A Trick of the Light cig-7

by Penny, Louise

  “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.”

  Gam
ache 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?”

  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 a
nd 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.”