A Trick of the Light (35 page)

He made an eloquent gesture with his hands.

Yes, thought Gamache. Sometimes—

“And then to actually tell André he was here to try to sign the Morrows. Fortin was just asking for trouble. Smug little man.”

“Aren’t you being a bit disingenuous?” Gamache asked. “After all, that’s the reason you’re here.”

Marois laughed. “
Touché.
But we were here first.”

“Are you telling me there’s a dibs system? There’s so much about the art world I didn’t know.”

“What I meant is that no one needs to tell me what great art is. I see it, I know it. Clara’s art is brilliant. I don’t need the
Times,
or Denis Fortin, or André Castonguay to tell me. But some people buy art with their ears and some with their eyes.”

“Does Denis Fortin need to be told?”

“In my opinion, yes.”

“And do you spread your opinion around? Is that why Fortin hates you?”

François Marois turned his complete attention to the Chief Inspector. His face was no longer a cipher. His astonishment was obvious.

“Hate me? I’m sure he doesn’t. We’re competitors, yes, often going after the same artists and buyers, and it can get pretty gruesome, but I think there’s a respect, a collegiality. And I keep my opinions to myself.”

“You told me,” said Gamache.

Marois hesitated. “You asked. Otherwise I would never have said anything.”

“Is Clara likely to sign with Fortin?”

“She might. Everyone loves a repentant sinner. And I’m sure he’s doing his mea culpas right now.”

“He already has,” said Gamache. “That’s how he got invited to the
vernissage.
”

“Ahhh,” nodded Marois. “I was wondering about that.” He looked troubled for the first time. Then, with an effort, his handsome face cleared. “Clara’s no fool. She’ll see through him. He didn’t know what he had with her before, and he still doesn’t understand her paintings. He’s worked hard to build up a reputation as cutting edge, but he isn’t. One false move, one bad show, and the whole thing will come crashing down. A reputation’s a fragile thing, as Fortin knows better than most.”

Marois motioned toward André Castonguay, almost at the inn. “Now, he’s less vulnerable. He has a number of clients and one big corporate account. Kelley Foods.”

“The baby food manufacturer?”

“Exactly. Huge corporate buyer. They invest heavily in art for their offices worldwide. Makes them seem less money grubbing and more sophisticated. And guess who finds them the art?”

It needed no answer. André Castonguay had plunged headlong into the doorway of the inn and spa. And disappeared.

“They’re fairly conservative, of course,” continued the dealer. “But then, so’s André.”

“If he’s so conservative why’s he interested in Clara Morrow’s work?”

“He’s not.”

“Peter?”

“I think so. This way he gets two for one. A painter whose work he can sell to Kelley Foods. Safe, conventional, respected. Nothing too daring or suggestive. But he’ll also get all sorts of publicity and legitimacy in picking up someone truly avante-garde. Clara Morrow. Never underestimate the power of greed, Chief Inspector. Or ego.”

“I’ll make a note of that,
merci.
” Gamache smiled and watched Marois follow Castonguay up the hill.

“Not with a club the heart is broken.”

Gamache turned toward the voice. Ruth was sitting on the bench, her back to him.

“Nor with a stone,”
she said, apparently to thin air.
“A whip so small you could not see it I have known.”

Gamache sat next to her.

“Emily Dickinson,” said Ruth, staring ahead of her.

“Armand Gamache,” said the Chief Inspector.

“Not me, you idiot. The poem.”

She turned angry eyes on him, only to find the Chief smiling. She gave one large guffaw.

“Not with a club the heart is broken,”
repeated Gamache. It was familiar. Reminded him of something someone had recently said.

“A lot of drama today,” said Ruth. “Too much noise. Scares away the birds.”

And sure enough, there wasn’t a bird in sight, though Gamache knew she was thinking of one bird, not many.

Rosa, her duck, who had flown south last fall. And had not returned with the rest. Had not returned to the nest.

But Ruth hadn’t given up hope.

Sitting quietly on the bench, Gamache remembered why that phrase from the Dickinson poem was so familiar. Opening the book still in his hands he looked down at the words highlighted by a dead woman.

Hearts are broken. Sweet relationships are dead.

Then he noticed someone watching them from the bistro. Olivier.

“How’s he doing?” Gamache asked, gesturing slightly toward the bistro.

“Who?”

“Olivier.”

“I don’t know. Who cares?”

Gamache was quiet for a moment. “He’s a good friend of yours, as I remember,” said the Chief Inspector.

Ruth was silent, her face immobile.

“People make mistakes,” said Gamache. “He’s a good man, you know. And I know he loves you.”

Ruth made a rude noise. “Look, all he cares about is money. Not me, not Clara or Peter. Not even Gabri. Not really. He’d sell us all for a few bucks. You should know that better than most.”

“I’ll tell you what I know,” said Gamache. “I know he made a mistake. And I know he’s sorry. And I know he’s trying to make it up.”

“But not to you. He barely looks at you.”

“Would you? If I arrested you for a crime you hadn’t committed, would you forgive?”

“Olivier lied to us. To me.”

“Everyone lies,” said Gamache. “Everyone hides things. His were pretty bad, but I’ve seen worse. Much worse.”

Ruth’s already thin lips all but disappeared.

“I’ll tell you who did lie,” she said. “That man you were just speaking to.”

“François Marois?”

“Well, I don’t know his fucking name. How many men were you just talking to? Whatever his name was, he wasn’t telling you the truth.”

“How so?”

“The young fellow wasn’t ordering all the drinks. He was. Long before the young guy showed up the other fellow was drunk.”

“Are you sure?”

“I have a nose for booze, and an eye for drunks.”

“And an ear for lies, apparently.”

Ruth cracked a smile that surprised even her.

Gamache got up and cast a look toward Olivier, before bowing slightly to Ruth and whispering so that only she could hear,

“Now here’s a good one:

you’re lying on your deathbed.

You have one hour to live.”

“Enough,” she interrupted him, her bony hand up and in his face. Not quite touching it, but close enough to block the words. “I know how it ends. And I wonder if you really know the answer to the question?” She looked at him hard. “
Who is it, exactly, you have needed all these years to forgive,
Chief Inspector?”

He straightened up and left her, walking toward the bridge over the Rivère Bella Bella, lost in thought.

“Chief.”

He turned to see Inspector Beauvoir striding toward him from the Incident Room.

He knew that look. Jean Guy had news.

TWENTY-ONE

All Clara Morrow wanted was to be left alone. But instead she found herself in her kitchen, listening to Denis Fortin. Looking more boyish than ever. More contrite.

“Coffee?” she asked, then wondered why she’d offered. All she wanted was for Fortin to leave.

“No,
merci,
” he smiled. “I really don’t want to disturb you.”

But you already are,
thought Clara, and knew it was uncharitable. She was the one who’d opened the door. She was beginning to dislike doors. Closed or open.

If someone had said a year ago that she’d long for this prestigious gallery owner to leave her home, she’d never have believed it. Her whole effort, the efforts of every artist she knew, including Peter, was to get Fortin’s attention.

But all she could think about was getting rid of him.

“I suspect you know why I’m here,” said Fortin, with a grin. “I’d actually hoped to speak with both you and Peter. Is he home?”

“No, he’s not. Do you want to come back when he’s here?”

“I don’t want to waste your time,” he said, getting up. “I realize we got off to a terrible start. All my fault. I wish I could change all that. I was very, very stupid.”

She started to say something and he put up his hand and smiled.

“You don’t have to be nice, I know what an ass I was. But I’ve learned, and I won’t be like that again. To you or to anyone else, I hope. I’d like to just say this once, and leave. Let you and maybe your husband think about it. Is that OK?”

Clara nodded.

“I’d like to represent both you and Peter. I’m young and we can all grow together. I’ll be around a long time to help guide your careers. I think that’s important. My thought is to build toward a solo show for each of you and then a combined exhibition. Take advantage of both your talents. It would be thrilling. The show of the year, of the decade. Please consider it, that’s all I ask.”

Clara nodded and watched Fortin leave.

*   *   *

Inspector Beauvoir joined the Chief Inspector on the bridge.

“Look at this.” Beauvoir gave him a printout.

Gamache noticed the heading then quickly read down the page. Stopping, as though hitting a wall, three quarters of the way down. He lifted his eyes and met Beauvoir’s, who was waiting. Smiling.

The Chief went back to the sheet, reading more slowly this time. Reading right to the end.

He didn’t want to miss anything, the way they almost had.

“Well done,” he said, handing the page back to Inspector Beauvoir. “How did you find that?”

“I was going over the interviews and realized we might not have talked to everyone at the party down here.”

Gamache was nodding. “Good. Excellent.”

He looked toward the B and B, his arm extended. “Shall we?”

A few moments later they stepped from the bright, warm sunshine onto the cooler verandah. Normand and Paulette had watched their progress across the village green. Indeed, Gamache suspected everyone in the village had.

It might look sleepy, but Three Pines was in fact keenly aware of everything.

The two artists looked up as they approached.

“I wonder if I might ask you a very great favor?” Gamache said, smiling.

“Of course,” said Paulette.

“Could you perhaps go for a walk around the village, or have a drink at the bistro? On me?”

They looked at him, uncomprehending at first, then it clicked with Paulette. Gathering up her book and a magazine she nodded. “I think a walk would be a great idea, don’t you, Normand?”

Normand looked like he’d just as soon stay where he was, in the comfortable swing on the cool porch, with an old
Paris Match
and a lemonade. Gamache couldn’t say he blamed him. But he did need them gone.

The two men waited until the artists were well out of ear-shot. Then they turned to the third occupant of the verandah.

Suzanne Coates sat in a rocking chair with a lemonade. But instead of a magazine she had her sketch pad on her lap.

“Hello,” she said, though she didn’t get up.

“Bonjour,”
said Beauvoir. “Where’s the Chief Justice?”

“He went off to his home in Knowlton. I’ve checked in here for the night.”

“Why?” asked Beauvoir. He pulled up a seat, while Gamache sat in a nearby rocking chair, and crossed his legs.

“I plan to stay until you find out who killed Lillian. I figure that’s pretty big incentive for you to get the job done quickly.”

She smiled, as did Beauvoir.

“It would move a lot faster if you told us the truth.”

That wiped the smile off her face.

“About what?”

Beauvoir handed her the sheet of paper. Suzanne took it and read, then handed it back. Her considerable energy didn’t so much wane as contract, like an implosion. She looked from Beauvoir to his boss. Gamache was giving her nothing. He simply continued to watch with interest.

“You were here the night of the murder,” said Beauvoir.

Suzanne paused and Gamache was surprised to see that even at this late date, when there was no hope of escape, she still seemed to be considering a lie.

“I was,” she finally admitted, darting looks from one man to the other.

“Why didn’t you tell us that?”

“You asked if I was at the
vernissage
at the Musée, and I wasn’t. You didn’t actually ask about the party here.”

“Are you saying you didn’t lie?” demanded Beauvoir, glancing at Gamache as if to say, See? Another deer on the same old path. People don’t change.

“Look,” said Suzanne, squirming in her chair, “I go to lots of
vernissages,
but I’m mostly on the business end of a cocktail wiener. I told you that. It’s how I pick up extra cash. I don’t hide it. Well, I mean, I hide it from Revenue Canada. But I told you all about it.”

She implored Gamache, who nodded.

“You didn’t tell us all about it,” said Beauvoir. “You failed to mention you were here when your friend was murdered.”

“I wasn’t a guest. I was working the party. And not even as a waiter. I was in the kitchen all night. I didn’t see Lillian. Didn’t even know she was here. Why would I? Look, this party was planned long ago. I was hired weeks ago.”

“Did you mention it to Lillian?” asked Beauvoir.

“Of course not. I don’t tell her about every party I’m working.”

“Did you know who it was for?”

“Not a clue. I knew it was an artist, but most of them are. The caterers I work for do mostly
vernissages.
I didn’t decide to come here, it was the party I was assigned. I had no idea who it was for, and I didn’t care. All I cared about was that no one complained, and that I got paid.”

“When we told you that Lillian had died at a party in Three Pines you must have known then,” Beauvoir pressed. “Why didn’t you tell us then?”