A Trick of the Light - Louise Penny [79]
Thierry turned to examine Gamache. It was a look Gamache knew from seeing him on the bench. Judging others. And he was a good judge.
Then Thierry turned back to watch the traffic, but as he did so he spoke.
“She was very enthusiastic, always happy to help. She often volunteered to make coffee or set up the chairs and tables. It’s a big job getting a meeting ready, then cleaning up after. Not everyone wants to help, but Lillian always did.”
The three men, seeing the hole between cars at the same time, ran across the four-lane street together, making it safely to the other side.
Thierry paused, turning to look at Gamache.
“It’s so sad, you know. She was getting her life back together. Everyone liked her. I liked her.”
“This woman?” asked Beauvoir, taking the photo from his pocket, his amazement obvious. “Lillian Dyson?”
Thierry looked at it and nodded. “That’s Lillian. Tragic.”
“And you say everyone liked her?” Beauvoir pressed.
“Yes,” said Thierry. “Why?”
“Well,” said Gamache. “Your description doesn’t match what others are saying.”
“Really? What’re they saying?”
“That she was cruel, manipulative, abusive even.”
Thierry didn’t say anything, instead he turned and began walking down a dark side street. The next block over they could see the familiar Tim Hortons sign.
“There she is,” said Thierry as they entered the coffee shop. “Suzanne,” he called and waved.
A woman with close-cropped black hair looked up. She was in her sixties, Gamache guessed. Wore lots of flashy jewelry, a tight shirt with a light shawl, a skirt about three inches too short on her barrel body. There were six other women, of varying ages, at the table.
“Thierry.” Suzanne jumped up and threw her arms around Thierry, as though she hadn’t just seen him. Then she turned bright, inquisitive eyes on Gamache and Beauvoir. “New blood?”
Beauvoir bristled. He didn’t like this bawdy, brassy woman. Loud. And now she seemed to think he was one of them.
“I saw you at the meeting tonight. It’s OK, honey,” she laughed as she saw Beauvoir’s expression. “You don’t need to like us. You just need to get sober.”
“I’m not an alcoholic.” Even to his ears it sounded like the word was a dead bug or a piece of dirt he couldn’t wait to get out of his mouth. But she didn’t take offense.
Gamache, though, did. He gave Beauvoir a warning look and put out his hand to Suzanne.
“My name is Armand Gamache.”
“His father?” Suzanne gestured to Beauvoir.
Gamache smiled. “Mercifully, no. We’re not here about AA.”
His somber manner seemed to impress itself on her and Suzanne’s smile dimmed. Her eyes, however, remained alert.
Watchful, Beauvoir realized. What he’d first taken to be the shine of an idiot was in fact something far different. This woman paid attention. Behind the laughter and bright shine, a brain was at work. Furiously.
“What is it?” she asked.
“I wonder if we could talk privately?”
Thierry left them and joined Bob and Jim and four other men across the coffee shop.
“Would you like a coffee?” Suzanne asked as they found a quiet table near the toilets.
“Non, merci,” said Gamache. “Bob very kindly got me one, though it was only half full.”
Suzanne laughed. She seemed, to Beauvoir, to laugh a lot. He wondered what that hid. No one, in his experience, was ever that amused.
“The DTs?” she asked and when Gamache nodded she looked over at Bob with great affection. “He lives at the Salvation Army, you know. Goes to seven meetings a week. He assumes everyone he meets is an alcoholic.”
“There’re worse assumptions,” said Gamache.
“How can I help you?”
“I’m with the Sûreté du Québec,” said Gamache. “Homicide.”
“You’re Chief Inspector Gamache?” she asked.
“I am.”
“What can I do for you?”
Beauvoir was happy to see she was a lot less buoyant and more guarded.
“It’s about Lillian Dyson.”
Suzanne’s eyes opened wide and she whispered, “Lillian?”
Gamache nodded.