A Trick of the Light

FIVE

Chief Inspector Gamache picked up the stack of papers just inside the yellow police cordon and handed them to Clara.

“I’m sure the critics loved your show,” he said.

“Why, oh why aren’t you an art critic instead of wasting your time in such a trivial profession?” Clara asked.

“Dreadful waste of a life, I agree,” smiled the Chief.

“Well,” she looked down at the papers, “I guess I can’t count on another body showing up. I might just have to read these now.”

She looked around. Peter had gone inside and Clara wondered if she should too. To read the reviews in peace and quiet. In secret.

Instead, she thanked Gamache and walked toward the bistro, hugging the heavy papers to her chest. She could see Olivier out on the terrasse, serving drinks. Monsieur Beliveau sat at a table, with its blue and white sun umbrella, sipping a Cinzano and reading the Sunday newspapers.

Indeed all the tables were taken, filled with villagers and friends enjoying a lazy Sunday brunch. As she appeared most eyes turned to her.

Then looked away.

And she felt a stab of rage. Not at these people, but at Lillian. Who’d taken the biggest day of Clara’s professional life and done this. So that instead of smiling and waving and commenting on the big celebrations, now people turned away. Clara’s triumph stolen, yet again, by Lillian.

She looked at the grocer, Monsieur Beliveau, who quickly dropped his eyes.

As did Clara.

When she raised them again a moment later she almost leapt out of her skin. Olivier was standing within inches of her, holding two glasses.

“Shit,” she exhaled.

“Shandies,” he said. “Made with ginger beer and pale ale, as you like them.”

Clara looked from him to the glasses then back to Olivier. A slight breeze picked at his thinning blond hair. Even with an apron around his slender body he managed to look sophisticated and relaxed. But Clara remembered the look they’d exchanged while kneeling in the corridor of the Musée d’Art Contemporain.

“That was fast,” she said.

“Well, they were actually meant for someone else, but I judged it was an emergency.”

“That obvious?” smiled Clara.

“Hard not to be, when a body appears at your place. I know.”

“Yes,” said Clara. “You do know.”

Olivier indicated the bench on the village green and they walked over to it. Clara dropped the heavy newspapers and they hit the bench with a thump, as did she.

Clara accepted a shandy from Olivier and they sat side-by-side, their backs to the bistro, to the people, to the crime scene. To the searching eyes and averted eyes.

“How’re you doing?” asked Olivier. He’d almost asked if she was all right, but of course she wasn’t.

“I wish I could say. Lillian alive in our back garden would have been a shock, but Lillian dead is inconceivable.”

“Who was she?”

“A friend from long ago. But no longer a friend. We had a falling out.”

Clara didn’t say more, and Olivier didn’t ask. They sipped their drinks and sat in the shade of the three huge pine trees that soared over them, over the village.

“How was it seeing Gamache again?” asked Clara.

Olivier paused to consider, then he smiled. He looked boyish and young. Far younger than his thirty-eight years. “Not very comfortable. Do you think he noticed?”

“I think it’s just possible,” said Clara, and squeezed Olivier’s hand. “You haven’t forgiven him?”

“Could you?”

Now it was Clara’s turn to pause. Not to reflect on her answer. She knew it. But on whether she should say it.

“We forgave you,” she finally said and hoped her tone was gentle enough, soft enough. That the words wouldn’t feel as barbed as they could. But still she felt Olivier stiffen, withdraw. Not physically, but there seemed an emotional step back.

“Have you?” he said at last. And his tone was soft too. It wasn’t an accusation, more a wonderment. As though it was something he quietly asked himself every day.

Was he forgiven. Yet.

True, he hadn’t murdered the Hermit. But he’d betrayed him. Stolen from him. Taken everything the delusional recluse had offered. And some he hadn’t. Olivier had taken everything from the fragile old man. Including his freedom. Imprisoning him in the log cabin, with cruel words.

And when it had all come out, at his trial, he’d seen the looks on their faces.

As though they were suddenly staring at a stranger. A monster in their midst.

“What makes you think we haven’t forgiven you?” asked Clara.

“Well, Ruth for one.”

“Oh, come on,” laughed Clara. “She’s always called you a dick-head.”

“True. But you know what she calls me now?”

“What?” she asked with a grin.

“Olivier.”

Clara’s grin slowly faded.

“You know,” said Olivier, “I thought prison would be the worst. The humiliations, the terror. It’s amazing what you can get used to. Even now those memories are fading. No, not really fading, but they’re more in my head now. Not so much here.” He pressed his hand to his chest. “But you know what doesn’t go away?”

Clara shook her head and steeled herself. “Tell me.”

She didn’t want what Olivier was offering. Some scalded memory. Of a gay man in prison. A good man, in prison. God knew, he was flawed. More than most, perhaps. But his punishment had far outstripped the crime.

Clara didn’t think she could stand to hear the best part of being in prison, and now she was about to hear the worst. But he had to tell it. And Clara had to listen.

“It’s not the trial, not even prison.” Olivier looked at her with sad eyes. “Do you know what wakes me up at two in the morning with a panic attack?”

Clara waited, feeling her own heart pounding.

“It was here. After I’d been released. It was walking from the car with Beauvoir and Gamache. That long walk across the snow to the bistro.”

Clara stared at her friend, not quite understanding. How could the memory of coming home to Three Pines possibly be more frightening than being locked behind bars?

She remembered that day clearly. It had been a Sunday afternoon in February. Another crisp, cold winter day. She and Myrna and Ruth and Peter and most of the village had been snug inside the bistro, having café au laits and talking. She’d been chatting with Myrna when she’d noticed Gabri had grown uncharacteristically quiet and was staring out the windows. Then she’d looked. Children were skating on the pond, playing a pick-up game of hockey. Other kids were tobogganing, having snowball fights, building forts. Down rue du Moulin she saw the familiar Volvo drive slowly into Three Pines. It parked by the village green. Three men, wrapped in heavy parkas, got out of the vehicle. They paused, then slowly walked the few paces to the bistro.

Gabri had stood up, almost knocking over his coffee mug. Then the entire bistro had grown quiet, as all eyes followed Gabri’s stare. They watched the three figures. It was almost as though the pines had come alive and were approaching.

Clara said nothing and waited for Olivier to continue.

“I know it was just a few yards, really,” he finally said. “But the bistro seemed so far away. It was freezing cold, the kind that goes right through your coat. Our boots on the snow sounded so loud, crunching and squealing, like we were stepping on something alive, and hurting it.”

Olivier paused, and narrowed his eyes again.

“I could see everyone inside. I could see the logs burning in the fireplace. I could see the frost on the windowpanes.”

As he spoke Clara could see them too, through his eyes.

“I haven’t even told Gabri this, I didn’t want to hurt him, didn’t want him to take it the wrong way. When we were walking toward the bistro I almost stopped. Almost asked them to drive me somewhere else, anywhere else.”

“Why?” Clara’s voice had dropped to a whisper.

“Because I was terrified. More afraid than I’d ever been in my life. More afraid even than in prison.”

“Afraid of what?”

Once again Olivier felt the bitter cold scraping his cheeks. Heard his feet shrieking on the hard snow. And saw the warm bistro through the mullioned windows. His friends and neighbors over drinks, talking. Laughing. The fire in the grate.

Safe and warm.

They on the inside. He on the outside, looking in.

And the closed door between him and everything he ever wanted.

He’d almost passed out from terror, and had he been able to find his voice he felt sure he’d have shouted at Gamache to take him back to Montréal. Drop him at some anonymous fleabag. Where he might not be accepted, but he wouldn’t be rejected.

“I was afraid you wouldn’t want me back. That I wouldn’t belong anymore.”

Olivier sighed and dropped his head. His eyes stared at the ground, taking in each blade of grass.

“Oh, God, Olivier,” said Clara, dropping her shandy onto the newspapers, where it fell over, soaking the pages. “Never.”

“Are you sure?” he asked, turning to her. Searching her face for reassurance.

“Absolutely. We really have let it go.”

He was quiet for a moment. They both watched as Ruth left her small cottage on the far side of the village green, opened her gate, and limped across to the other bench. Once there she looked at them and lifted her hand.

Please, thought Olivier. Give me the finger. Say something rude. Call me a fag, a queer. Dick-head.

“I know you say that, but I don’t really think you have.” He watched Ruth, but spoke to Clara. “Let it go, I mean.”

Ruth looked at Olivier. Hesitated. And waved.

Olivier paused, then nodded. Turning back to Clara he gave her a weary smile.

“Thank you for listening. If you ever want to talk about Lillian, or anything, you know where to find me.”

He waved, not toward the bistro, but toward Gabri, who was busy ignoring customers and chatting away with a friend. Olivier watched him with a smile.

Yes, thought Clara. Gabri is his home.

She picked up her sodden newspapers and began to walk across the village green when Olivier called after her. She turned and he caught up with her.

“Here. You spilled yours.” He held out his shandy.

“No, that’s OK. I’ll get something at Myrna’s.”

“Please?” he asked.

She looked at the partly drunk shandy, then at him. His kind, beseeching eyes. And she took the glass.

“Merci, mon beau Olivier.”

As she approached the village shops she thought about what Olivier had said.

And wondered if he was right. Maybe they hadn’t forgiven him.

Just then two men came out of the bistro and made their way slowly up rue du Moulin, toward the inn and spa at the top of the hill. She turned to watch them, surprised. That they were there. And that they were together.

Then her gaze shifted. To her own home. And a solitary figure standing by the corner of the house. Also watching the two men.

It was Chief Inspector Gamache.

Gamache watched François Marois and André Castonguay slowly make their way up the hill.

They didn’t seem in conversation, but they did seem companionable. Comfortable.

Had it always been so? Gamache wondered. Or had it been different decades ago, when both were young turks just starting out. Fighting for territory, fighting for influence, fighting for artists.

Perhaps the two men had always liked and respected each other. But Gamache doubted that. They were both too powerful, too ambitious. Had too much ego. And too much was at stake. They could be civil, could even be gracious. But they almost certainly were not friends.

And yet here they were, like old combatants, climbing the hill together.

As he watched, Gamache became aware of a familiar scent. Turning slightly he saw he was standing beside a gnarled old lilac bush at the corner of Peter and Clara’s home.

It looked delicate, fragile, but Gamache knew lilacs were in fact long lived. They survived storms and droughts, biting winters and late frosts. They flourished and bloomed where other more apparently robust plants died.

The village of Three Pines, he noticed, was dotted with lilac bushes. Not the new hybrids with double blooms and vibrant colors. These were the soft purples and whites of his grandmother’s garden. When had they been young? Had doughboys returning from Vimy and Flanders and Passchendaele marched past these same bushes? Had they breathed in the scent and known, at last, they were home? At peace.

He looked back in time to see the two elderly men turn as one into the entrance to the inn and spa, and disappear inside.

“Chief.” Inspector Beauvoir walked toward him from Peter and Clara’s back garden. “The Crime Scene team’s just finishing up and Lacoste’s back from the bistro. As you thought, Gabri and Olivier weren’t in the place thirty seconds before they announced what had happened.”

“And?”

“And nothing. Lacoste says everyone behaved as you’d expect. Curious, upset, worried for their own safety, but not personally upset. No one seemed to know the dead woman. Lacoste spent some time going from table to table after that, showing the photo of the dead woman and describing her. No one remembers seeing her at the barbeque.”

Gamache was disappointed but not surprised. He had a growing suspicion that this woman was not meant to be seen. Not alive, anyway.

“Lacoste’s setting up the Incident Room in the old railway station.”

“Bon.” Gamache began walking across the village green and Beauvoir fell into step beside him. “I wonder if we should make it a permanent detachment.”

Beauvoir laughed. “Why not just move the whole homicide department down here? By the way, we found Madame Dyson’s car. Looks like she drove herself. It’s just up there.” Beauvoir pointed up rue du Moulin. “Want to see it?”

“Absolument.”

The two men changed direction and walked up the dirt road, in the footsteps of the two older men moments before. Once they’d crested the hill Gamache could see a gray Toyota parked on the side of the road a hundred yards further along.

“Long way from the Morrow house and the party,” said Gamache, feeling the warmth as the afternoon sun shone through the leaves.

“True, I imagine the place was packed with cars. This was probably as close as she could get.”

Gamache nodded slowly. “Which would mean she wasn’t among the first to arrive. Or, maybe she parked this far away on purpose.”

“Why would she do that?”

“Maybe she didn’t want to be seen.”

“Then why wear neon red?”

Gamache smiled. It was a good point. “Very annoying, having a smart second in command. I long for the days you used to just tug your forelock and agree with me.”

“And when were those?”

“Right again. This must stop.” He smiled to himself.

They came to a stop beside the car.

“It’s been gone over, searched, swabbed, fingerprinted. But I wanted you to see it before we had it towed away.”

“Merci.”

Beauvoir unlocked it and the Chief Inspector climbed into the driver’s seat, pushing the seat back to make room for his more substantial body.

The passenger’s seat was covered with Cartes Routières du Québec. Maps.

Reaching across he opened the glove compartment. There was the usual assortment of stuff you think you’ll use and forget is there. Napkins, elastics, Band-Aids, a double A battery. And some information on the car, with the insurance and registration slips. Gamache pulled it out and read. The car was five years old, but only bought by Lillian Dyson eight months ago. He closed the glove box and picked up the maps. Putting on his half-moon reading glasses he scanned them. They’d been imperfectly folded back together, in that haphazard way impatient people had with annoying maps.

One was for all of Québec. Not very helpful unless you were planning an invasion and just needed to know, roughly, where Montréal and Quebec City were. The other was for Les Canton de l’est. The Eastern Townships.

Lillian Dyson couldn’t have known it when she bought them, but these maps were also useless. Just to be sure, he opened one and where Three Pines should have been there was the winding Bella Bella River, hills, a forest. And nothing else. As far as the official mapmakers were concerned Three Pines didn’t exist.

It had never been surveyed. Never plotted. No GPS or sat nav system, no matter how sophisticated, would ever find the little village. It only appeared as though by accident over the edge of the hill. Suddenly. It could not be found unless you were lost.

Had Lillian Dyson been lost? Had she stumbled onto Three Pines and the party by mistake?

But no. That seemed too big a coincidence. She was dressed for a party. Dressed to impress. To be seen. To be noticed.

Then why hadn’t she been?

“Why was Lillian here?” he asked, almost to himself.

“Did she even know it was Clara’s home, do you think?” Beauvoir asked.

“I’ve wondered that,” admitted Gamache, taking off his reading glasses and getting out of the car.

“Either way,” said Beauvoir, “she came.”

“But how.”

“By car,” said Beauvoir.

“Yes, I’ve managed to get that far,” said Gamache with a smile. “But once in the car how’d she get here?”

“The maps?” asked Beauvoir, with infinite patience. But when he saw Gamache shaking his head he reconsidered. “Not the maps?”

Gamache was silent, letting his second in command find the answer himself.

“She wouldn’t have found Three Pines on those maps,” said Beauvoir, slowly. “It isn’t on them.” He paused, thinking. “So how’d she find her way here?”

Gamache turned and started making his way back toward Three Pines, his pace measured.

Something else occurred to Beauvoir as he joined the Chief. “How’d any of them get here? All those people from Montréal?”

“Clara and Peter sent directions with the invitation.”

“Well, there’s your answer,” said Beauvoir. “She had directions.”

“But she wasn’t invited. And even if she somehow got her hands on an invitation, and the directions, where are they? Not in her handbag, not on her body. Not in the car.”

Beauvoir looked away, thinking. “So, no maps and no directions. How’d she find the place?”

Gamache stopped opposite the inn and spa.

“I don’t know,” he admitted. Then Gamache turned to look at the inn. It had once been a monstrosity. A rotting, rotten old place. A Victorian trophy home built more than a century ago of hubris and other men’s sweat.

Meant to dominate the village below. But while Three Pines survived the recessions, the depressions, the wars, this turreted eyesore fell into disrepair, attracting only sorrow.

Instead of a trophy, when villagers looked up what they saw was a shadow, a sigh on the hill.

But no longer. Now it was an elegant and gleaming country inn.

But sometimes, at certain angles, in a certain light Gamache could still see the sorrow in the place. And just at dusk, in the breeze, he thought he could hear the sigh.

In Gamache’s breast pocket was the list of guests Clara and Peter had invited from Montréal. Was the murderer’s name among them?

Or was the murderer not a guest at all, but someone already here?

“Hello, there.”

Beside him Beauvoir gave a start. He tried not to show it, but this old home, despite the facelift, still gave Beauvoir a chill.

Dominique Gilbert appeared around the side of the inn. She was wearing jodhpurs and a black velvet riding hat. In her hand she carried a leather crop. She was about to either go for a ride, or direct a Mack Sennett short.

She smiled when she recognized them, and put out her hand.

“Chief Inspector.” She shook his hand then turned to Beauvoir and shook his. Then her smile faded.

“So it’s true about the body in Clara’s garden?”

She removed her hat to show brown hair flattened to her skull by perspiration. Dominique Gilbert was in her late forties, tall and slender. A refugee, along with her husband, Marc, from the city. They’d made their bundle and escaped.

Her fellow executives at the bank had predicted they wouldn’t last a winter. But they were now into their second year and showed no sign of regretting their decision to buy the old wreck and turn it into an inviting inn and spa.

“It’s true, I’m afraid,” said Gamache.

“May I use your phone?” Inspector Beauvoir asked. Despite knowing perfectly well it wouldn’t work, he’d been trying to call the forensics team on his cell phone.

“Merde,” he’d muttered, “it’s like going back to the dark ages here.”

“Help yourself.” Dominique pointed into the house. “You don’t even have to wind it up anymore.”

But her humor was lost on the Inspector, who strode in, still punching re-dial on his cell.

“I hear some of the guests at the party stayed with you last night?” said Gamache, standing on the verandah.

“A few. Some booked, some were last minute.”

“A bit too much to drink?”

“Sloshed.”

“Are they still here?”

“They’ve been dragging themselves out of bed for the past couple of hours. Your agent asked them not to leave Three Pines, but most could barely leave their beds. They’re not in any danger of fleeing. Crawling, perhaps, but not fleeing.”

“Where is my agent?” Gamache looked around. When he’d learned some of the guests had stayed over, he’d directed Agent Lacoste to send out two junior agents. One to guard the B and B, the other to come here.

“He’s around back with the horses.”

“Is that right?” said Gamache. “Guarding them?”

“As you know, Chief Inspector, our horses aren’t exactly flight risks either.”

He did know. One of the first things Dominique had done when moving here was to buy horses. The fulfillment of a childhood dream.

But instead of Black Beauty, Flicka, Pegasus, Dominique had found four broken-down old plugs. Ruined animals, bound for the slaughterhouse.

Indeed, one looked more like a moose than a horse.

But such was the nature of dreams. They were not always recognizable, at first.

“They’ll be right up to take the car away,” said Beauvoir, returning. Gamache noticed Beauvoir still held his cell phone in his hand. A pacifier.

“A few of the hardier guests wanted to go riding,” Dominique explained. “I was just about to take them. Your agent said it would be OK. At first he was unsure but once he saw the horses he relented. I guess he realized they wouldn’t exactly make for the border. I hope I haven’t gotten him into trouble.”

“Not at all,” said Gamache but Beauvoir looked as though that wouldn’t have been his answer.

As they walked across the grass toward the barn they could see people and animals inside. All in shadow, silhouettes cut and pasted there.

And among them the outline of a young Sûreté agent in uniform. Slender. Awkward, even at a distance.

Chief Inspector Gamache felt his heart suddenly pound and the blood rush to his core. In an instant he felt light-headed and he wondered if he might pass out. His hands went cold. He wondered if Jean Guy Beauvoir had noticed this sudden reaction, this unexpected spasm. As another young agent came to mind. Came to life. For an instant.

And then died again.

The shock was so great it threw Gamache off for a moment. He almost swayed on his feet but when it cleared he found his body still moving forward. His face still relaxed. Nothing to betray what had just happened. This grand mal of emotion.

Except a very, very slight tremor in his right hand, which he now closed into a fist.

The young agent’s silhouette broke away from the rest and came into the sunshine. And became whole. Handsome face eager, and worried, he hurried over to them.

“Sir,” he said, and saluted the Chief Inspector, who waved him to drop the salute. “I came to just see,” the agent blurted out. “To make sure it would be OK if they rode the horses. I didn’t mean to leave the place unguarded.”

The young agent had never met Chief Inspector Gamache before. He’d obviously seen him at a distance. As had most of the province. On news programs, in interviews, in photographs in the newspaper. In the televised funeral cortege for the agents who had died. Under Gamache’s command, just six months earlier.

The agent had even attended one of the Chief’s lectures at the academy.

But now, as he looked at the Chief Inspector, all those other images disappeared. To be replaced by a leaked video of that police action, where so many had died. No one should have ever seen those images, but millions had, as it went viral on the Internet. It was difficult to see the Chief Inspector now, with his jagged scar, and not also see that video.

But here was the man in person. The famed head of the famed homicide department. He was so close that the young agent could even smell the Chief Inspector’s scent. A very slight hint of sandalwood and something else. Rose water. The agent looked into Gamache’s deep brown eyes and realized they were unlike any he’d seen. He’d been stared at by many senior officers. In fact, everyone was senior to him. But he’d never had quite this experience before.

The Chief Inspector’s gaze was intelligent, thoughtful, searching.

But where others were cynical and censorious at their center, Chief Inspector Gamache’s eyes were something else.

They were kind.

Now, finally the agent was face-to-face with this famous man and where had the Chief found him? In a barn. Smelling of horse shit and feeding carrots to what looked like a moose. Saddling horses for murder suspects.

He waited for the wrath. For the curt correction.

But instead, Chief Inspector Gamache did the unthinkable.

He put out his hand.

The young agent stared at it for a moment. And noticed the very, very slight tremble. Then he took it and felt it strong and firm.

“Chief Inspector Gamache,” the large man said.

“Oui, patron. Agent Yves Rousseau of the Cowansville detachment.”

“All quiet here?”

“Yessir. I’m sorry. I probably shouldn’t have allowed them to go riding.”

Gamache smiled. “You have no right to stop them. Besides, I don’t think they’ll get far.”

The three Sûreté officers looked over at the two women and Dominique, each leading a clopping horse from the barn.

Gamache turned his gaze back to the agent in front of him. Young, eager.

“Did you get their names and addresses?”

“Yessir. And cross checked with their ID. I got everyone’s information.”

He unclicked his pocket, to get at his notebook.

“Perhaps you can take it to the Incident Room,” said Gamache, “and give it to Agent Lacoste.”

“Right,” said Rousseau, writing that down.

Jean Guy Beauvoir inwardly groaned. Here we go again, he thought. He’s going to invite this kid to join the investigation. Does he never learn?

Armand Gamache smiled and nodded to Agent Rousseau, then turned and walked back toward the inn, leaving two surprised men behind him. Rousseau that he’d been spoken to so civilly and Beauvoir that Gamache hadn’t done what he’d done on almost every investigation in the past. Invited one of the young, local agents to join them.

Beauvoir knew he should be happy. Relieved.

Then why did he feel so sad?

Once inside the inn and spa, Chief Inspector Gamache was again taken by how attractive it had become. Cool and calm. The old Victorian wreck had been lovingly restored. The stained-glass lintels cleaned and repaired, so that the sun shone emerald and ruby and sapphire on the polished black and white tiles of the entry hall. It was circular, with a wide mahogany stairway sweeping up.

A large floral arrangement of lilac and Solomon’s Seal and apple boughs stood on the gleaming wood table in the center of the hall.

It felt fresh and light and welcoming.

“May I help you?” a young receptionist asked.

“We were looking for two of your guests. Messieurs Marois and Castonguay.”

“They’re in the living room,” she said, smiling, and led them off to the right.

The two Sûreté officers knew perfectly well where it was, having been in it many times before. But they let the receptionist do her job.

After offering them coffee, which was declined, she left them at the door to the living room. Gamache took in the room. It too was open and bright with floor-to-ceiling windows looking down on the village below. A log fire was laid, but not lit and flowers sat in vases on occasional tables. The room was both modern in its furniture and traditional in details and design. They’d done a sympathetic job of bringing the grand old ruin into the twenty-first century.

“Bonjour.” François Marois rose from one of the Eames chairs and put down a copy of that day’s Le Devoir.

André Castonguay looked over from the easy chair where he was reading the New York Times. He too rose as the two officers entered the room.

Gamache, of course, already knew Monsieur Marois, having spoken with him the night before at the vernissage. But the other man was a stranger to him, known only by reputation. Castonguay stood and Gamache saw a tall man, a little bleary perhaps from celebrating the night before. His face was puffy, and ruddy from tiny broken blood vessels in his nose and cheeks.

“I hadn’t expected to see you here,” said Gamache, walking forward and shaking hands with Marois as though greeting a fellow guest.

“Nor I you,” said Marois. “André, this is Chief Inspector Gamache, of the Sûreté du Québec. Do you know my colleague André Castonguay?”

“Only by reputation. A very good reputation. The Galerie Castonguay is renowned. You represent some fine artists.”

“I’m glad you think so, Chief Inspector,” said Castonguay.

Beauvoir was introduced. He bristled and took an immediate dislike to the man. He’d in fact disliked the man before even hearing the dismissive remark made to the Chief. Any owner of a high-end art gallery was immediately suspect, of arrogance if not murder. Jean Guy Beauvoir had little tolerance for either.

But Gamache didn’t seem put out. Indeed, he seemed almost pleased with André Castonguay’s response. And Beauvoir noticed something else.

Castonguay had begun to relax, to grow more sure of himself. He’d pushed this police officer and he hadn’t pushed back. Clearly Castonguay felt himself the better man.

Beauvoir smiled slightly and lowered his head so Castonguay wouldn’t see.

“Your man took our names and addresses,” said Castonguay, taking the large easy chair by the fireplace. “Our home addresses as well as business. Does this mean we’re suspects?”

“Mais, non, monsieur,” said Gamache, sitting on the sofa opposite him. Beauvoir stood off to the side and Monsieur Marois took up a position at the mantelpiece. “I hope we haven’t inconvenienced you.”

Gamache looked concerned, contrite even. André Castonguay relaxed more. It was clear he was used to commanding a room. Getting his way.

Jean Guy Beauvoir watched as the Chief Inspector appeared to acquiesce to Castonguay. To bow before the stronger personality. Not mince, exactly. That would be too obviously a conceit. But to cede the space.

“Bon,” said Castonguay. “I’m glad we got that straight. You didn’t inconvenience us. We were planning to stay a few days anyway.”

We, thought Beauvoir and looked over at François Marois. The men would be about the same age, Beauvoir guessed. Castonguay’s hair was thick and white. Marois was balding, gray and trimmed. Both men were well groomed and well dressed.

“Here’s my card, Chief Inspector.” Castonguay handed Gamache a business card.

“Do you specialize in modern art?” Gamache asked, crossing his legs as though settling in for a nice chat.

Beauvoir, who knew Gamache better than most, watched with interest and some amusement. Castonguay was being wooed. And it was working. He clearly regarded Chief Inspector Gamache as one step up from the beasts. An evolved creature who walked upright but didn’t have much of a frontal lobe. Beauvoir could guess what Castonguay thought of him. The missing link, if that.

He longed to say something intelligent, something clever and knowledgeable. Or, failing that, something so shockingly, violently rude this smug man would no longer believe he was in charge of anything.

But Beauvoir, with an effort, kept his mouth shut. Mostly because he couldn’t think of anything intelligent to say about art.

Castonguay and the Chief Inspector were now discussing trends in modern art, with Castonguay lecturing and Gamache listening as though rapt.

And François Marois?

Jean Guy Beauvoir had all but forgotten him. He was so quiet. But now the Inspector shifted his eyes to Marois. And discovered the quiet, older man was also staring. But not at Castonguay.

François Marois was staring at Chief Inspector Gamache. Examining him. Closely. Then he shifted his gaze to Beauvoir. It wasn’t a cold look. But it was clear and sharp.

It froze Beauvoir’s blood.

The conversation between the Chief Inspector and Castonguay had segued back to the murder.

“Terrible,” said Castonguay, as though voicing a unique and insightful sentiment.

“Terrible,” agreed Gamache, sitting forward. “We have a couple of photographs of the murdered woman. I wonder if you’d mind looking at them?”

Beauvoir handed the photos to François Marois first. He looked at them then passed them on to André Castonguay.

“I’m afraid I don’t know her,” said Castonguay. To give him grudging credit, Beauvoir thought the man looked pained to see the woman dead. “Who was she?”

“Monsieur Marois?” Gamache turned to the other man.

“No, I’m afraid she doesn’t look familiar to me either. She was at the party?”

“That’s what we’re trying to find out. Did either of you see her there? As you can see in one of the pictures, she was wearing quite a remarkable red dress.”

The men glanced at each other, but shook their heads.

“Désolé,” said Castonguay. “But I spent the evening speaking to friends I don’t often see. She could’ve been there and I just didn’t notice. Who was she?” he asked again.

The photos were handed back to Beauvoir.

“Her name was Lillian Dyson.”

There was no reaction to the name.

“Was she an artist?” Castonguay asked.

“What makes you ask?” said Gamache.

“Wearing red. Flamboyant. Artists are either complete bums, hardly wash, drunk and filthy most of the time, or they’re well, that.” He waved toward the pictures in Beauvoir’s hand. “Over-the-top. Loud. ‘Look at me’ types. Both are very tiring.”

“You don’t seem to like artists,” said Gamache.

“I don’t. I like the product, not the person. Artists are needy, crazy people who take up a lot of space and time. Exhausting. Like babies.”

“And yet, you were an artist once, I believe,” said François Marois.

The Sûreté agents looked over at the quiet man by the fireplace. Was there a satisfied look on his face?

“I was. Too sane to be a success.”

Marois laughed, and Castonguay looked annoyed. It wasn’t meant as a joke.

“You were at the vernissage at the Musée yesterday, Monsieur Castonguay?” Gamache asked.

“Yes. The chief curator invited me. And of course Vanessa is a close friend. We dine together when I’m in London.”

“Vanessa Destin-Brown? The head of the Tate Modern?” asked Gamache, apparently impressed. “She was there last night?”

“Oh yes, there and here. We had a long discussion on the future of figurative—”

“But she didn’t stay? Or is she one of the guests at the inn?”

“No, she left early. I don’t think burgers and fiddle music’s her style.”

“But it is yours?”

Beauvoir wondered if André Castonguay had noticed the tide shifting?

“Not normally, but there were some people here I wanted to speak with.”

“Who?”

“Pardon?”

Chief Inspector Gamache was still cordial, still gracious. But he was also clearly in command. And always had been.

Once again Beauvoir shot a look over to François Marois. He suspected the shift came as no surprise to him.

“Who did you particularly want to speak to at the party here?” Gamache asked, patient, clear.

“Well, Clara Morrow for one. I wanted to thank her for her works.”

“Who else?”

“That’s a private matter,” said Castonguay.

So he had noticed, thought Beauvoir. But too late. Chief Inspector Gamache was the tide and André Castonguay a twig. The best he could hope was to stay afloat.

“It might matter, monsieur. And if it doesn’t I promise to keep it between us.”

“Well, I’d hoped to approach Peter Morrow. He’s a fine artist.”

“But not as good as his wife.”

François Marois spoke quietly. Not much more than a whisper. But everyone turned to look at him.

“Is her work that good?” Chief Inspector Gamache asked.

Marois looked at Gamache for a moment. “I’ll be happy to answer that, but I’m curious to hear what you think. You were at the vernissage. You were the one who pointed out that remarkable portrait of the Virgin Mary.”

“The what?” asked Castonguay. “There was no Virgin Mary painting.”

“There was if you looked,” Marois assured him before turning back to the Chief Inspector. “You were one of the few people actually paying attention to her art.”

“As I may have mentioned last night, Clara and Peter Morrow are personal friends,” said Gamache.

This brought a look of surprise and suspicion from Castonguay.

“Is that allowed? That means you’re investigating friends for murder, n’est-ce pas?”

Beauvoir stepped forward. “In case you didn’t know it, Chief Inspector Gamache—”

But the Chief put his hand up and Beauvoir managed to stop himself.

“It’s a fair question.” Gamache turned back to André Castonguay. “They are friends and yes, they’re also suspects. In fact, I have a lot of friends in this village, and all of them are suspects as well. And I realize this could be interpreted as a disadvantage, but the fact is, I know these people. Well. Who better to find the murderer among them than someone who knows their weaknesses, their blind spots, their fears? Now,” Gamache leaned slowly forward, toward Castonguay, “if you’re thinking I might find the murderer and let him go…”

The words were friendly, there was even a mild smile on the Chief Inspector’s face. But even André Castonguay couldn’t miss the gravity in the voice and eyes.

“No. I don’t believe you’d do that.”

“I’m glad to hear it.” Gamache leaned back in his seat once again.

Beauvoir stared at Castonguay a moment longer, making certain he wasn’t about to challenge the Chief again. Gamache might think it was natural and even healthy to challenge him, but Beauvoir didn’t.

“You’re wrong about the Morrow woman’s art, you know,” said Castonguay, sullen. “It’s just a bunch of portraits of old women. There was nothing new there.”

“There’s everything new, if you look below the surface,” said Marois, taking the easy chair beside Castonguay. “Look again, mon ami.”

But it was clear they were not friends. Not, perhaps, enemies, but would they seek each other out for a friendly lunch at Leméac café bistro or a drink at the bar at L’Express in Montréal?

No. Castonguay might, but not Marois.

“And why are you here, monsieur?” Gamache asked Marois. There seemed no power struggle between the two men. There was no need. Each was confident in himself.

“I’m an art dealer, but not a gallery owner. As I told you last night, the curator gave me a catalog and I was taken with Madame Morrow’s works. I wanted to see them myself. And,” he smiled ruefully, “I’m afraid even at my age I’m a romantic.”

“Are you going to admit to a crush on Clara Morrow?” asked Gamache.

François Marois laughed. “Not exactly, though after seeing her work it’s hard not to like her. But it’s more of a philosophical state, my romanticism.”

“How so?”

“I love that an artist could be plucked out of obscurity and discovered at the age of almost fifty. What artist doesn’t dream of it? What artist doesn’t believe, every morning, it will happen before bedtime? Remember Magritte? Belgian painter?”

“Ceci n’est pas une pipe?” asked Gamache, losing Beauvoir completely. He hoped the Chief hadn’t just had a seizure and started spouting nonsense.

“That’s the one. He worked away for years, decades. Living in squalor. Supported himself by painting fake Picassos and forging banknotes. When he did his own work Magritte was not only ignored by the galleries and collectors, he was mocked by other artists, who thought he was nuts. I have to say, it gets pretty bad when even other artists think you’re nuts.”

Gamache laughed. “And was he?”

“Well, perhaps. You’ve seen his works?”

“I have. I like them, but I’m not sure how I would have felt had someone not told me they were genius.”

“Exactly,” said Marois, suddenly sitting forward, more animated than Beauvoir had seen him. Excited even. “That’s what makes my job like Christmas every day. While every artist wakes up believing this is the day his genius will be discovered, every dealer wakes up believing this is the day he’ll discover genius.”

“But who’s to say?”

“That’s what makes this all so thrilling.”

Beauvoir could see the man wasn’t putting on an act. His eyes were gleaming, his hands were gesturing, not wildly, but with excitement.

“The portfolio I believe is brilliant someone else can look at and think is dull, derivative. Witness our reactions to Clara Morrow’s paintings.”

“I still say they’re just not interesting,” said Castonguay.

“And I say they are, and who’s to say who’s right? That’s what drives artists and dealers crazy. It’s so subjective.”

“I think they’re born crazy,” mumbled Castonguay, and Beauvoir had to agree.

“So that explains you being at the vernissage,” said Gamache. “Why come to Three Pines?”

Marois hesitated. Trying to decide how much to say, and not even trying to hide his indecision.

Gamache waited. Beauvoir, notebook and pen out, started to doodle. A stick figure and a horse. Or perhaps it was a moose. From the easy chair came the heavy sound of Castonguay breathing.

“I had a client once. Dead now, years ago. Lovely man. A commercial artist, but also a very fine creative artist. His home was full of these marvelous paintings. I discovered him when he was already quite old, though now that I think of it, he was younger than I am now.”

Marois smiled, as did Gamache. He knew that feeling.

“He was one of my first clients and he did quite well. He was thrilled, as was his wife. One day he asked a favor. Could his wife put in a few of her works into his next show. I was polite, but declined. But he was quite uncharacteristically insistent. I didn’t know her well, and didn’t know her art at all. I suspected she was putting pressure on the old man. But I could see how important it was to him, so I relented. Gave her a corner, and a hammer.”

He paused and his eyes flickered.

“I’m not very proud of it now. I should have either treated her with respect, or declined the show totally. But I was young, and had a lot to learn.”

He sighed. “The evening of the vernissage was the first time I saw her works. I walked into the room and everyone was crowded into that corner. You can guess what happened.”

“All her paintings sold,” said Gamache.

Marois nodded. “Every one, with people buying others she’d left in her home, sight unseen. There was even a bidding war for several of them. My client was a gifted artist. But she was better. Far better. A stunning find. A genuine Van Gogh’s ear.”

“Pardon?” asked Gamache. “A what?”

“What did the old man do?” Castonguay interrupted, now paying attention. “He must’ve been furious.”

“No. He was a lovely man. Taught me how to be gracious. And he was. But it was her reaction I’ll never forget.” He was quiet for a moment, clearly seeing the two elderly artists. “She gave up painting. Not only never showed again, she never painted again. She saw the pain it had caused him, though he’d hidden it well. His happiness was more important to her than her own. Than her art.”

Chief Inspector Gamache knew this should have sounded like a love story. Of sacrifice, of selfless choices. But it only sounded like a tragedy to him.

“Is that why you’re here?” Gamache asked the art dealer.

Marois nodded. “I’m afraid.”

“Of what?” Castonguay demanded, losing the thread yet again.

“Did you not see how Clara Morrow looked at her husband yesterday?” asked Marois.

“And how he looked at her,” said Gamache.

The two men locked eyes.

“But Clara isn’t that woman you’re remembering,” said the Chief Inspector.

“True,” admitted François Marois. “But Peter Morrow isn’t my elderly client either.”

“Do you really think Clara might give up painting?” asked Gamache.

“To save her marriage? To save her husband?” asked Marois. “Most wouldn’t, but the woman who created those paintings just might.”

Armand Gamache had never thought that was a possibility, but now he considered it and realized François Marois might be right.

“Still,” he said. “What could you hope to do about it?”

“Well,” said Marois, “not much. But I at least wanted to see where she’d been hiding all these years. I was curious.”

“Is that all?”

“Have you never wanted to visit Giverny to see where Monet painted, or go to Winslow Homer’s studio in Prouts Neck? Or see where Shakespeare and Victor Hugo wrote?”

“You’re quite right,” admitted Gamache. “Madame Gamache and I have visited the homes of many of our favorite artists and writers and poets.”

“Why?”

Gamache paused for a few moments, considering. “Because they seem magical.”

André Castonguay snorted. Beauvoir bristled, embarrassed for the Chief Inspector. It was a ridiculous answer. Perhaps even weak. To admit to a murder suspect he might believe in magic.

But Marois sat still, staring at the Chief Inspector. Finally he nodded, slightly and slowly. It might have even been, Beauvoir thought, a slight tremble.

“C’est ça,” said Marois at last. “Magic. I hadn’t planned to come, but when I saw her works at the vernissage I wanted to see the village that had produced such magic.”

They talked for a few more minutes, about their movements. Who they saw, who they spoke to. But like everyone else, it was unremarkable.

Chief Inspector Gamache and Inspector Beauvoir left the two men sitting in the bright living room of the inn and spa and went looking for the other guests. Within an hour they’d interviewed them all.

None knew the dead woman. None saw anything suspicious or helpful.

As they walked back down the hill into Three Pines, Gamache thought of their interviews and what François Marois had said.

But there was more to Three Pines than magic. Something monstrous had roamed the village green, had eaten the food and danced among them. Something dark had joined the party that night.

And produced not magic but murder.