“You’re sure it doesn’t belong to you or Peter?” he asked Clara.
“I’m sure. Ruth briefly claimed it, but Myrna said it couldn’t possibly belong to her.”
Gamache turned to the large, caftaned woman beside him, his brows raised.
“And how do you know that?”
“Because I know what it is and I know Ruth would never have one. I assumed you recognized it.”
“I have no idea what it is.” They all looked again at the coin sitting in the Baggie.
“May I?” Myrna asked and when Gamache nodded Lacoste handed her the bag. Myrna looked through the plastic.
“God,” she read. “Grant me the serenity,
To accept the things I cannot change,
Courage to change the things I can,
And wisdom to know the difference.”
“It’s a beginner’s chip,” she said. “From Alcoholics Anonymous. It’s given to people who’re just getting sober.”
“How do you know that?” the Chief asked.
“Because when I was in practice I suggested a number of clients join AA. Some of them later showed me what they called their beginner’s chip. Just like that.” She gestured to the bag back in Lacoste’s hand. “Whoever dropped it is a member of AA.”
“I see what you mean about Ruth,” said Beauvoir.
Gamache thanked them and watched as Clara and Myrna walked back to the house, to join the others.
Beauvoir and Agent Lacoste were talking, going over notes and findings. Inspector Beauvoir would be giving her some instructions, Gamache knew. Leads to follow while they were in Montréal.
He wandered around the garden. One mystery was solved. The coin was an AA beginner’s chip.
But who dropped it? Lillian Dyson as she fell? But even if she did his experiment showed it would just sit on the earth. They’d have seen it right away.
Did her killer lose it? But, if he was going to break her neck with his bare hands he wouldn’t be holding a coin. Besides, the same thing held true for the killer. If he dropped it, why didn’t they find it? How did it get buried?
The Chief Inspector stood quietly in the warm, sunny garden and imagined a murder. Someone sneaking up behind Lillian Dyson in the dark. Grabbing her around the neck, and twisting. Quickly. Before she could call out, cry out. Struggle.
But she would have done something. She’d have flailed her arms out, even for a moment.
And he saw clearly that he’d made a mistake.
Walking back to the flower bed he called Beauvoir and Lacoste, who quickly joined him.
From his pocket he again brought out the one dollar coin. Then he tossed it into the air and watched as it fell to the freshly turned soil, sat briefly on top of a chunk of dirt, then slipped off to be buried by earth that crumbled in after it.
“My God, it did bury itself,” said Lacoste. “Is that what happened?”
“I think so,” said the Chief, watching as Lacoste picked the coin back up and handed it to him. “When I first tried it I was kneeling down, close to the dirt. But if it fell during the murder it would have dropped from a standing position. Higher up. With greater force. I think when the murderer grasped her neck her arms shot out, almost a spasm, and the coin was flung away from her body. It would have hit with enough impact to dislodge the loose earth.”
“That’s how it got buried and how we missed it,” said Agent Lacoste.
“Oui,” said Gamache, turning to leave. “And it means that Lillian Dyson had to have been holding it. Now, why would she be standing in this garden holding an AA beginner’s chip?”
But Beauvoir suspected the Chief was also thinking something else. That Beauvoir had fucked up. He should have seen the coin and not have it found by four crazy women worshiping a stick. That wasn’t going to sound good in court, for any of them.
* * *
The women had left, the Sûreté officers had left. Everyone had left and now Peter and Clara were finally alone.
Peter took Clara in his arms and hugging her tight he whispered, “I’ve been waiting all day to do this. I heard about the reviews. They’re fantastic. Congratulations.”
“They are good, aren’t they,” said Clara. “Yipppeee. Can you believe it?”
“Are you kidding?” asked Peter, breaking from the embrace and striding across the kitchen. “I had no doubt.”
“Oh, come on,” laughed Clara, “you don’t even like my work.”
“I do.”
“And what do you like about them?” she teased.
