A Trick of the Light (22 page)

Fortin hesitated a moment, sensing a trap but not sure where it lay. He nodded.

“And that fearful people can lash out?”

“I suppose so. What’re we talking about? I’m guessing this isn’t just a pleasant Sunday afternoon chat. And I guess you aren’t in the market for one of my paintings.”

Suddenly they’d become “my” paintings, Gamache noticed.

“Non, monsieur.
I’ll tell you in a moment, if you’ll indulge me.”

Fortin looked at his watch. All subtlety, all charm, gone.

“I’m wondering why you went to Clara Morrow’s celebration yesterday.”

Far from being the last shove to throw Fortin completely off, Gamache’s question made the art dealer first gape then laugh.

“Is that what this is about? I don’t understand. I can’t have broken any law. Besides, Clara herself invited me.”

“Vraiment?
But you weren’t on the guest list.”

“No, I know. I’d heard of course about her
vernissage
at the Musée and decided to go.”

“Why? You’d dropped her as an artist and split under not very good conditions. In fact you quite humiliated her.”

“Did she tell you that?”

Gamache was silent, staring at the other man.

“Of course she did. Where else would you have heard it? I remember now. You two are friends. Is that why you’re here? To threaten me?”

“Am I being threatening? I think you might find it difficult to convince anyone of that.” Gamache tilted his beer glass toward the still astonished gallery owner.

“There are other ways of threatening besides putting a gun in my face,” snapped Fortin.

“Quite so. My point earlier. There’re different forms of violence. Different ways to kill while keeping the body alive. But I’m not here to threaten you.”

Was he really so easily threatened? Gamache wondered. Was Fortin himself so vulnerable that a simple conversation with a police officer would feel like an attack? Perhaps Fortin really was more like the artists he represented than he believed. And perhaps he lived in more fear than he admitted.

“I’m almost finished and then I’ll leave you to what’s left of your Sunday,” said Gamache, his voice pleasant. “Why, if you’d decided Clara Morrow’s art wasn’t worth your while, did you go to her
vernissage
?”

Fortin took a deep, deep breath, held it for a moment while staring at Gamache, then let it out in a long beer-infused exhale.

“I went because I wanted to apologize to her.”

Now it was Gamache’s turn to be surprised. Fortin didn’t seem the sort to admit fault easily.

Fortin took another deep breath. This was clearly taking a toll.

“When I was in Three Pines last summer to discuss the show, Clara and I had drinks at that bistro and a large man served us. Anyway, I said something stupid about him when he’d left. Clara later called me on it and I’m afraid I was so annoyed at her doing that I lashed out. Canceled her show. It was a stupid thing to do and I almost immediately regretted it. But by then it was too late. I’d already announced it and I couldn’t go back.”

Armand Gamache stared at Denis Fortin, trying to decide if he believed him. But there was an easy way to confirm his story. Just ask Clara.

“So you went to the opening to apologize to Clara? Why bother?”

Now Fortin colored slightly and looked to his right, out the window, into the early evening light. Outside, people would be gathering on the
terrasses
up and down St-Denis for beers and martinis, for wine and pitchers of sangria. Enjoying one of the first really warm, sunny days of spring.

Inside the quiet gallery, though, the atmosphere was neither warm nor sunny.

“I knew she was going to be big. I’d offered her a solo show because her art is like no other out there. Have you seen it?”

Fortin leaned forward, toward Gamache. No longer wrapped up in his own anxiety, no longer defensive. Now he was almost giddy. Excited. Energized talking about great works of art.

Here, Gamache realized, was a man who truly loved art. He might be a businessman, might be opportunistic. Might be a ranting egoist.

But he knew and loved great art. Clara’s art.

Lillian Dyson’s art?

“I have,” said the Chief Inspector. “And I agree. She’s remarkable.”

Fortin launched into a passionate dissection of Clara’s portraits. The nuances, right down to the use of tiny strokes within longer, languid strokes of her brush. It was fascinating for Gamache to hear. And he found himself enjoying this time with Fortin, despite himself.

But he hadn’t come to discuss Clara’s painting.

“As I remember, you called Gabri a ‘fucking queer.’”

The words had the desired effect. They weren’t simply shocking, they were disgusting, disgraceful. Especially in light of what Fortin was just describing. The light and grace and hope Clara had created.

“I did,” Fortin admitted. “It’s something I say often. Said often. I don’t anymore.”

“Why would you say it at all?”

“It’s what you were saying earlier, about different ways to kill. A lot of my artists are gay. When I’m with a new artist I know is gay, I’d often point someone out and say what you just said. It throws them off. Keeps them afraid, off balance. It’s a mind-fuck. And if they don’t fight back I know I have them.”

“And do they?”

“Fight back? Clara was the first. That should’ve also told me she was something special. An artist with a voice, a vision and a backbone. But that backbone can be inconvenient. Much rather have them compliant.”

“So you fired her, and tried to smear her reputation.”

“Didn’t work,” he smiled ruefully. “The Musée scooped her up. I went there to apologize. I knew that pretty soon she’d be the one with all the power, all the influence.”

“Enlightened self-interest on your part?” Gamache asked.

“Better than none at all,” said Fortin.

“What happened when you arrived?”

“I got there early and the first person I saw was that guy, the one I insulted.”

“Gabri.”

“Right. I realized I owed him as well. So I apologized to him first. It was quite a festival of contrition.”

Gamache smiled again. Fortin, finally, seemed sincere. And he could always check out the story. Indeed, it was so easy to check Gamache suspected it was the truth. Denis Fortin had gone to the
vernissage,
uninvited, to apologize.

“And then you approached Clara. What did she say?”

“Actually, she approached me. I guess she heard me saying sorry to Gabri. We got to talking and I said how sorry I was. And congratulated her on a fabulous show. I told her I wished it was at the Galerie Fortin, but that she was much better off at the Musée. She was very nice about it.”

Gamache could hear the relief, and even surprise, in Fortin’s voice.

“She invited me down to the party that night in Three Pines. I actually had dinner plans but felt I couldn’t really say no. So I ducked out to cancel the plans with my friends and went to the barbeque instead.”

“How long did you stay?”

“Honestly? Not long. It’s a long drive down and back. I spoke to a few colleagues, fended off a few mediocre artists—”

Gamache wondered if those included Normand and Paulette and suspected it did.

“—chatted with Clara and Peter so they’d know I was there. Then I left.”

“Did you speak to André Castonguay or François Marois?”

“I spoke to both of them. Castonguay’s gallery’s just down the road if you’re looking for him.”

“I’ve already talked to him. He’s still in Three Pines, as is Monsieur Marois.”

“Is that right?” said Fortin. “I wonder why.”

Gamache felt in his pocket and brought out the coin. Holding the Baggie up between them he asked, “Have you ever seen one of these before?”

“A silver dollar?”

“Look more closely, please.”

“May I?” Fortin gestured toward it and Gamache handed it to him. “It’s light.” Fortin looked at one side then the other before handing it back. “I’m sorry, I have no idea what it is.”

He looked closely at the Chief Inspector.

“I’ve been patient, I think,” said Fortin. “But perhaps now you’ll tell me what this’s about.”

“Do you know a woman named Lillian Dyson?”

Fortin thought, then shook his head. “Should I? Is she an artist?”

“I have a picture of her, would you mind looking?”

“Not at all.” Fortin reached for it, fixing Gamache with a perplexed glance, then looked down at the photograph. His brows drew together.

“She looks—”

Gamache didn’t finish Fortin’s sentence. Was he going to say “familiar”? “Dead”?

“Asleep. Is she?”

“Do you know her?”

“I think I might have seen her at a few
vernissages,
but I see so many people.”

“Did you see her at Clara’s show?”

Fortin thought then shook his head. “She wasn’t at the
vernissage
while I was there. But it was early and there weren’t many people yet.”

“And the barbeque?”

“It was dark by the time I arrived so she might have been there and I just didn’t notice.”

“She was definitely there,” said Gamache, replacing the coin. “She was killed there.”

Fortin gaped at him. “Someone was killed at the party? Where? How?”

“Have you ever seen her art, Monsieur Fortin?”

“That woman’s?” Fortin asked, nodding toward the photo, now on the table between them. “Never. I’ve never seen her and I’ve never seen her art, not as far as I know, anyway.”

Then another question struck Gamache.

“Suppose she’s a great artist. Would she be worth more to a gallery dead or alive?”

“That’s a grisly question, Chief Inspector.” But Fortin considered it. “Alive she would produce more art for the gallery to sell, and presumably for more and more money. But dead?”

“Oui?”

“If she was that good? The fewer paintings the better. A bidding war would ignite and the prices…”

Fortin looked to the ceiling.

Gamache had his answer. But was it the right question?

TWELVE

“What’s this?”

Clara stood beside the phone in the kitchen. The barbeque was on and Peter was outside poking steaks from the Bresee farm.

“What?” he called through the screen door.

“This.”

Clara walked outside and held up a piece of paper. Peter’s face fell.

“Oh, shit. Oh, my God, Clara, I completely forgot. In all the chaos of finding Lillian and all the interruptions—” He waved the prongs, then stopped.

Clara’s face, rather than softening as it had so often, had hardened. And in her hand she held his scribbled list of messages, of congratulations. He’d left it by the phone. Under the phone. Pinned there, for safe keeping. He’d been meaning to show it to her.

It had just slipped his mind.

From where she stood Clara could see the police tape, outlining a ragged circle in her garden. A hole. Where a life had ended.

But another hole now opened up, right where Peter stood. And she could almost see the yellow tape around him, encircling him. Swallowing him, as it had Lillian.

Peter stared at her, his eyes imploring her to understand. Begging her.

And then, as Clara watched, Peter seemed to disappear, leaving just an empty space where her husband had been.

*   *   *

Armand Gamache sat in his study at home, taking notes and speaking with Isabelle Lacoste.

“I’ve spoken to Inspector Beauvoir about this, and he suggested I call you as well, Chief. Most of the guests have been interviewed,” she said, down the phone line from Three Pines. “We’re getting a picture of the evening, but what isn’t in the picture is Lillian Dyson. We asked everyone, including the waiters. No one saw her.”

Gamache nodded. He’d been following her written reports all day. They were impressive as always. Clear, thorough. Intuitive. Agent Lacoste wasn’t afraid to follow her instinct. She wasn’t afraid to be wrong.

And that, the Chief knew, was a great strength.

It meant she’d be willing to explore dim alleys a lesser agent wouldn’t even see. Or, if they did, they’d dismiss as unlikely. A waste of time.

Where, he asked his agents, was a murderer likely to hide? Where it was obvious? Perhaps. But most of the time they were found in unexpected places. Inside unexpected personalities and bodies.

Down the dim alleys, most of them with pleasant veneers.

“What do you think it means that no one saw her at the party?” he asked.

Agent Lacoste was quiet for a moment. “Well, I wondered if she could’ve been killed somewhere else and her body brought into the Morrow garden. That would explain why no one saw her at either party.”

“And?”

“I spoke with the forensics team and that seems unlikely. They believe she died where she was found.”

“What are the other options?”

“Besides the obvious? That she was teleported there by aliens?”

“Besides that one.”

“I think she arrived and went directly to the Morrows’ garden.”

“Why?”

Now Isabelle Lacoste paused, walking slowly through the possibilities. Not being afraid to make a mistake, but not rushing to make one either.

“Why drive an hour and a half to a party then ignore it and make straight for a quiet garden?” she asked, musing out loud.

Gamache waited. He could smell the dinner Reine-Marie had prepared. A favorite pasta dish of fresh asparagus, pine nuts and goat cheese on fettuccini. It was almost ready.

“She was in the garden to meet someone,” said Lacoste at last.

“I wonder,” said Gamache. He had his reading glasses on and was making notes. They’d already been through the facts, all the forensic findings, the preliminary autopsy results, the witness interviews. Now they were on to interpretation.

Entering the dim alley.

This was where a murderer was found. Or lost.

His daughter Annie appeared at the door with a plate in her hand.

Here?
she mouthed.

He shook his head and smiled, putting up his hand to indicate just a minute more and he’d join Annie and her mother. When she left he turned his attention back to Agent Lacoste.