“He admitted to Reine-Marie that he didn’t know Norman well. They’d met at a few art shows, and Massey felt Norman needed a bit of help. He didn’t know many people and was clearly hard up. So Massey recommended Norman for a part-time job teaching art theory.”

“Massey must’ve felt pretty bad when Norman screwed up,” said Beauvoir.

“What did you think of him?” Gamache asked Myrna.

“Massey? I liked him. And I can see why the students adored him. He’s magnetic, even now. And he seemed to genuinely care about the students. He reminded me a bit of you, Armand,” said Myrna.

“It’s true,” said Clara. “I knew there was something about the man. His calm, I think, and his desire to help.”

“And his rugged good looks,” said Gamache, and saw the whites of their eyes. “There was a note in Norman’s file telling them to forward his last paycheck here, to Baie-Saint-Paul. Peter saw the file, saw that, and came here. If there’s more there we’ll find out soon.”

The pasta was drained and drizzled with garlic-infused olive oil, fresh basil, and grated Parmesan and the bowl brought to the table.

“Your turn,” Clara said to Beauvoir as they sat down. “Any luck with La Muse?”

“None. I waited on hold for a long time, but the manager was too busy to come to the phone.” Beauvoir helped himself to the pasta as he spoke.

He didn’t say it, but had they stayed in Baie-Saint-Paul he could have gone to La Muse, cornered the man, and gotten the information. Instead, the phone had been hung up with the promise that the manager would call when he had the time.

An hour later, after the dishes had been done and the coffee perked, two phone calls came in at the same time.

“Excuse-moi,” said Gamache, and again stepped onto the stone terrace with his cell phone. Before closing the door, he heard Chartrand say to Beauvoir, “It’s for you.”

It was a warm, moonless night, and while Gamache could no longer see the St. Lawrence, it made itself known to all his other senses. He could smell it, and hear it, and even feel it. The lightest of mists on his face.

“Reine-Marie?” As he spoke, he unconsciously turned west and imagined Reine-Marie at home. He imagined he was with her, sitting in their garden. Under these same stars.

“I have the dossier. I’ve just forwarded it to you.”

“Can you give me the broad strokes?”

He listened as she read. And as she read he turned slowly. Away from her. Away from Three Pines. Away from the heart of Québec. To the head of the river. To where the St. Lawrence, and Québec, began.

To where this all began, he now knew. And where it would end.

*   *   *

“Patron?”

Beauvoir was silhouetted in the doorway.

“Ici.” He’d just hung up from Reine-Marie.