“Was she also addicted to crack or methamphetamines?” Gamache asked.
“No evidence of that,” said Lacoste.
“How’d she make a living?” the Chief asked. “As an artist or critic?”
“Neither. Looks like she lived on the margins of the art world,” said Lacoste, going back to her notes.
“So what did she do?” asked Beauvoir.
“Well, she was illegal. No work permit for the States. From what I can piece together she worked under the table at art supply shops. She picked up odd jobs here and there.”
Gamache thought about that. For a twenty-year-old it would’ve been an exciting life. For a woman nearing fifty it would’ve been exhausting, discouraging.
“She might not have been an addict, but could she have dealt drugs?” he asked. “Or been a prostitute?”
“Possibly both for a while, but not recently,” said Lacoste.
“Coroner says there’s no evidence of sexually transmitted disease. No needle tracks or scarring,” said Beauvoir, consulting the printout. “As you know, most low-level dealers are also addicts.”
“Lillian’s parents thought her husband might have died,” said the Chief.
“He did,” said Lacoste. “Three years ago. OD’d.”
Beauvoir put a stroke through the man’s name.
“Canada Customs records show she crossed the border on a bus from New York City on October sixteenth of last year,” said Lacoste. “Nine months ago. She applied for welfare and got it.”
“When did she join Alcoholics Anonymous?” asked Gamache.
“I don’t know,” said Lacoste. “I tried to reach her sponsor, Suzanne Coates, but there was no answer and Chez Nick says she’s on a couple of days off.”
“Scheduled?” asked Gamache, sitting forward.
“I didn’t ask.”
“Ask, please,” said the Chief, getting to his feet. “When you find her let me know. I have some questions for her as well.”
He went to his desk and placed a call. He could have given the name and number to Agent Lacoste or Inspector Beauvoir, but he preferred to do this himself.
“Chief Justice’s office,” said the efficient voice.
“May I speak with Mr. Justice Pineault, please? This is Chief Inspector Gamache, of the Sûreté.”
“I’m afraid Justice Pineault isn’t in today, Chief Inspector.”
Gamache paused, surprised. “Is that right? Is he ill? I saw him just last night and he didn’t mention anything.”
Now it was Mr. Justice Pineault’s secretary’s turn to pause. “He called in this morning and said he’d be working from home for the next few days.”
“Was this unexpected?”
“The Chief Justice is free to do as he likes, Monsieur Gamache.” She sounded tolerant of what was clearly an inappropriate question on his part.
“I’ll try him at home. Merci.”
He tried the next number in his notebook. Chez Nick, the restaurant.
No, the harried woman who answered said, Suzanne wasn’t there. She called to say she wouldn’t be in.
The woman didn’t sound pleased.
“Did she say why not?” asked Gamache.
“Wasn’t feeling well.”
Gamache thanked her and hung up. Then he tried Suzanne’s cell phone. It had been disconnected. Hanging up, he tapped his glasses on his hand, softly.
It seemed the Sunday night meeting of Alcoholics Anonymous had gone missing.
No Suzanne Coates, no Thierry Pineault.
Was this cause for concern? Armand Gamache knew anyone missing in a murder investigation was cause for concern. But not panic.
He got up and walked over to the window. From there he could see across the Rivière Bella Bella and into Three Pines. As he watched a car drove up and stopped. It was a two-seater, sleek and new and expensive. A contrast to the older cars in front of the homes.
A man got out and looked around. He seemed uncertain, but not lost.
Then he walked confidently into the bistro.
Gamache’s eyes narrowed as he watched.
“Huh,” he grunted. Turning around he looked at the clock. Almost noon.
The Chief picked up the big book on his desk.
“I’ll be in the bistro,” he said and saw knowing smiles on Lacoste’s and Beauvoir’s faces.
Couldn’t say he blamed them.
* * *
Gamache’s eyes adjusted to the dim interior of the bistro. It was warming up outside but still a fire burned in both stone hearths.