“It’s too dark now,” Gamache said. “But first thing in the morning.”

“Why?” asked Annie. “What can Vincent Gilbert possibly know about Peter’s disappearance?”

“Maybe nothing, but I remember talking to him about his time in Paris. He showed me where he stayed.”

Gamache placed his finger on the map.

The 15th arrondissement.

ELEVEN

The Toronto galleries were a bust. None remembered seeing Peter Morrow and all tried to convince Clara she should show at their space. The very same galleries that had rejected and mocked her work just a few years earlier were now trying to seduce her.

Clara didn’t carry a grudge. They were far too heavy and she had too far to go. But she did notice, and she noticed something else. Her own ego, showing some ankle. Eating up the fawning words, the come-hither smiles of these late-to-the-party suitors.

“Has he been here?” Clara asked the owner at the last gallery on their list.

“Not that I remember,” she said, and the receptionist confirmed there’d been no appointment with a Peter Morrow in the past twelve months.

“But he might’ve just dropped in,” Clara persisted, and showed the owner an image of Peter’s striking work.

“Oh, I know him,” she said.

“He was here?” Clara asked.

“No, I mean I know his work. Now, let’s talk about your paintings…”

And that was that. Clara was polite, but fled as quickly as she could, before she was seduced. But she took the owner’s card. You never knew.

Their last stop before getting on the afternoon train was the art college, where Peter and Clara had met almost thirty years ago.

“The OCCA—” the secretary said.

“Obsessive-compulsive…” said Myrna.

“Ontario College of Canadian Arts,” said the secretary.

He gave them a pamphlet and signed Clara Morrow up to the alumni list. He did not recognize her name, which Clara found both a relief and annoying.

“Peter Morrow?” That name he recognized. “He was here a few months back.”

“So he spoke to you?” said Clara. “What did he want?”

She’d actually wanted to ask, “How did he look?” but stopped herself.

“Oh, just to get caught up. He wanted to know if any of the staff was still around from when he was here.”

“Are they?”

“Well, one. Paul Massey.”

“Professor Massey? You’re kidding. He must be—”

“Eighty-three. Still teaching, still painting. Mr. Morrow was eager to see him.”

“Professor Massey taught conceptual drawing,” Clara explained to Myrna.

“Still does,” said the secretary. “‘Translating the visual world onto canvas,’” he quoted by heart from the brochure.

“He was one of our favorite professors,” said Clara. “Is he in now?”

“Might be. It’s summer break, but the professor often comes in to his studio when it’s quiet.”

“Professor Massey was wonderful,” Clara said as she hurried along the corridor. “A mentor for lots of the younger artists, including Peter.”

“And you?”

“Oh, no. I was a lost cause,” said Clara, laughing. “They didn’t really know what to do with me.”

They arrived at the studio and Myrna opened the door. The familiar scent of linseed, oil paints, and turpentine met them. As did the sight of an elderly man on a stool. His white hair was thinning and his face was pink. Despite his age he looked robust. A grain-fed, free-range artist. Not yet put out to pasture.

“Yes?” he said, getting off his chair.

“Professor Massey?”

His expression was quizzical but not alarmed or annoyed. He looked, Myrna thought, the sort of teacher who actually liked students.

“Yes?”

“I’m Clara Morrow. I understand my husband came by to see you—”

“Peter,” said the professor, smiling and coming toward her, his hand extended. “Yes. How are you? I’ve been following your success. Very exciting.”

He seemed to mean it, thought Myrna. He looked genuinely happy for Clara, and happy to see her.

“Did Peter tell you about it?” Clara asked.

“I read about it in the papers. You’re our greatest success. The student has outstripped the master.” Professor Massey studied the woman in front of him. “Probably because we were never really your masters, were we, Clara? Perhaps that was the key. You didn’t follow us. You didn’t follow anyone.” He turned to Myrna and confided, “Not easy to have a pupil who was genuinely creative. Hard to grade, harder still to corral. To our shame, we tried.”