“Long way from the Morrow house and the party,” said Gamache, feeling the warmth as the afternoon sun shone through the leaves.
“True, I imagine the place was packed with cars. This was probably as close as she could get.”
Gamache nodded slowly. “Which would mean she wasn’t among the first to arrive. Or, maybe she parked this far away on purpose.”
“Why would she do that?”
“Maybe she didn’t want to be seen.”
“Then why wear neon red?”
Gamache smiled. It was a good point. “Very annoying, having a smart second in command. I long for the days you used to just tug your forelock and agree with me.”
“And when were those?”
“Right again. This must stop.” He smiled to himself.
They came to a stop beside the car.
“It’s been gone over, searched, swabbed, fingerprinted. But I wanted you to see it before we had it towed away.”
“Merci.”
Beauvoir unlocked it and the Chief Inspector climbed into the driver’s seat, pushing the seat back to make room for his more substantial body.
The passenger’s seat was covered with Cartes Routières du Québec. Maps.
Reaching across he opened the glove compartment. There was the usual assortment of stuff you think you’ll use and forget is there. Napkins, elastics, Band-Aids, a double A battery. And some information on the car, with the insurance and registration slips. Gamache pulled it out and read. The car was five years old, but only bought by Lillian Dyson eight months ago. He closed the glove box and picked up the maps. Putting on his half-moon reading glasses he scanned them. They’d been imperfectly folded back together, in that haphazard way impatient people had with annoying maps.
One was for all of Québec. Not very helpful unless you were planning an invasion and just needed to know, roughly, where Montréal and Quebec City were. The other was for Les Canton de l’est. The Eastern Townships.
Lillian Dyson couldn’t have known it when she bought them, but these maps were also useless. Just to be sure, he opened one and where Three Pines should have been there was the winding Bella Bella River, hills, a forest. And nothing else. As far as the official mapmakers were concerned Three Pines didn’t exist.
It had never been surveyed. Never plotted. No GPS or sat nav system, no matter how sophisticated, would ever find the little village. It only appeared as though by accident over the edge of the hill. Suddenly. It could not be found unless you were lost.
Had Lillian Dyson been lost? Had she stumbled onto Three Pines and the party by mistake?
But no. That seemed too big a coincidence. She was dressed for a party. Dressed to impress. To be seen. To be noticed.
Then why hadn’t she been?
“Why was Lillian here?” he asked, almost to himself.
“Did she even know it was Clara’s home, do you think?” Beauvoir asked.
“I’ve wondered that,” admitted Gamache, taking off his reading glasses and getting out of the car.
“Either way,” said Beauvoir, “she came.”
“But how.”
“By car,” said Beauvoir.
“Yes, I’ve managed to get that far,” said Gamache with a smile. “But once in the car how’d she get here?”
“The maps?” asked Beauvoir, with infinite patience. But when he saw Gamache shaking his head he reconsidered. “Not the maps?”
Gamache was silent, letting his second in command find the answer himself.
“She wouldn’t have found Three Pines on those maps,” said Beauvoir, slowly. “It isn’t on them.” He paused, thinking. “So how’d she find her way here?”
Gamache turned and started making his way back toward Three Pines, his pace measured.
Something else occurred to Beauvoir as he joined the Chief. “How’d any of them get here? All those people from Montréal?”
“Clara and Peter sent directions with the invitation.”
“Well, there’s your answer,” said Beauvoir. “She had directions.”
“But she wasn’t invited. And even if she somehow got her hands on an invitation, and the directions, where are they? Not in her handbag, not on her body. Not in the car.”
Beauvoir looked away, thinking. “So, no maps and no directions. How’d she find the place?”
Gamache stopped opposite the inn and spa.
“I don’t know,” he admitted. Then Gamache turned to look at the inn. It had once been a monstrosity. A rotting, rotten old place. A Victorian trophy home built more than a century ago of hubris and other men’s sweat.