“Perhaps another artist, jealous of his talents,” said Chartrand.

“Or someone who owned a lot of his works,” said Gamache, looking directly at their host.

“Like his gallery owner?” Chartrand smiled in what appeared to be genuine amusement. “We are greedy, feral people. We love to screw both the artist and our clients. We’d do anything to acquire what we want. But perhaps not murder.”

Though Beauvoir and Gamache knew that was not true.

“Who’re you talking about?”

Clara and Myrna had been across the room admiring a Jean Paul Lemieux, but now Clara sat on the sofa opposite Gamache.

“Tom Thomson.” Chartrand waved toward the small painting, like a window on the wall that looked into another time, another world. But one not so unlike Charlevoix.

“Désolé,” said Gamache quietly, not taking his eyes off Clara. “That was insensitive.”

“Désolé?” asked Chartrand. He looked from one to the other, perplexed by the sudden intensity of emotion. “Why would it be upsetting?”

“My own husband is missing. That’s why we’re here.” Clara turned to Gamache. “Didn’t you ask him about Peter when you went to the gallery?”

“It was closed,” said Gamache. “I thought you discussed it when you called him up.”

“Why would I? I thought you’d already asked him and he didn’t know Peter.”

“Peter?” asked Chartrand, looking from one to the other.

“My husband. Peter Morrow.”

“Your husband’s Peter Morrow?” said Chartrand.

“You knew him?” Gamache asked.

“Bien sûr,” said Chartrand.

“Him or his art?” asked Myrna.

“Him, the man. He spent many hours in the gallery.”

Clara was stunned into silence, momentarily. And then questions jumbled together in her brain, and created a logjam. None able to escape. But finally, one popped out.

“When was this?”

Chartrand thought. “In April, I guess. Maybe a little later.”

“Did he stay with you?” asked Clara.

“Non. He rented a cabin down the road.”

“Is he still there?” She stood up as though about to leave.

Chartrand shook his head. “No. He left. I haven’t seen him in months. I’m sorry.”

“Where did he go?” Clara asked.

Chartrand faced her. “I don’t know.”

“When was the last time you saw him?” Gamache asked.

Chartrand thought about that. “It’s now early August. He left before the summer. In late spring, I think.”

“Are you sure he left?” Jean-Guy asked. “Did he tell you he was leaving?”

Chartrand looked like a punch-drunk boxer, staggering from questioner to questioner. “I’m sorry, I can’t remember.”

“Why can’t you remember?” asked Clara, her voice rising.

Chartrand appeared flustered, confused. “It didn’t seem important,” he tried to explain. “He wasn’t a close friend or anything. He was here one day, and not here the next.”

He looked from Clara to Gamache and back again.

“Is that why you invited us here?” Jean-Guy asked. “Because Peter had told you about her?”

He gestured toward Clara.