A Fatal Grace (27 page)

But why was it so important to CC? And was it important to the case?

‘Coffee’ll take a couple of minutes yet,’ said Clara, hanging the damp towel on the back of a chair. The room was already filled with the dark smells of fresh brewing coffee and rich chocolate.

‘Could you show me your studio?’ Gamache asked Clara, hoping to get far enough away from the cake to overcome the temptation to put his finger in it. ‘I realize I’ve never seen your art.’

The two drifted across the kitchen toward the door to Clara’s studio, wide open. Next to hers, Peter’s studio was closed.

‘In case the muse should try to escape,’ explained Clara, and Gamache nodded sagely. Now he walked to the center of Clara’s large, crowded studio and stood still.

The studio had tarpaulins spread everywhere and the comforting smell of oils and acrylics and canvas. An old, worn armchair stood in one corner, with stacks of art magazines creating a table on which stood a dirty coffee mug. He turned leisurely, stopping to stare at one wall that held three images.

He moved closer to them.

‘That’s Kaye Thompson,’ he said.

‘Well done.’ Clara came up beside him. ‘And that’s Mother.’ She indicated the next work. ‘I sold Émilie to Dr Harris a while ago but look over here.’ She pointed to the end wall where a huge canvas stood. ‘All three.’

Gamache stood in front of an image of three elderly women, arms entwined, cradling each other. It was an amazingly complex work, with layers of photographs and paintings and even some writing. Em, the woman in the middle, was leaning back precipitously, laughing with abandon, and the other two were supporting her and also laughing. It ached of intimacy, of a private moment caught in women’s lives. It captured their friendship and their dependence on each other. It sang of love and a caring that went beyond pleasant lunches and the remembrance of birthdays. Gamache felt as though he was looking into each of their souls, and the combination of the three was almost too much to bear.

‘I call it
The Three Graces
,’ said Clara.

‘Perfect,’ Gamache whispered.

‘Mother is Faith, Em is Hope and Kaye is Charity. I was tired of seeing the Graces always depicted as beautiful young things. I think wisdom comes with age and life and pain. And knowing what matters.’

‘Is it finished? It looks as though there’s space for another.’

‘That’s very perceptive of you. It is finished, but in each of my works I try to leave a little space, a kind of crack.’

‘Why?’

‘Can you make out the writing on the wall behind them?’ She nodded toward her painting.

Gamache leaned in and put on his reading glasses.

‘
Ring the bells that still can ring,

Forget your perfect offering,

There’s a crack in everything,

That’s how the light gets in.
’

He read it out loud. ‘Beautiful. Madame Zardo?’ he asked.

‘No, Leonard Cohen. All my works have vessels of some sort. Containers. Sometimes it’s in the negative space, sometimes it’s more obvious. In
The Three Graces
it’s more obvious.’

It wasn’t obvious to Gamache. He stepped back from the work, then he saw what she meant. The vessel, like a vase, was formed by their bodies, and the space he’d noticed was the crack, to let the light in.

‘I do it for Peter,’ she said quietly. At first Gamache thought he might have misheard, but she continued as though speaking to herself. ‘He’s like a dog, like Lucy. He’s very loyal. He puts everything he has into one thing. One interest, one hobby, one friend, one love. I’m his love and it scares the shit out of me.’ She turned now to look into Gamache’s thoughtful brown eyes. ‘He’s poured all his love into me. I’m his vessel. But suppose I crack? Suppose I break? Suppose I die? What would he do?’

‘So all your art is exploring that theme?’

‘Mostly it’s about imperfection and impermanence. There’s a crack in everything.’

‘That’s how the light gets in,’ said Gamache. He thought of CC who’d written so much about light and enlightenment and illumination, and thought it came from perfection. But she couldn’t hold a candle to this bright woman beside him.

‘Peter doesn’t get it. Probably never will.’

‘Have you ever painted Ruth?’

‘Why do you ask?’

‘Well, frankly, if anyone’s cracked…’ He laughed and Clara joined him.

‘No, and you know why? I’m afraid to. I think she could be my masterpiece, and I’m afraid to try.’

‘In case you can’t do it?’

‘Got it in one. There’s also something scary about Ruth. I’m not sure I want to look that deeply into her.’

‘You will,’ he said, and she believed him. Gamache looked at her silently, his deep brown eyes calm and peaceful. She knew then all the horrible things he’d seen with those eyes. Murdered and mutilated women, children, husbands, wives. He saw violent death every day. She looked down at his hands, large and expressive, and knew then all the horrible things they’d had to do. Handle the bodies of people dead before their time. Fight for his own life and others. And perhaps the worst of all, those fingers had formed loose fists and knocked on the doors of loved ones. To break the news. To break their hearts.

Gamache walked over to the next wall and saw the most astonishing works of art. The vessels in this case were trees. Clara had painted them tall and gourd-shaped, voluptuous and ripe. And melting, as though their own internal heat was too much for them. They were luminous. Literally luminous. The colors were milken, like Venice at dawn, all warm and washed and venerable.

‘They’re marvelous, Clara. They radiate.’ He turned to look at her in astonishment, as though meeting the woman for the first time. He’d known she was insightful, and courageous and compassionate. But he hadn’t appreciated that she was this gifted. ‘Has anyone seen these?’

‘I gave my portfolio to CC just before Christmas. She’s friends with Denis Fortin.’

‘The gallery owner,’ said Gamache.

‘The best in Quebec, probably in Canada. He has connections to the Musée d’Art contemporain and the Museum of Modern Art in New York. If he likes your stuff you’re launched.’

‘That’s exciting,’ said Gamache.

‘Not really. He hated it.’ She turned away, not able to look any human in the eye as she admitted her failure. ‘CC and Fortin happened to be at Ogilvy’s when I was there for Ruth’s book launch. We passed on the escalator. I was going up and they were going down. I heard CC say to him it was a shame he thought my work was amateurish and banal.’

‘He said that?’ Gamache was surprised.

‘Well, he didn’t, but CC did. She was repeating what he’d said and he didn’t contradict her. Then we’d passed and before I knew it I was out the door. Thank God for the vagrant.’

‘What vagrant?’

Should she tell him? But she already felt skinned and lashed and had no stomach for further exposure even to this man who listened as though she was the only one on earth. She couldn’t admit she believed God was a bag lady.

Did she still believe it?

She paused a moment and considered. Yes, came the simple and clear answer. Yes, she still believed she’d met God on the cold, dark, blessed streets of Montreal at Christmas. Still, she’d embarrassed herself enough this night.

‘Oh, nothing. I gave her a coffee and felt better about myself. Seems to work like that, doesn’t it?’

To kind and compassionate people, thought Gamache, but not to everyone. He knew she was holding something back, but chose not to press. Besides, it couldn’t possibly have anything to do with the case and Armand Gamache had no stomach to breach someone else’s boundaries just because he could.

‘Did CC know you were there when she spoke?’

Clara pretended to think back, but she knew the answer. Had known it from the moment she’d seen CC on the escalator.

‘Yes, we made eye contact briefly. She knew.’

‘That must have been devastating.’

‘I actually thought my heart would stop. I really believed Fortin would like my work. It never occurred to me he wouldn’t. It was my fault, living in a fantasy like that.’

‘When someone stabs you it’s not your fault that you feel pain.’

He looked at her face now and at her fists, balled up, knuckles white, her breathing heavy as though pumping herself up. He knew Clara Morrow to be kind and loving and tolerant. If CC de Poitiers could produce this reaction in Clara, what must she have done to others?

And he added Clara’s name to the long list of suspects. What was she hiding deep down in the room she kept locked and hidden even from herself? What had peeped out at him from that silence a few moments ago?

‘Dessert.’ Gabri poked his head into the studio.

TWENTY-TWO

‘Who do you think killed CC?’ Myrna asked, licking her fork and taking a sip of rich dark coffee. The combination of freshly ground and brewed coffee and chocolate fudge cake made Myrna almost light-headed.

‘I think I first have to figure out who she was,’ admitted Gamache. ‘I think the murderer is hiding in her past.’ He told them then about CC and her fantasy world. Like a storyteller of old, Gamache spoke, his voice deep and calm. The friends formed a circle, their faces glowing amber in the light from the fireplace. They ate their cake and sipped their coffee, their eyes growing wider and wider as the depth of the mystery and deceit became clear.

‘So she wasn’t who she pretended to be,’ said Clara when he’d finished. She hoped triumph wasn’t evident in her voice. CC was nuts after all.

‘But why choose them as parents?’ Myrna jerked her head toward the TV.

‘Don’t know. Do you have any theories?’

Everyone thought.

‘It’s not unusual for children to believe they were adopted,’ said Myrna. ‘Even happy children go through that stage.’

‘That’s true,’ said Clara. ‘I remember believing my real mother was the Queen of England and she’d farmed me out to the colonies to be raised a commoner. Every time the doorbell rang I’d think it was her, come to get me.’

Clara still remembered the fantasy of Queen Elizabeth standing on the stoop of her modest home in the Notre Dame de Grace
quartier
of Montreal, the neighbors craning to get a load of the Queen in her crown and long purple robes. And handbag. Clara knew what the Queen kept in that handbag. A picture of her, and a plane ticket to bring her home.

‘But,’ said Peter, ‘you grew out of it.’

‘True,’ said Clara, lying just a little, ‘though it was replaced by other fantasies.’

‘Oh, please. Heterosexual fantasies have no place at the dinner table,’ said Gabri.

But Clara’s adult dream world had nothing to do with sex.

‘And that’s the trouble,’ said Gamache. ‘I agree as children we all created worlds of our own. Cowboys and Indians, space explorers, princes and princesses.’

‘Shall I tell you mine?’ Gabri offered.

‘Please, dear Lord, let the house explode now,’ said Ruth.

‘I used to dream I was straight.’

The simple and devastating sentence sat in the middle of their circle.

‘I used to dream I was popular,’ said Ruth into the silence. ‘And pretty.’

‘I used to dream I was white,’ said Myrna. ‘And thin.’

Peter remained mute. He couldn’t remember any fantasies he’d had as a child. Coping with reality had taken up too much of his mind.

‘And you?’ Ruth asked Gamache.

‘I used to dream I’d saved my parents,’ he said, remembering the little boy looking out the living-room window, leaning over the back of the sofa, resting his cheek on the nubbly fabric. Sometimes, when the winter wind blew, he could still feel it rough against his cheek. Whenever his parents went out for dinner he’d wait, looking into the night for the headlights. And every night they came home. Except one.

‘We all have our fantasies,’ said Myrna. ‘Was CC any different?’

‘There is one difference,’ said Gamache. ‘Do you still want to be white and thin?’

Myrna laughed heartily. ‘No way. Would never occur to me now.’