A Trick of the Light cig-7

by Penny, Louise

  “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 wo
man’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.

  SIX

  Out the window of her bookstore Myrna could see Armand Gamache and Jean Guy Beauvoir walking down the dirt road into the village.

  Then she turned back to her shop, with its wooden shelves filled with new and used books, the wide plank pine floors. Sitting on the sofa beside the window and facing the woodstove was Clara.

  She’d arrived a few minutes earlier clutching her haul of newspapers to her breasts, like an immigrant at Ellis Island clinging to something ragged and precious.

  Myrna wondered if what Clara held was really that important.

  She was under no illusion. Myrna knew exactly what was in those papers. The judgment of others. The views of the outside world. What they saw when they saw Clara’s art.

  And Myrna knew even more. She knew what those beer-sodden pages said.

  She too had gotten up early that morning, dragged her weary ass out of bed, trudged to the bathroom. Showered, brushed her teeth, put on fresh clothes. And in the light of the new day she’d gotten into her car and driven to Knowlton.

  For the papers. She could have simply downloaded them from the various websites, but if Clara wanted to read them as newspapers, then so did Myrna.

  She didn’t care how the world saw Clara’s art. Myrna knew it was genius.

  But she cared about Clara.

  And now her friend sat like a lump on the sofa while she sat in the armchair facing her.

  “Beer?” Myrna offered, pointing to the stack of newspapers.

  “No thank you,” smiled Clara. “I have my own.” She pointed to her sodden chest.

  “You must be every man’s dream,” laughed Myrna. “Finally, a woman made entirely of beer and croissants.”