Finally Monsieur Béliveau left with his biographies of Sartre and Wayne Gretzky. He bowed slightly to Clara, who bowed back from her chair, never sure what to do when the courtly old man did that.
Myrna handed Clara a cool lemonade and sat in the chair opposite. The afternoon sun poured through the bookshop window. Here and there they saw a dog chase a ball for a villager, or vice versa.
“Didn’t you have your meeting this morning with Monsieur Fortin?”
Clara nodded.
“How’d it go?”
“Not bad.”
“Do you smell smoke?” asked Myrna, sniffing. Clara, alarmed, looked around. “Oh, there it is,” Myrna pointed to her companion. “Your pants are on fire.”
“Very funny.” But that was all the encouragement Clara needed. She tried to keep her voice light as she described the meeting. When Clara listed the people who would almost certainly be at the opening night at Fortin’s gallery Myrna exclaimed and hugged her friend.
“Can you believe it?”
“Fucking queer.”
“Stupid whore. Is this a new game?” laughed Myrna.
“You’re not offended by what I said?”
“Calling me a fucking queer? No.”
“Why not?”
“Well, I know you don’t mean it. Did you?”
“Suppose I did?”
“Then I’d be worried for you,” smiled Myrna. “What’s this about?”
“When we were sitting in the bistro Gabri served us and as he left Fortin called him a fucking queer.”
Myna took a deep breath. “And what did you say?”
“Nothing.”
Myna nodded. Now it was her turn to say nothing.
What?”
“Woo,” repeated the Chief Inspector.
“Woo?” Olivier seemed baffled, but he’d feigned that at every turn in this interview. Beauvoir had long stopped believing anything the man said.
“Did the Hermit ever mention it?” Gamache asked.
“Mention woo?” Olivier asked. “I don’t even know what you’re asking.”
“Did you notice a spider’s web, in a corner of the cabin?”
“A spider’s web? What? No, I never noticed one. But I’ll tell you something, I’d be surprised if there was one. The Hermit kept that cabin spotless.”
“Propre,” said Gamache.
“Propre,” Olivier repeated.
“Woo, Olivier. What does it mean to you?”
“Nothing.”
“And yet it was the word on the piece of wood you took from the hand of the Hermit. After he’d been murdered.”
It was worse than Olivier had imagined, and he’d imagined pretty bad. It seemed Gamache knew everything. Or at least almost everything.
Pray God he doesn’t know it all, thought Olivier.
“I picked it up,” Olivier admitted. “But I didn’t look at it. It was lying on the floor by his hand. When I saw there was blood on it I dropped it. It said Woo?”
Gamache nodded and leaned forward, his powerful hands lightly holding each other as his elbows rested on his knees.
“Did you kill him?”
TWENTY-SIX
Finally Myrna spoke. She leaned forward and took Clara’s hand.
“What you did was natural.”
“Really? Because it feels like shit.”
“Well, most of your life is shit,” said Myrna, nodding her head sagely. “So it would feel natural.”
“Har, har.”
“Listen, Fortin is offering you everything you ever dreamed of, everything you ever wanted.”
“And he seemed so nice.”
“He probably is. Are you sure he wasn’t kidding?”
Clara shook her head.
“Maybe he’s gay himself,” suggested Myrna.
Clara shook her head again. “I thought of that, but he has a wife and a couple of kids and he just doesn’t seem gay.”
Both Clara and Myrna had a finely honed gay-dar. It was, they both knew, imperfect, but it probably would have picked up the Fortin blip. But nothing. Only the immense, unmistakable object that was Gabri, sailing away.
“What should I do?” Clara asked.
Myrna remained silent.
“I need to speak to Gabri, don’t I?”
“It might help.”
“Maybe tomorrow.”
As she left she thought about what Myrna had said. Fortin was offering her everything she’d ever wanted, the only dream she’d had since childhood. Success, recognition as an artist. All the sweeter after years in the wilderness. Mocked and marginalized.
