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“Those are just mean people.”

“Just because it’s mean doesn’t make it wrong,” said Clara, tilting her head this way and that. Examining her works on the easel.

“All truth with malice in it,” said Myrna.

“What did you say?”

“Just a quote, from Moby-Dick,” said Myrna. “Something Armand said yesterday.”

“You think there’s truth in those tweets?”

“No, no, I didn’t mean that.” Myrna’s arms were pinwheeling as she tried to back up the conversation. “There’s no truth in them. Believe me. Just malice.”

But Clara was shaking her head. Her confidence shaken.

“Come on over for lunch later,” said Myrna, lugging herself off the sofa with a groan. “You need to get out of the studio. And out of your own head.”

“Or someplace lower?” asked Clara.

“All truth…” said Myrna, and heard her friend laugh. “You know, Moby-Dick was also savaged when it first came out. Now it’s considered one of the great novels of all time.”

Clara didn’t answer. She’d gone back to staring at the miniatures on her easel.

Myrna almost pointed out that what had happened to Vivienne Godin, what her father was living, was a tragedy. What Clara was going through was a setback. Nothing more.

But she didn’t. Myrna understood how damaging it was to compare pain. To dismiss hurt just because it wasn’t the worst.

As she walked back across the bright village green, her feet squelching in the soft turf, Myrna thought about those miniatures Clara had painted.

Perhaps, she admitted to herself privately as she walked past the wall of sandbags, not Clara’s best work.

CHAPTER TWENTY

@CarlTracey: Cannot meet you now @NouveauGalerie. What exactly do you want?

Agent Cloutier smiled. Had she been an angler, she’d have recognized a nibble on the bait.

She was also amused, and reassured, by the cautious, even terse, response.

But mostly it was the speed of the response that grabbed her attention.

This was Carl Tracey’s Instagram account, but it was not Carl Tracey she was communicating with. He had no cell phone. And no cell phone coverage.

“Best not to discuss business publicly,” she typed, having already composed this response in her head. “Do you have a private account?”

Her phone was ringing the Bonanza theme, and she answered it but continued to stare at the screen. Trying not to see the amused looks of the other Sûreté agents in the open room.

“Cloutier,” she said.

“It’s Beauvoir. The search warrant’s come through. Meet us at the Tracey place.”

“On my way, patron.”

But still she stared at the screen, and then, just as she was about to shut it down, a single word appeared.

“No.”

Far from being disappointed, Cloutier smiled. It was the response she’d expected. Hoped for.