“Embarrassed, do you think?” asked Beauvoir.
“Maybe.”
“Come on, man, you can tell me,” said Beauvoir. “Must’ve been pretty weird.”
“I think he got kinda scared there at the end,” said the man. “Luc really didn’t want to talk about it. I do know he used to ship No Man’s paintings to his gallery, or someplace. You guys, I guess. And Luc used to get in the art supplies No Man used.”
“They must’ve been close.”
“Couldn’t have been that close. Luc said No Man just up and left one day. Took off.”
“Where to?”
“Don’t know.”
“Does Luc know? Is he still in touch with No Man?”
“I never asked. Never cared.”
“Was No Man from around here?”
“Don’t think so. Never heard of family or anything.”
“So he might’ve gone home?”
“I suppose.”
Jean-Guy sipped his ginger beer and thought about that.
“When did Luc open this place?”
“He bought the brasserie after he left the commune.”
“Why’d he call it La Muse?”
“Haven’t you ever heard of an artist’s muse?” the barman asked. “They all seem to either have one or want one. Me, all I want is peace and quiet.”
He stared at Beauvoir, but Jean-Guy ignored the hint.
“Does Luc have a muse?”
“Only her.”
The barman tapped the menu.
“Is she real?” asked Jean-Guy.
“Wouldn’t that be nice?” said the barman. “But no.” He leaned across the bar and whispered, as though sharing a confidence, “Muses aren’t real.”
“Merci,” said Beauvoir, and once again longed for the heft of his gun in his hand.
“The owner still paints?”
“Oui. Goes off a couple weeks of the year. That’s where he is now.” The man paused. “I don’t suppose his paintings will be worth something, since he studied with this No Man?”
It was clear he had a few of those, either by choice or because he had no choice.
“Maybe. But please don’t say anything. Let me tell him myself. Can I call him or email?”
“No. He doesn’t want to be disturbed. He normally goes off at the end of August, but this year he left early. Guess the weather was good. What’s the name of your gallery? Luc’ll want to know.”
“Désolé. I’m trying to be here incognito.”
“Ahh,” said the man.
“Are there any other members of No Man’s art colony still around?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Anyone you know have any of No Man’s paintings?”
“No. He had Luc mail them all down south, to his gallery.” The man paused and thrust out his lower lip. “How can Luc get in touch with you, if you’re incognito?”
It sounded pretty silly. And the man himself sounded suspicious. Beauvoir gave him his cell phone number.
“I’m sorry, but I have to ask again,” said Beauvoir. “Have you ever heard your boss talk about a muse? His own, maybe, or one that influenced the colony?” He held up the menu.
“Non.”
Beauvoir got up and, waving the menu at the barman, he left. Taking the menu with him.
* * *
“Find what you were looking for?” one of the backgammon players asked.
Clara was momentarily taken aback, wondering how they knew about Peter. But Myrna remembered.
“We did, and you were right. That picture was painted exactly where you said it was.”
And then Clara remembered that she and Myrna had asked these two men for help in finding out where Peter had done the lip painting. And they had helped.
“Strange painting,” said one.
“Strange place,” said the other.
Clara, Myrna, Chartrand, and Gamache took the table by the edge of the terrasse and ordered drinks. While they waited, Gamache excused himself and returned to the two men.
“What did you mean just now when you called it a strange place? You mean the river, where that painting was done?”
“Nah, I mean the one she had in her other hand.”
“You knew where that was painted too?” asked Gamache.
“Oh yes. Been there years ago. Helped take down some of the trees.”
“In the woods.” Gamache waved vaguely in the direction of the forest.
“Oui. Recognized it.”
“But you didn’t say anything?” Gamache asked.
“Wasn’t asked. She only asked about the river painting. Funny pictures.”
“I liked them,” the other man said, studying the backgammon board.
“Do you know anything about the art colony that was built in the woods?” Gamache asked.