“What?” asked Beauvoir.
“I forgave her.”
This was met with silence, broken eventually by Beauvoir.
“Just like that?”
“Not quite just like that, Inspector. I first had to agree. There’s something freeing, when you help your enemy.”
“Did she ever apologize for that review?” the Chief asked.
“She did. About a month ago.”
“Was she sincere, do you think?” Agent Lacoste asked.
Suzanne paused to think, then nodded. “I wouldn’t have accepted it if I thought it wasn’t. I really believe she was sorry she’d done that to me.”
“And to others?” asked Lacoste.
“And to others,” agreed Suzanne.
“So, if she apologized to you for that review,” Chief Inspector Gamache nodded to the page on the table, “presumably she was also going around apologizing to other people she reviewed.”
“I think that’s probably true. She didn’t tell me about it if she was. I thought her apology to me was just because we were sponsor-sponsee and she needed to clear it up. But now that I think about it I think you’re right. I’m not the only one she apologized to.”
“And not the only artist whose career she destroyed?” asked Gamache.
“Probably not. Not every review was as spectacularly cruel as mine. I take some pride in that. But they’d have been no less effective.”
Suzanne smiled but the officers facing her had caught the sharp edge that sliced toward them on the words “spectacularly cruel.”
She hasn’t forgiven, thought Gamache. At least, not completely.
* * *
When Suzanne and the others had left, the three officers sat around the conference table.
“Do we have enough to make an arrest?” asked Lacoste. “She admits to harboring a long-standing hatred of the victim and to being here. She had motive and opportunity.”
“But there’s no proof,” said Gamache, leaning back in his chair. It was frustrating. They were so close to making a case against Suzanne Coates, but they couldn’t quite nail it. “It’s all suggestive. Very suggestive.” He picked up the review and stared at it, then lowered it and looked at Lacoste.
“You need to go back to La Presse.”
Isabelle Lacoste’s face fell. “Anything but that, patron. Can’t you just shoot me?”
“I’m sorry,” he smiled a little wearily. “I think that morgue has more bodies in it.”
“How so?” asked Beauvoir.
“The other artists whose careers Lillian killed.”
“The other people she was apologizing to,” said Lacoste, resigned, getting to her feet. “Maybe she came down to Clara’s party not to say sorry to Clara, but to apologize to someone else.”
“You don’t think Suzanne Coates killed Lillian?” asked Beauvoir.
“I don’t know,” admitted the Chief. “But I suspect if Suzanne wanted to kill her she’d have done it sooner. And yet…” Gamache paused. “Did you notice her reaction when talking about the review?”
“She’s still angry,” said Lacoste.
Gamache nodded. “She’s spent twenty-three years in AA trying to get over her resentments, and she’s still angry. Can you imagine someone who hasn’t been trying? How angry they must be?”
Beauvoir picked up the review and stared at the joyous young woman.
What happened when not only hopes were dashed, but dreams and careers. A whole life? But of course, he knew the answer to that. They all did.
It was tacked on the wall behind them.
* * *
Jean Guy Beauvoir splashed water on his face and felt the stubble beneath his hands. It was two thirty in the morning and he couldn’t sleep. He’d woken with an ache, had lain in bed hoping it would go. But of course, it didn’t.
So he’d dragged himself up, and to the bathroom.
Now he turned his face this way and that. Staring at his reflection. The man in the mirror was drawn. With lines. Bold strokes of lines not created by laughter, around his eyes and mouth. Between his brows. On his forehead. He brought his hand up and stroked his cheeks, trying to iron out the wrinkles. But they wouldn’t go.
And now he bent closer. The stubble, in the bright glare of the B and B bathroom, was gray.
He turned his head to the side. There was gray at his temples. His whole head was shot through with gray. When had that happened?
My God, he thought. Is this what Annie sees? An old man? Worn and gray? Oh, God, he thought.
