letter didn’t say that. Katie was lying. We have no idea what was in the letter. The Baroness might’ve dictated one thing, like Anthony should share, but Katie wrote down something else. Like Anthony should go to the old farmhouse alone the night the will was read. Which he did. Thinking it was his mother’s wish.”
“We don’t know that.”
“No, that’s my point. We have no idea what was in that letter. Katie might even be telling the truth.”
Though Beauvoir clearly did not believe that.
“All we know is that Baumgartner read it, then went to the farmhouse.”
“You make it sound like cause and effect,” said Gamache. “Something else might’ve happened to send him there.”
“That’s true.”
“It’s interesting that Katie knew about the painting of Ruth. The only way she could know about it was if the Baroness told her.”
“But that doesn’t mean it was in the letter.”
“No, no it doesn’t,” said Gamache. “So, to recap, we have two theories. One, that Katie wrote down exactly what the Baroness dictated. Two, that she did not.”
Beauvoir was nodding. “We don’t seem to be much closer.”
Though that was often the odd thing about a murder investigation. They could appear to be getting further from the truth, lost in the dust thrown up by all sorts of contradictory statements. Evidence. Lies.
But then something was said, or seen, and everything that had seemed contradictory fell into place.
“That damned painting keeps coming up,” said Jean-Guy. “Bernard Shaeffer even mentioned it today when I spoke with him.”
He told Gamache about that interview.
“So he was there when Baumgartner hung it in his study,” said Gamache. “Then he helped get the laptop up and running.”
“That was supposedly why he was there,” said Beauvoir. “But then it turned into something else.”
“Shaeffer told you that Baumgartner was trying to think of a new password? Did he find one?”
“If he did, he was smart enough not to tell Shaeffer.”
“According to Shaeffer,” said Gamache.
“True. We’re still trying to crack it. We’ve searched the home, of course. I even looked behind that damned painting, but all I saw there was the print number.”
Gamache nodded, and then his brows drew together. “What did you see there?”
“It’s a numbered print. They write the number on it, so buyers know what—”
“Yes, yes,” said Gamache. “I know. We have some here, including one of Clara’s.”
He walked over to the wall by the long pine table. Beauvoir had seen the picture many times, including the original in Clara’s studio, when she’d first painted it.
Now he and his father-in-law stood in front of it.
Clara called it The Three Graces. But instead of showing three beautiful young women, naked and intertwined in a more than slightly erotic way, she’d painted three fully clothed elderly women from the village. Including the woman, Emilie, who used to own the Gamaches’ home.
They were wrinkled, sagging, frail. They held on to each other. Not because they were afraid or feeble. Just the opposite. These women were roaring with laughter. The work radiated joy. Friendship. Companionship. Power.
“The number of the print,” he said, reaching out to take the large painting off the wall, “is written on the back.”
“Actually—” Armand began, but it was too late. Jean-Guy had it off and had turned it around.
Something was indeed written there. But it was in Gamache’s familiar hand.
“For Reine-Marie, my Grace. With love forever, Armand.”
Jean-Guy colored, and, after quickly putting it back on the wall, he turned to look at Armand, who was watching him and smiling.
“Not exactly a secret,” said Armand. “Or a code. What I wanted to show you is that.”
Gamache pointed to the front of the painting. On the lower right corner were Clara’s signature and the numbers 7/12.
“I’ve seen that,” said Jean-Guy. “But I always thought that was the date it was finished.”
“No. It’s the number of the print. Seven of twelve.”
“She only printed twelve?”
“It was before she became successful,” said Armand. “She didn’t think she could even sell twelve.”
“So this must be worth—”
But he stopped and stared at The Three Graces. At the number. And grunted. “Huh. So what’s with the number on the back of Baumgartner’s painting?”
Gamache raised his brows, as did Jean-Guy. Who then walked quickly over to the phone in the kitchen and placed a call.
“Cloutier? The painting in Baumgartner’s study. Yes, the crazy old woman. There’s a number on the back. Did you make a note of it? Can you go over to the house and see? Better yet, bring the painting in. No, I’m not kidding. No, I don’t want it