at night.
But the real nightmare was yet to come.
When Gamache had been so gravely injured, he’d received among thousands of cards a beautiful one signed by Irene and Bert Finney. Grateful for the card, the Chief Inspector nevertheless understood that courtesy should not be mistaken for genuine kindness. One was nurture, a polite upbringing. The other was nature.
One of these two was courteous. The other kind. And Gamache had a pretty good idea which was which.
He followed Finney down the hall and into a light-filled living room. The furniture was a mix of British antiques and fine Québec pine. The Chief, a great admirer of both the early Québécois and the furniture they made, tried not to stare.
A comfortable sofa was slipcovered in a cheerful but muted pattern, and on the walls he saw works by some of the most prominent Canadian artists. Jean Paul Lemieux, A. Y. Jackson, Clarence Gagnon.
But not a single Peter Morrow. Nor was there a work by Clara.
“Bonjour.”
The Chief walked across the room to the chair by the window and the elderly woman who sat there. Irene Finney. Peter’s mother.
Her silken white hair was done in a loose bun, so that it framed her face. Her eyes were of the clearest blue. Her skin was pink and tender and scored with wrinkles. She wore a loose dress on her plump body and a kindly expression on her face.
“Monsieur Gamache.” Her voice was welcoming. She held up one hand and he took it, bowing slightly over it.
“Fully recovered, I see,” she said. “You’ve gained weight.”
“Good food and exercise,” said Gamache.
“Well, good food anyway,” she said.
Gamache smiled. “We’re living in Three Pines now.”
“Ahh, well, that explains it.”
The Chief stopped himself from asking what it explained. That was the first step into the cave. And he had no desire to enter this woman’s lair any further than he already had.
“What can I get you?” asked Monsieur Finney. “A coffee? A lemonade perhaps?”
“Nothing, thank you. I’m afraid this isn’t a social call. I’ve come…”
He paused. He could hardly say “on business” since this was no longer his business, nor was it really his personal affair. The elderly couple looked at him. Or Madame Finney looked while her husband pointed his nose in Gamache’s direction.
The Chief could see the beginning of concern on Monsieur Finney’s face, so he plunged ahead.
“I’ve come to ask you a couple of questions.”
The relief on Finney’s misshapen face was obvious, while Madame Finney remained placid, polite.
“So there’s no bad news?” Finney asked.
Armand Gamache had become used to this reaction after decades with the S?reté du Québec. He was the knock on the door at midnight, he was the wobbly old man on the bicycle, the grim-faced doctor. He was a good man with bad news. When the head of homicide came calling, it was almost never a happy occasion. And it seemed this specter had followed him into retirement.
“I’m just wondering if you’ve heard from Peter lately.”
“Why are you asking us?” asked Peter’s mother. “You’re his neighbor.”
The voice remained warm, pleasant. But the eyes sharpened. He could almost hear the scrape against the stone.
Gamache considered what she’d just said. She obviously didn’t know that Peter hadn’t been in Three Pines for more than a year. Nor did they know that Peter and Clara were separated. Neither Clara nor Peter would thank him for spilling their private life all over his family.
“He’s away on a trip, probably painting,” said Gamache. That much might be true. “But he didn’t say where he was going. I just need to get in touch with him.”
“Why don’t you ask Claire?” asked Madame Finney.
“Clara,” her husband corrected. “And she probably went with him.”
“But he didn’t say they went away,” she pointed out. “He said, ‘he.’”
Irene Finney turned her soft face to Gamache. And she smiled.
No fact escaped this woman, and the truth interested her not at all. She’d have made, Gamache thought, a great inquisitor. Except that she wasn’t at all inquisitive. She had no curiosity, simply a sharp mind and an instinct for the soft spot.
And despite Gamache’s care, she’d found it. And now she drilled down.
“He’s finally left her, hasn’t he? Now she wants Peter back and you’re the hound who’s supposed to find him and take him back to that village.”
She made Three Pines sound like a peasant slum and the act of returning Peter a crime against humanity. And she’d called Gamache a dog. Fortunately, Armand Gamache had a great deal of time for hounds, and had been called worse.
He held those gentle eyes and met her smile. He neither flinched nor looked away.
“Does Peter have a favorite place to paint? Or someplace he spoke of when he was growing up that he always wanted to visit?”
“You don’t really think I’m going to help you find him, just to take him back there?” she asked. Her tone remained personable. A slight note of disapproval, but that was all. “Peter could have been one of the great painters of his generation, you know. Had he lived in New York or Paris or even here in Montréal. Where he could grow as an artist, get to know other painters, network with gallery owners and patrons. An artist needs stimulation, support. She knew that, and she took him as far from culture as she could. She buried him and his talent.”
All this Madame Finney patiently explained to Gamache. Simply stating facts that should have been obvious, had the large man in front of her not been slightly dim, and dull, and also buried in Three Pines.
“If Peter’s finally escaped,” she said, “I won’t help you find him.”
Gamache nodded and broke eye contact to look at her walls. There he found immediate comfort in the images of rural Québec. The craggy, sinuous, rugged landscapes he knew so well.
“A remarkable collection,” he congratulated her. And his admiration was sincere. Madame Finney had an eye for art.
“Thank you.” She inclined her head slightly, acknowledging the compliment and the truth. “Peter used to sit in front of them for hours as a child.”
“But you’ve put up none of his own works.”
“No. He hasn’t yet earned the right to be hung beside them.” She tilted her head toward the wall. “One day perhaps.”
“And what would he have to do to earn a spot?” Gamache asked.
“Ah, the age-old question, Chief Inspector? Where does genius come from?”
“Was that what I was asking?”
“Of course you were. I don’t surround myself with mediocrity. When Peter paints a masterpiece I’ll hang it. With the others.”
The works on the wall had taken on a different complexion. A. Y. Jackson, Emily Carr, Tom Thomson. They seemed imprisoned. Hung until dead. As a reminder to a disappointing son. Peter had sat in front of them as a boy, and dreamed of one day joining them. Gamache could almost see the boy, in proper shorts and immaculate hair, sitting cross-legged on the carpet. Staring up at these works of genius. And longing to create a painting so fine it would warrant space in his mother’s home.
And failing.
The walls, the works, now seemed to close in on Gamache and he wanted to leave. But couldn’t. Not yet.
Madame Finney glared at him. How many had looked into those eyes, Gamache wondered. Within sight of the guillotine, the smoldering stake, the noose.
“All the works on your walls are landscapes,” Gamache pointed out, his eyes not leaving hers. “Most painted in Québec villages. These artists found inspiration there, were able to create their best works there. Are you suggesting that muses are confined to large cities? That creation isn’t possible in the countryside?”
“Don’t try to make a fool of me,” she snapped, the veneer cracking. “Every artist is different. I’m his mother. I know Peter. Some might thrive in the middle of nowhere, but Peter needs stimulation. She knew that, and she deliberately isolated him. Crippled him, instead of supporting and encouraging him and his art.”
“As you do?” Gamache asked.
Monsieur Finney’s pilgrim eyes came to an abrupt halt and he stared at the Chief. There was silence.
“I believe I’ve been more supportive of my son than your own parents were of you,” Madame Finney said.
“My parents didn’t have the chance, madame, as you know. They died when I was a child.”
Her eyes never left his face. “I can’t help but wonder how they’d have felt about your choice of career. A police officer.” She shook her head in disappointment. “And one whose own colleagues tried to murder him. That can’t be considered a success. In fact, weren’t you actually shot by one of your own inspectors? That is what happened, isn’t it?”
“Irene,” said Monsieur Finney, a warning in the normally docile voice.
“To be fair, madame, I also shot one of my colleagues. Perhaps it was karma.”
“Killed him, as I remember.” She glared at Gamache. “In the woods, outside that village. I’m surprised it doesn’t haunt you every time you walk by. Unless, of course, you’re proud of what you did.”
How did this happen? Gamache wondered. He was in the cave after all. Dragged there by a smiling, twinkling creature. And eviscerated.
And she wasn’t finished with him yet.
“I wonder how your mother and father would have felt about your decision to quit. To run away and hide in that village. Peter’s off painting, you say? At least he’s still trying.”
“You’re quite right,” he said. “I’ll never know how my parents would have felt about my life.”
He held out his hand. She took it and he bent down so that his face was next to her ear. He could feel her silken hair on his cheek and smell her scent of Chanel No. 5 and baby powder.
“But I know my parents loved me,” he whispered, then pulled back so that his eyes locked on to hers. “Does Peter?”
Gamache straightened up, nodded to Monsieur Finney, and walked back down the dark corridor to the front door.
“Wait.”
The Chief paused at the door and turned to see Finney hobbling toward him.
“You’re worried about Peter, aren’t you?” the older man said.
Gamache studied him, then nodded. “Was there a place he went to as a child? A place that might have been special? A favorite place?” He thought for a moment. “A safe place?”
“You mean a real place?”
“Well, yes. When people are in turmoil they sometimes go back to a place where they were once happy.”
“And Peter’s in turmoil, you think?”
“I do.”
Finney thought, then shook his head. “I’m sorry but nothing comes to mind.”
“Merci,” Gamache said. He shook hands with Finney, then left, trying to keep his pace measured. Trying not to speed up. Speed up. Speed away from this house. He could almost hear Emily Carr and A. Y. Jackson and Clarence Gagnon calling him back. Begging to be taken with him. Begging to be appreciated, and not valued simply for their appreciation.
Once in his car, Gamache took a deep breath, then pulled out his phone and found a message from Beauvoir. Jean-Guy had come into Montréal with him, and Gamache had dropped him at SQ headquarters.
Lunch? the text asked.
Mai Xiang Yuan, Chinatown, Gamache wrote back.
Within moments his device trilled. Jean-Guy would meet him there.
A short while later, over dumplings, they compared notes.