Page 53 of Miss Wolcott’s Ghost

“I mean the deaths of those two women. The ones doing the oral history. Madame Fuller mentioned a murder, and then was herself killed, along with the archivist.”

“You really think that wasn’t an accident?” said Clara. “The paper said it was caused by ice fog or black ice or something.”

It would be far from the first time winter had reached out and grabbed a life.

“I know the report said the fuel line wasn’t broken,” said Ruth, “but there are other ways a fire can engulf a car.”

They didn’t ask her to describe them, though they suspected she knew.

The thought of those women dying in the flames was horrifying. But it would be far from the first time women who knew too much, were too much of a threat, had been put to death by fire.

“Even if it was murder,” said Myrna, “that was a long time ago. Do you really think it could have something to do with the body in Lost Nation?”

“I don’t know,” said Isabelle.

Their attention was caught by Reine-Marie, who had left her home and was walking slowly across the village green, past the three huge pine trees that gave the village its name.

She was deep in thought, though she paused to wave to them. When Clara gestured to her to join them, Reine-Marie smiled and shook her head, then continued on her way. They watched as she walked over the stone bridge that crossed the Rivière Bella Bella, up the dirt road, to the Old Train Station.

Inside she went.

“Monsieur Provost?”

“Chief Inspector.” A man in his early thirties held out his hand. He was slender and wore a business suit. This was slightly surprising given the Mile End neighborhood was bohemian and Paul Provost looked anything but.

Though the people who patronized this gallery did not, Gamache realized, generally live in this area. Judging by the price tags discreetly attached to the works, the patrons came from Outremont or Westmount. Quartiers where this man’s suit spoke their language.

The artists were bohemian. The clients were not.

“Thank you for seeing us before you open,” said Beauvoir as Provost took them deeper into the gallery.

They walked past an exhibition of monumental works of male and female nudes.

Beauvoir stopped at one and said, “Ahhhh, chiaroscuro.”

Armand had to look at his feet, to stop from smiling.

The gallery owner turned, looked, and said, “Yes. Not the first thing most people say when seeing that work, but you’re right. It is a nice interplay of light and dark.”

Beauvoir, pleased with himself, gave Gamache a smug look and walked on.

“You’re here about Clara Morrow and Brian Fillmore.”

“Yes. Madame Morrow said you vouched for him.”

“Well, I can’t say I know him well, or at all really. I can say that he was polite, knew what he wanted, and paid immediately. All appreciated, and surprisingly rare these days.”

“Rare enough to remember?” said Gamache.

“Well, you gave me a heads-up, so I also had time to refresh my memory.”

“When was he here?” Beauvoir asked.

“I looked up the date. I can show you.”

“Please.”

They followed him to his desk where a paper receipt lay. They’d expected it to be on a computer. On seeing their surprise, he explained, “We have electronic invoices, but we like to also have the good old-fashioned paper copies. In case.”