A Trick of the Light

TWENTY

Clara closed the door and leaned against it. Listening for Peter. Hoping, hoping. Hoping she’d hear nothing. Hoping she was alone.

And she was.

Oh, no no no, she thought. Still the dead one lay moaning.

Lillian wasn’t dead. She was alive in Mr. Dyson’s face.

Clara had raced home, barely able to keep her car on the road, her view obscured by that face. Those faces.

Mr. and Mrs. Dyson. Lillian’s mom and dad. Old, infirm. Almost unrecognizable as the robust, cheery people she’d known.

But their voices had been strong. Their language stronger.

There was no doubt. Clara had made a terrible mistake. And instead of making things better, she’d made them worse.

How could she have been so wrong?

“Fucking little asshole.” André Castonguay shoved the table away and got up, unsteadily. “I have a thing or two to say to him.”

François Marois also got up. “Not now, my friend.”

They both watched as Denis Fortin walked back down the hill and into the village. He didn’t hesitate, didn’t look in their direction. Didn’t deviate from a course he’d clearly chosen.

Denis Fortin was making for the Morrow house. That much was clear to Castonguay, to Marois, and to Chief Inspector Gamache, who was also watching.

“But we can’t let him speak to them,” said Castonguay, trying to pull himself away from Marois.

“He won’t be successful, André. You know that. Let him have his try. Besides, I saw Peter Morrow leave a few minutes ago. He’s not even there.”

Castonguay turned unsteadily toward Marois. “Vraiment?” There was a slightly stupid smile on his face.

“Vraiment,” Marois confirmed. “Really. Why don’t you go back to the inn and relax.”

“Good idea.”

André Castonguay walked slowly, deliberately across the village green.

Gamache had watched all this, and now his gaze shifted to François Marois. There was a look of weary sophistication on the art dealer’s face. He seemed almost bemused.

The Chief Inspector stepped off the terrasse and joined Marois, whose eyes hadn’t left the Morrow cottage, as though he expected it to do something worth witnessing. Then his look shifted to Castonguay, trudging up the dirt road.

“Poor André,” said Marois to Gamache. “That really wasn’t very nice of Fortin.”

“What wasn’t?” asked Gamache, also watching the gallery owner. Castonguay had stopped at the top of the hill, swayed a bit, then carried on. “It seemed to me Monsieur Castonguay was the one being abusive.”

“But he was provoked,” said Marois. “Fortin knew how André would react as soon as he sat at the table. And then—”

“Yes?”

“Well, ordering more drinks. Getting André drunk.”

“Did he know Monsieur Castonguay has a problem?”

“Daddy’s little problem?” Marois smiled, then shook his head. “It’s become an open secret. Most of the time he has it under control. Has to. But sometimes—”

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.