“Exactly. I might be able to help with the ‘why.’”

“How?”

“When?” asked Suzanne and smiled. Then her smile drifted away as she turned to look back at the hole in the garden, surrounded by yellow, fluttering tape. “I knew Lillian better than anyone. Better than her parents. Probably better than she knew herself. I can help you.”

She stared into his deep brown eyes. She was defiant, prepared for battle. What she wasn’t prepared for was what she saw there. Consideration.

He was considering her words. Not dismissing them, not marshaling arguments. Armand Gamache was thinking about what she’d said, and he’d heard.

The Chief Inspector studied the energetic woman in front of him. Her clothing was too tight, and mismatched. Was this creative, or just clumsy dressing? Did she not see herself, or not care how she looked?

She looked foolish. Even declared herself to be that.

But she wasn’t. Her eyes were shrewd. Her words even shrewder.

She knew the victim better than anyone. She was uniquely placed to help. But was that the real reason she was there?

“Hello,” said Clara, tentatively. She was walking toward them from the kitchen door.

Suzanne immediately turned and stared, then she walked toward Clara, her hands out.

“Oh, I am sorry. I should have knocked on your door and asked permission instead of just barging into your garden. I don’t know why I didn’t. My name’s Suzanne Coates.”

As the two women exchanged greetings and were talking Gamache looked from Suzanne back to the garden. To the prayer stick stuck in the ground. And he remembered what Myrna had found beneath that stick.

A beginner’s chip. From AA.

He’d assumed it belonged to the victim, but now he wondered. Did it in fact belong to the murderer? And did that explain why Suzanne was in the garden, unannounced?

Was she looking for the missing coin, her missing coin? Not realizing they already had it?

Clara and Suzanne had joined him and Clara was describing finding Lillian’s body.

“Were you a friend of Lillian’s?” asked Clara, when she’d finished.

“Sort of. We had mutual friends.”

“Are you an artist?” asked Clara, eyeing the older woman and her getup.

“Of sorts,” laughed Suzanne. “Not in your league at all. I like to think of my work as intuitive, but critics have called them something else.”

Both women laughed.

Behind them, seen only by Gamache, the ribbons of the prayer stick fluttered, as though catching their laughter.

“Well, mine have been called ‘something else’ for years,” admitted Clara. “But mostly they were called nothing at all. Not even noticed. This was my first show in living memory.”

The women compared artistic notes while Gamache listened. It was a chronicle of life as an artist. Of balancing ego and creation. Of battling ego and creation.

Of trying not to care. And caring too deeply.

“I wasn’t at your vernissage,” said Suzanne. “Too rarified for me. I’m more likely to be the one serving the sandwiches than eating them, but I hear it was magnificent. Congratulations. I plan to get to the show as soon as I can.”

“We can go together,” Clara offered. “If you’re interested.”

“Thank you,” said Suzanne. “Had I known you were this nice I’d have trespassed years ago.”

She looked around and fell silent.

“What’re you thinking about?” Clara asked.

Suzanne smiled. “I was actually thinking about contrasts. About violence in such a peaceful place. Something so ugly happening here.”

They all looked around then, at the quiet garden. Their eyes finally resting on the spot circled by yellow tape.

“What’s that?”

“It’s a prayer stick,” said Clara.

All three stared at the ribbons, intertwined. Then Clara had an idea. She explained about the ritual then asked, “Would you like to attach a ribbon?”

Suzanne considered for a moment. “I’d like that very much. Thank you.”

“I’ll be back in a few minutes.” Clara nodded to both of them then walked toward the village.

“Nice woman,” said Suzanne, watching her go. “Hope she manages to stay that way.”

“You have doubts?” asked Gamache.

“Success can mess with you. But then so can failure,” she laughed again, then grew quiet.

“Why do you think Lillian Dyson was murdered?” he asked.