The Long Way Home
“So,” she said. “Where’s Peter?”
* * *
“Why Dumfries?” asked Gamache, looking up from his sheaf of papers. “It seems an attractive enough place, but why would Peter leave Venice to go there?”
Reine-Marie lowered her heavy book. “There’s nothing obvious here. A nice Scottish town. Druid at one time, then the Romans appeared, then the Scots took it back.”
“Any prominent artists?”
“No prominent citizens at all, from what I can see.”
Gamache leaned back and sipped his ginger beer, watching the children on the village green. Watching his friends and neighbors go about their business this warm day in August. Watching the cars drive slowly into and out of Three Pines.
Then he leaned forward.
“Dumfries might not have been where Peter was actually going.” He pulled her book toward him. “Maybe it’s on the way to somewhere else.”
* * *
“What do you mean?” asked Clara.
“You and Peter are always together,” said Marianna Morrow. “I just assumed he’d be joining us for drinks.”
Clara’s heart sank. “I came to ask you the same question.”
Marianna turned in her chair to look squarely at Clara. “You wanted to ask me where Peter is? You don’t know?”
Myrna tried to read the expression, the inflection. There was, on the surface at least, concern. But there was also something else swirling around under that.
Excitement. Myrna leaned slightly away from Marianna Morrow.
At least Thomas, with his splayed legs and knowing smile, didn’t really try to hide his contempt. This one did. Though what she hid wasn’t contempt, Myrna felt, so much as a sort of hunger.
Peter’s sister looked as though Clara was an all-you-can-eat buffet, and Marianna was starving. Ravenous for the bad news Clara was offering.
“He’s missing,” said Clara.
And Myrna watched Marianna’s eyes grow even brighter.
“That’s terrible.”
“When did you last see him?” Clara asked.
Marianna thought. “He had dinner with us this past winter, but I can’t remember when exactly.”
“You invited him over?”
“He invited himself.”
“Why?” asked Clara.
“Why?” Marianna repeated. “Because I’m his sister. And he wanted to see me.”
She appeared to be insulted, but they all knew she wasn’t.
“No, really,” said Clara. “Why?”
“I have no idea,” Marianna Morrow admitted. “Maybe he wanted to see Bean.”
“Bean?” asked Myrna.
“Marianna’s …” Clara hesitated, and hoped the woman across from her would jump in with an answer. But Marianna Morrow just watched. And smiled.
“Marianna’s child,” said Clara at last.
“Ahhh,” said Myrna, though the hesitation puzzled her.
Marianna examined Clara. “When was the last time you saw him?”
To Myrna’s surprise, Clara didn’t hesitate to tell her. “We’ve been separated for more than a year. I haven’t seen or heard from him since last summer. It was supposed to be a trial separation. He was supposed to come back a year after leaving.”
Myrna was watching Clara closely. There was little hint of the load those words carried. Of the weight, as Clara lugged them around, all day. All night.
“But he didn’t.” Marianna still clung to the shreds of concern, but her satisfaction was all too obvious now.
Myrna wondered why Clara didn’t just shut up.
“But please don’t tell anyone.”
“I won’t,” said Marianna. “I know he visited the art college while he was here. He told us that when he came for dinner.”
“Where we went to school,” Clara told Myrna.
“I think he also visited some galleries.”
Now Marianna Morrow was voluble and Myrna understood why Clara had told her so much. She was feeding Marianna, stuffing her. And Marianna ate it up, a glutton at a bad news banquet. Overstuffed, sleepy, her guard down. Drooling information.
“I have an idea. Why don’t you two come over for dinner tonight?”
Myrna saw Clara smile for a moment, and then it was gone. And Myrna looked at her friend with renewed awe.
* * *
“Find anything?” Armand looked up from the book on Scotland.
Reine-Marie shook her head and put down the printouts.