Gamache doubted that was true but decided not to press it. It would be a waste of time and only make the man more defensive. “Did you know Lillian Dyson well?” he asked instead.
“Not well. I’d seen her at a few openings recently. She’d even approached me.” Castonguay said this as though she’d done something unsavory. “Said she had a portfolio of work and could she show me.”
“And what did you say?”
Castonguay looked at Gamache with astonishment. “I said no, of course. Do you have any idea how many artists send me their portfolios?”
Gamache remained silent, waiting for the haughty response.
“I get hundreds a month, from all over the world.”
“So you turned her down? But maybe her work was good,” suggested the Chief Inspector and was treated to another withering look.
“If she was any good I’d have heard of her by now. She wasn’t exactly a bright young thing. Most artists, if they’re going to do anything good, have done it by the time they’re in their thirties.”
“But not always,” persisted Gamache. “Clara Morrow’s the same age as Madame Dyson, and she’s only now being discovered.”
“Not by me. I still say her work stinks,” said Castonguay.
Gamache turned to François Marois. “And you, monsieur? How well did you know Lillian Dyson?”
“Not well. I’d seen her at vernissages in the last few months and knew who she was.”
“How did you know?”
“It’s a fairly small artistic community in Montréal. A lot of low-level, leisure artists. Quite a few of medium talent. Those who have the odd show. Who haven’t made a splash but are good, journeymen artists. Like Peter Morrow. Then there are a very few great artists. Like Clara Morrow.”
“And where did Lillian Dyson fit in there?”
“I don’t know,” admitted Marois. “Like André, she asked me to look at her portfolio but I just couldn’t agree. Too many other calls on my time.”
“Why did you decide to stay in Three Pines last night?” Gamache asked.
“As I told you before, it was a last-minute decision. I wanted to see where Clara creates her works.”
“Yes, you did,” said Gamache. “But you didn’t tell me to what end.”
“Does there have to be an end?” asked Marois. “Isn’t just seeing enough?”
“For most people, perhaps, but not for you, I suspect.”
Marois’s sharp eyes held Gamache. None too pleased.
“Look, Clara Morrow’s standing at a cross-roads,” said the art dealer. “She has to make a decision. She was just handed a phenomenal opportunity, so far the critics adore her, but tomorrow they’ll adore someone else. She needs someone to guide her. A mentor.”
Gamache looked bemused. “A mentor?”
He left it hanging there.
There was a long, charged, silence.
“Yes,” said Marois, his gracious manner enveloping him again. “I’m near the end of my career, I know that. I can guide one, perhaps two more remarkable artists. I need to choose carefully. I have no time to waste. I’ve spent the past year looking for that one artist, perhaps my last. Gone to hundreds of vernissages worldwide. Only to find Clara Morrow right here.”
The distinguished art dealer looked around. At the broken-down horse in the field, saved from slaughter. At the trees and at the forest.
“In my own backyard.”
“In the middle of nowhere, you mean,” said Castonguay, and went back to staring with displeasure at the scene.
“It’s clear Clara’s a remarkable artist,” said Marois, ignoring the gallery owner. “But the very gifts that make her that also make her unable to navigate the art world.”
“You might be underestimating Clara Morrow,” said Gamache.
“I might, but you might be underestimating the art world. Don’t be fooled by the veneer of civility and creativity. It’s a vicious place, filled with insecure and greedy people. Fear and greed, that’s what shows up at vernissages. There’s a lot of money at stake. Fortunes. And a lot of egos involved. Volatile combination.”
Marois stole a quick glance at Castonguay, then back to the Chief Inspector.
“I know my way around. I can take them to the top.”
“Them?” asked Castonguay.
Gamache had assumed the gallery owner had lost interest and was barely listening, but he now realized Castonguay had been following the conversation very closely. And Gamache quietly warned himself not to underestimate either the venality of the art world, or this haughty man.
Marois turned his full attention on Castonguay, clearly surprised as well that he’d been paying attention.
“Yes. Them.”
“What do you mean?” demanded Castonguay.
“I mean both the Morrows. I want to take them both on.”
Castonguay’s eyes widened and his lips narrowed, and when he spoke his voice was raised. “You talk about greed. Why would you take both? You don’t even like his paintings.”
“And you do?”
“I think they’re far better than his wife’s. You can have Clara, and I’ll take Peter.”
Gamache listened and wondered if this was how the Paris Peace Conference was negotiated after the Great War. When Europe was divided up by the winners. And Gamache wondered if this would have the same disastrous results.
“I don’t want one,” said Marois. His voice was reasonable, silken, contained. “I want both.”
“Fucking bastard,” said Castonguay, but Marois didn’t seem to care. He turned back to the Chief Inspector as though Castonguay had just complimented him.
“At what point yesterday did you decide Clara Morrow was the one?” asked Gamache.
“You were with me, Chief Inspector. The moment I saw the light in the Virgin Mary’s eye.”
Gamache was quiet, recalling that moment. “As I remember you thought it might simply be a trick of the light.”
“I still do. But how remarkable is that? For Clara Morrow to, in essence, capture the human experience? One person’s hope is another person’s cruelty. Is it light, or a false promise?”
Gamache turned to André Castonguay, who seemed completely taken aback by their conversation, as though they’d been at different art shows.
“I want to get back to the dead woman,” said Gamache, and saw Castonguay looking lost for a moment. Murder eclipsed by greed. And fear.
“Were you surprised to see Lillian Dyson back in Montréal?” the Chief asked.
“Surprised?” asked Castonguay. “I felt nothing either way. Didn’t give her a second thought.”
“I’m afraid I felt the same way, Chief Inspector,” said Marois. “Madame Dyson in Montréal or Madame Dyson in New York was all the same to me.”
Gamache looked at him with interest. “How did you know she’d been in New York?”
For the first time Marois hesitated, his composure pierced.
“Someone must have mentioned it. The art world’s full of gossips.”
The art world, thought Gamache, was full of something else he could mention. And this seemed a fine example. He stared at Marois until the dealer dropped his eyes and brushed an invisible hair off his immaculate shirt.
“I hear another of your colleagues was here at the party. Denis Fortin.”
“That’s true,” said Marois. “I was surprised to see him.”
“Now there’s an understatement,” snorted Castonguay. “After how he treated Clara Morrow. Did you hear about that?”
“Tell me,” said Gamache, though he knew the story perfectly well himself, and the two artists had also just taken pleasure in reminding him.
And so, with glee, André Castonguay related how Denis Fortin had signed Clara to a solo show only to change his mind and drop her.
“And not just drop her, but treated her like shit. Told everyone she was worthless. I actually agree, but can you imagine his surprise when the Musée of all places picked her up?”
/> It was a story that appealed to Castonguay, since it belittled both Clara and his competitor, Denis Fortin.
“Then why do you think he was here?” asked Gamache. Both men considered it.
“Not a clue,” admitted Castonguay.
“He had to have been invited,” said Marois, “but I can’t see him being on Clara Morrow’s guest list.”
“Do people crash these parties?” asked Gamache.
“Some,” said Marois, “but mostly artists looking to make connections.”
“Looking for free booze and food,” mumbled Castonguay.
“You said Madame Dyson asked you to look at her portfolio,” Gamache said to Castonguay, “which you refused. But I was under the impression she was a critic, not an artist.”
“True,” said Castonguay. “She’d written for La Presse, but that was many years ago. Then she vanished and someone else took over.”
He seemed barely polite, bored.
“Was she a good critic?”
“How d’you expect me to remember that?”
“The same way I expected you to remember her from the photo, monsieur.” Gamache eyed the art gallery owner steadily. Castonguay’s already flushed face grew ruddier.
“I remember her reviews, Chief Inspector,” Marois said and turned to Castonguay. “And so do you.”
“I do not.” Castonguay shot him a look of loathing.
“He’s a natural, producing art like it’s a bodily function.”
“No,” laughed Castonguay. “Lillian Dyson wrote that? Merde. With that sort of bile she might’ve been a decent artist after all.”
“But who was the line written about?” Gamache asked both men.
“It can’t have been anyone famous or we’d have remembered,” said Marois. “Probably some poor artist who sank into oblivion.”
Tied to this rock of a review, thought Gamache.
“Does it matter?” asked Castonguay. “It was twenty years ago or more. You think a review from decades ago has anything to do with her murder?”
“I think murder has a long memory.”
“If you’ll excuse me, I have some phone calls to make,” said André Castonguay.
Marois and Gamache watched him walk off toward the inn and spa.
“You know what he’s doing, don’t you?” Marois turned back to his companion.
“He’s calling the Morrows, to convince them to meet with him.”
Marois smiled. “Exactement.”
The two men strolled back toward the inn and spa themselves.
“Aren’t you worried?”
“I’m never worried about André. He’s no threat to me. If the Morrows are foolish enough to sign with him then he’s welcome to them.”
But Gamache didn’t believe it for a moment. François Marois’s eyes were too sharp, too shrewd for that. His relaxed manner too studied.
No, this man cared a great deal. He was wealthy. He was powerful. So it wasn’t about that.
Fear and greed. That was what drove the art world. And Gamache knew it was probably true. So if it wasn’t greed on Marois’s part, then the other must be true.
It was fear.
But what could this elderly, eminent dealer be afraid of?
“Will you join me, monsieur?” Armand Gamache extended his arm, inviting François Marois to walk with him. “I’m going into the village.”
Marois, who had had no intention of walking down into Three Pines again, considered the invitation and recognized it for what it was. A polite request. Not quite a command, but close enough.
He took his place beside the Chief Inspector and both walked slowly down the slope and into the village.
“Very pretty,” said Marois. He stopped and surveyed Three Pines, a smile on his lips. “I can see why Clara Morrow chose to live here. It is magical.”
“I sometimes wonder how important place is to an artist.” Gamache also looked out over the quiet village. “So many choose the great cities. Paris, London, Venice. Cold water flats and lofts in Soho and Chelsea. Lillian Dyson moved to New York, for instance. But Clara didn’t. The Morrows chose here. Does where they live affect what they create?”
“Oh, without a doubt. Where they live and who they spend time with. I don’t think Clara’s series of portraits could have been created any place other than here.”
“It’s fascinating to me that some look at her work and see just nice portraits of mostly elderly women. Traditional, staid even. But you don’t.”
“Neither do you, Chief Inspector, any more than when you and I look at Three Pines we see a village.”
“And what do you see, Monsieur Marois?”
“I see a painting.”
“A painting?”
“A beautiful one, to be sure. But all paintings, the most disturbing and the most exquisite, are made up of the same thing. The play of light and dark. That’s what I see. A whole lot of light, but a whole lot of dark too. That’s what people miss in Clara’s works. The light is so obvious they get fooled by it. It takes some people a while to appreciate the shading. I think that’s one of the things that makes her brilliant. She’s very subtle, but very subversive. She has a lot to say, and takes her time revealing it.”
“C’est intéressant, ça,” Gamache nodded. It wasn’t unlike what he’d been thinking about Three Pines. It too took a while to reveal itself. But Marois’s analogy had its limits. A painting, no matter how spectacular, would only ever be two dimensional. Is that how Marois saw the world? Was there an entire dimension he missed?
They started walking again. On the village green they noticed Clara plunking down beside Ruth. They watched as Ruth fired chunks of stale bread at the birds. It was unclear if she was trying to feed them or kill them.
François Marois’s eyes narrowed. “That’s the woman in Clara’s portrait,” he said.
“It is. Ruth Zardo.”
“The poet? I thought she was dead.”
“It’s a natural mistake,” said Gamache, waving at Ruth, who gave him the finger. “Her brain seems fine, it’s only her heart that’s stopped.”
The afternoon sun was directly on François Marois, forcing the dealer to squint. But behind him there extended a long and definite shadow.
“Why do you want both Morrows,” Gamache asked, “when you obviously prefer Clara’s works? Do you even like Peter Morrow’s paintings?”
“No, I don’t. I find them very superficial. Calculated. He’s a good artist, but I think he could be a great one, if he could use more instinct and less technique. He’s a very good draftsman.”
It was said without malice, making the cold analysis all the more damning. And perhaps true.
“You said you had only so much time and energy left,” persisted Gamache. “I can see why you’d choose Clara. But why Peter, an artist you don’t even like?”
Marois hesitated. “It’s just easier to manage. We can make career decisions for both of them. I want Clara to be happy, and I think she’s happiest if Peter is also looked after.”
Gamache looked at the art dealer. It was an astute observation. But it didn’t go far enough. Marois had made it about Clara and Peter’s happiness. Deflecting the question.
Then the Chief Inspector remembered the story Marois told, of his first client. The elderly artist whose wife overtook him. And, to protect her husband’s fragile ego the woman had never painted again.
Was that what Marois was afraid of? Losing his final client, his final find, because Clara’s love for Peter was greater than her love for art?
Or was it, again, even more personal? Did it have nothing to do with Clara, with Peter, with art? Was François Marois simply afraid of losing?
André Castonguay owned art. But François Marois owned the artists. Who was the more powerful? But also the more vulnerable?
Framed paintings couldn’t get up and leave. But the artists could.
What was François Marois afraid of? Gamache asked himself again.
“Why are yo
u here?”
Marois looked surprised. “I’ve already told you, Chief Inspector. Twice. I’m here to try to sign Peter and Clara Morrow.”
“And yet you claim not to care if Monsieur Castonguay gets there first.”
“I can’t control other people’s stupidity,” smiled Marois.
Gamache considered the man, and as he did the art dealer’s smile wavered.
“I’m late for drinks, monsieur,” said Gamache pleasantly. “If we have nothing more to talk about I’ll be going.”
He turned and walked toward the bistro.
* * *
“Bread?” Ruth offered Clara what looked and felt like a brick.
They each hacked off pieces. Ruth tossed them at the robins, who darted away. Clara just pelted the ground at her feet.
Thump, thump, thud.
“I hear the critics saw something in your paintings I sure don’t see,” said Ruth.
“What d’you mean?”
“They liked them.”
Thud, thud, thud.
“Not all,” laughed Clara. “The Ottawa Star said my art was nice, but neither visionary nor bold.”
“Ahh, the Ottawa Star. The journal of note. I remember the Drummondville Post once called my poetry both dull and uninteresting.” Ruth snorted. “Look, get that one.” She pointed to a particularly bold blue jay. When Clara didn’t move Ruth tossed a bread stone at him.
“Almost got him,” said Ruth, though Clara suspected if she’d wanted to hit the bird she wouldn’t have missed.
“They called me an old and tired parrot mimicking actual artists,” said Clara.
“That’s ridiculous,” said Ruth. “Parrots don’t mimic. Mynah birds mimic. Parrots learn the words and say them in their own way.”
“Fascinating,” mumbled Clara. “I’ll have to write a stern letter correcting them.”
“The Kamloops Record complained that my poetry doesn’t rhyme,” said Ruth.
“Do you remember all your reviews?” asked Clara.
“Only the bad ones.”
“Why?”
Ruth turned to look at her directly. Her eyes weren’t angry or cold, not filled with malice. They were filled with wonder.
“I don’t know. Perhaps that’s the price of poetry. And, apparently, art.”
A Trick of the Light cig-7 Page 12
