Gamache noticed Beauvoir taking out his notebook.
“You say he drank?” asked the Chief. “How do you know?”
“Lillian told us. She finally kicked him out. But that was long ago.”
“Do you know if he ever stopped drinking?” asked Gamache. “Perhaps joined Alcoholics Anonymous?”
They looked lost. “We never met him, Chief Inspector,” she repeated. “I suppose he might have, before he died.”
“He died?” asked Beauvoir. “Do you know when?”
“Oh, a few years ago now. Lillian told us. Probably drank himself to death.”
“Did your daughter talk about any particular friends?”
“She had a lot of friends. We spoke once a week and she was always off to parties or vernissages.”
“Did she talk about any by name?” Gamache asked. They shook their heads. “Did she ever mention a friend named Clara, back here in Québec?”
“Clara? She was Lillian’s best friend. Inseparable. She used to come by for supper when we lived in the house.”
“But they didn’t stay close?”
“Clara stole some of Lillian’s ideas. Then she dropped Lillian as a friend. Used her and threw her away as soon as she had what she wanted. Hurt Lillian terribly.”
“Why did your daughter go to New York?” asked Gamache.
“She felt the art scene here in Montréal wasn’t very supportive. They didn’t like it when she criticized their work, but that was her job, after all, as a critic. She wanted to go someplace where artists were more sophisticated.”
“Did she talk about anyone in particular? Someone who might have wished her ill?”
“Back then? She said everyone did.”
“And more recently? When did she come back to Montréal?”
“October sixteenth,” said Monsieur Dyson.
“You know the exact date?” Gamache turned to him.
“You would too, if you had a daughter.”
The Chief nodded. “You’re right. I do have a daughter and I’d remember the day she returned home.”
The two men looked at each other for a moment.
“Did Lillian tell you why she returned?” Gamache did a quick calculation. It would have been about eight months earlier. Shortly after that she’d bought her car and begun going to art shows around town.
“She just said she was missing home,” said Madame Dyson. “We thought we were the luckiest people alive.”
Gamache paused to let her gather herself. Both Sûreté officers knew there was a small window after telling loved ones the news before they were completely overcome. Before the shock wore off and the pain began.
That moment was fast approaching. The window was slamming shut. They had to make each question count.
“Was she happy in Montréal this time?” Gamache asked.
“I’ve never seen her happier,” said her father. “I think she might’ve found a man. We asked but she always laughed and denied it. But I’m not so sure.”
“Why do you say that?” Gamache asked.
“When she came for dinner she’d always leave early,” said Madame Dyson. “By seven thirty. We kidded her that she was off on a date.”
“And what did she say to that?”
“She just laughed. But,” she hesitated, “there was something.”
“What do you mean?”
Madame Dyson took another deep breath as though trying to keep herself going, long enough to help this police officer. To help him find whoever had killed their daughter.
“I don’t know what I mean, but she never used to leave early, then suddenly she did. But she wouldn’t tell us why.”
“Did your daughter drink?”
“Drink?” asked Monsieur Dyson. “I don’t understand the question. Drink what?”
“Alcohol. We found something at the site that might have come from Alcoholics Anonymous. Do you know if your daughter belonged to AA?”
“Lillian?” Madame Dyson looked astonished. “I’ve never seen her drunk in my life. She used to be the designated driver at parties. She’d have a few drinks sometimes, but never many.”
“We don’t even keep alcohol in the house,” said Monsieur Dyson.
“Why not?” Gamache asked.
“We just lost interest, I suppose,” said Madame Dyson. “There were other things to spend our pensions on.”
Gamache nodded and got up. “May I?” He indicated the pictures on the walls.
