A Trick of the Light (21 page)

Myrna and Clara left them to monitor the village, and walked into the B and B.

*   *   *

“So what have you been working on?” Clara asked Paulette. They’d been chatting for a few minutes. About the weather, of course. And Clara’s show. Given equal weight by Paulette and Normand. “Still doing that wonderful series on flight?”

“Yes, in fact a gallery in Drummondville is interested and there’s a juried show in Boston we might enter.”

“That’s terrific.” Clara turned to Myrna. “Their series on wings is stunning.”

Myrna almost gagged. If she heard the word “stunning” once more she really would vomit. She wondered what it was code for. Crappy? Hideous? So far Normand had described Clara’s works, which he clearly didn’t like, as stunning. Paulette had said Normand was planning some powerful pieces which, she assured them, they’d find stunning.

And, of course, they were both simply stunned by Clara’s success.

But then, they’d admitted to being stunned by Lillian’s murder.

“So,” said Clara, nonchalantly picking at a bowl of licorice allsorts on the table in the sitting room, “I was just sort of wondering how Lillian came to be here yesterday. Do you know who invited her?”

“Didn’t you?” asked Paulette.

Clara shook her head.

Myrna leaned back and listened closely as they speculated about who might have been in contact with Lillian.

“She’d been back in Montréal for a few months, you know,” said Paulette.

Clara hadn’t known.

“Yeah,” said Normand. “Even came up to us at a
vernissage
and apologized for being such a bitch years ago.”

“Really?” asked Clara. “Lillian did that?”

“We figure she was just sucking up,” said Paulette. “When she left we were nobodies but now we’re pretty well established.”

“Now, she needs us,” said Normand. “Needed us.”

“For what?” asked Clara.

“She said she’d gone back to doing some art. Wanted to show us her portfolio,” said Normand.

“And what did you say?”

They looked at each other. “We told her we didn’t have time. We weren’t rude, but we didn’t want anything to do with her.”

Clara nodded. She’d have done the same thing, she hoped. Been polite, but distant. It was one thing to forgive, it was another to climb back into the cage with that bear, even if it was wearing a tutu and smiling. Or, what was the analogy Myrna had used?

The frying pan.

“Maybe she crashed the party. Lots of people did,” said Normand. “Like Denis Fortin.”

Normand said the gallery owner’s name lightly, slipping it into the conversation, like a sharp word thrust between bones. A word meant to wound. He watched Clara. And Myrna watched him.

She sat forward, curious to see how Clara would handle this attack. Because that was what it was. Civil and subtle and said with a smile. A sort of social neutron bomb. Meant to keep the structures of polite conversation standing, while slaying the person.

Having listened to this couple for half an hour now, Myrna could say she wasn’t exactly stunned by this attack. And neither was Clara.

“But he was invited,” Clara said, matching Normand’s light tone. “I personally asked Denis to come.”

Myrna almost smiled. Clara’s
coup de grâce
was calling Fortin by his first name, as though she and the prominent gallery owner were buddies. And, yes, yes, there it was.

Both Normand and Paulette were stunned.

Still, two very troubling questions remained unanswered.

Who did invite Lillian to Clara’s party?

And why did she accept?

ELEVEN

“Honestly, you’re the worst investigator in history,” said Dominique.

“At least I was asking questions,” snapped Ruth.

“Only because I couldn’t get a word in.”

Myrna and Clara had joined the other two women in the bistro and were now sitting in front of a fire, lit more for effect than necessity.

“She asked André Castonguay how big his dick was.”

“I did not. I asked how big a dick he was. There’s a difference.”

Ruth brought up her thumb and forefinger to indicate about two inches.

Despite herself, Clara smirked. She’d often wanted to ask gallery owners the same question.

Dominique shook her head. “Then she asked the other one—”

“François Marois?” asked Clara. She’d been tempted to give the artists to Dominique and Ruth and take the dealers for herself, but she didn’t feel like seeing Castonguay just yet. Not after his phone call, and her conversation with Peter.

“Yes, François Marois. She asked what his favorite color was.”

“I thought it might be helpful,” said Ruth.

“And was it?” Dominique demanded.

“Not as much as you’d think,” admitted Ruth.

“So despite this grilling neither confessed to killing Lillian Dyson?” asked Myrna.

“They held up surprisingly well,” said Dominique. “Though Castonguay did let it slip that his first car was a Gremlin.”

“Tell me that’s not psychotic,” said Ruth.

“How’d you two do?” asked Dominique, reaching for her lemonade.

“I’m not sure how we did,” said Myrna, almost emptying the bowl of cashews with one handful. “I liked the way you disarmed that Normand fellow when he brought up Denis Fortin.”

“What do you mean?” Clara asked.

“Well, when you told him you’d invited Fortin yourself. Actually, that’s another mystery, now that I think of it. What was Denis Fortin doing here?”

“I hate to break it to you,” said Clara, “but I really did invite him.”

“Why in the world would you do that, child?” asked Myrna. “After what he did?”

“Well, if I kept out every gallery owner and dealer who turned me down, the place would’ve been empty.”

Not for the first time Myrna marveled at her friend, who could forgive so much. And who had so much to forgive. She considered herself fairly stable, but Myrna doubted she’d last long in the wine and cheese and cutthroat world of art.

She also wondered who else had been forgiven and invited who shouldn’t have been.

*   *   *

Gamache had called ahead and now he pulled into the parking spot at the back of the gallery on rue St-Denis in Montréal. The lot was reserved for staff, but it was five thirty on a Sunday and most had gone home.

Getting out of his car he looked around. St-Denis was a cosmopolitan Montréal street. But the alley that ran behind it was squalid, with used condoms and empty needles littering the ground.

The glorious front hid what was foul.

And which was the real St-Denis? he wondered as he locked the car and walked toward the vibrant street.

The glass front door of the Galerie Fortin was locked. Gamache looked for a doorbell, but Denis Fortin appeared, all smiles, and unlocked it for him.

“Monsieur Gamache,” he said, holding out his hand and shaking the Chief Inspector’s. “A pleasure to see you again.”

“Mais, non,”
said the Chief, bowing slightly. “The pleasure is mine. Thank you for seeing me so late.”

“Gave me a chance to catch up on some work. You know what it’s like.” Fortin carefully locked the door and waved the Chief deeper into the gallery. “My office is upstairs.”

Gamache followed the younger man. They’d met a few times before, when Fortin had been in Three Pines considering Clara for a show. Fortin was perhaps forty, with a bright and attractive manner. He wore a finely tailored coat, open-collar ironed shirt and black jeans. Smart and stylish.

Up the stairs they walked and Gamache listened while Fortin described with great animation some of the works on his walls. The Chief, while listening closely, also scanned the gallery for a painting by Lillian Dyson. Her style was so singular it would declare itself. But the walls, while containing some clearly brilliant works, didn’t proclaim a Dyson.

“Café?”
Fortin indicated a cappuccino maker just outside his office.

“Non, merci.”

“A beer, perhaps? It’s turned into a warm day.”

“That would be nice,” said the Chief, and made himself comfortable in Fortin’s office. Once Fortin was out of sight, Gamache leaned over his desk and scanned the papers. Contracts for artists. Some publicity mock-ups for upcoming shows. One for a famous Québec artist, one for someone Gamache had not heard of. An up-and-comer, presumably.

But no mention, in his quick scan, of Lillian Dyson. Or Clara Morrow.

Gamache heard the soft tread and took his seat just as Fortin walked through his office door.

“Here we go.” The gallery owner was carrying a tray with two beers and some cheese. “We always have a stock of wine and beer and cheese. The tools of the trade.”

“Not canvas and brushes?” asked the Chief Inspector, taking the cold beer in the frosted glass.

“Those are for the creative ones. I’m just a lowly businessman. A bridge between talent and money.”

“À votre santé.”
The Chief raised his glass, as did Fortin, then both men took a satisfying sip.

“Creative,” said Gamache, lowering his glass and accepting a piece of fragrant Stilton. “But artists are also emotional, unstable at times, I imagine.”

“Artists?” asked Fortin. “What could you possibly mean?”

He laughed. It was easy and light. Gamache couldn’t help but smile back. It was hard not to like him.

Charm was also a tool, he knew, of the art gallery trade. Fortin offered cheese and charm. When he chose.

“I suppose,” Fortin continued, “it depends what you compare them to. Now, compared to a rabid hyena or, say, a hungry cobra an artist comes off pretty well.”

“Doesn’t sound like you much like artists.”

“Actually, I do. I like them, but more importantly, I understand them. Their egos, their fears, their insecurities. There’re very few artists who are comfortable among other people. Most prefer to work away quietly in their studios. Whoever said, ‘Hell is other people’ must have been an artist.”

“It was Sartre,” said Gamache. “A writer.”

“I suspect if you speak with a publisher their experiences with writers would be the same. Here you have, in my case, artists who manage to capture on a small flat canvas not just the reality of life, but the mysteries, the spirit, the deep and conflicting emotions of being human. And yet most of them hate and fear other people. I understand that.”

“Do you? How?”

There was a slight strained silence then. Denis Fortin, for all his bonhomie, didn’t like penetrating questions. He preferred to lead the conversation rather than be led. He was used, Gamache realized, to being listened to, acquiesced to, fawned over. He was used to having his decisions and statements simply accepted. Denis Fortin was a powerful man in a world of vulnerable people.

“I have a theory, Chief Inspector,” said Fortin, crossing his legs and smoothing the material of his jeans. “That most jobs are self-selecting. We might grow into them, but for the most part we fall into a career because it suits what we’re good at. I love art. Can’t paint worth a damn. I know because I tried. I actually thought I wanted to be an artist, but that miserable failure led me to what I was always meant to do. Recognize talent in others. It’s a perfect match. I make a very good living and am surrounded by great art. And great artists. I get to be part of this culture of creativity without all the angst of actually creating it.”

“I expect your world isn’t without its angst.”

“True. If I choose to represent an artist and the show’s a bust, it can reflect badly on me. But then I just make sure word spreads that it simply means I’m daring and willing to take risks. Avant-garde. That plays well.”

“But the artist…” said Gamache, letting it hang there.

“Ah, there you have it. He gets it in the neck.”

Gamache looked at Fortin and tried not to let his distaste show. Like the street his gallery was on, Fortin had an attractive front, hiding quite a foul interior. He was opportunistic. He fed on the talent of others. Got rich on the talent of others. While most of the artists themselves barely scraped by, and took all the risks.

“Do you protect them?” Gamache asked. “Try to defend them against the critics?”

Fortin looked both astonished and amused. “They’re adults, Monsieur Gamache. They take the accolades when they come and they must take the criticism when it comes. Treating artists like children is never a good idea.”

“Not as children, perhaps,” said Gamache, “but as respected partners. Would you not stand by a respected partner if he was being attacked?”

“I have no partners,” said Fortin. The smile was still in place, but perhaps just a little too fixed. “It gets too messy. As you would know. Best not to have anyone to defend. It can throw off your judgment.”

“An interesting perspective,” said Gamache. He knew then that Fortin had seen the video of the attack in the factory. This was a veiled allusion to what had happened. Fortin, along with the rest of the world, had seen his failure to defend his own people. To save them.

“As you know, I wasn’t able to protect my own people,” said Gamache. “But at least I tried. You don’t?”

It was clear Fortin hadn’t expected the Chief Inspector to confront the event directly. It threw him off center.

Not quite as stable,
Gamache thought,
as you pretend to be. Perhaps you’re more like an artist than you like to believe.

“Fortunately people aren’t actually shooting at my artists,” said Fortin finally.

“No, but there’re other forms of attack. Of hurting. Even of killing. You can murder a person’s reputation. You can kill their drive and their desire, even their creativity, if you try hard enough.”

Fortin laughed. “If an artist is that fragile he should either find something else to do or not venture beyond his door. Just toss the canvases out and lock up quick. But most artists I know have huge egos. And huge ambition. They want that praise, they want that recognition. That’s their problem. That’s what makes them vulnerable. Not their talent, but their egos.”

“But you agree they’re vulnerable, for whatever reason?”

“I do. I’ve already said that.”

“And do you agree that being so vulnerable can make some artists fearful?”