A Trick of the Light cig-7

by Penny, Louise

  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.

  “And what did Inspector Beauvoir say?” asked Gamache.

  “He asked similar questions. He wanted to know who I thought Lillian Dyson might be meeting.”

  “That’s a good question. And what did you tell him?”

  “I think she was meeting her killer,” said Isabelle Lacoste.

  “Yes, but was it the person she expected to meet?” asked Gamache. “Or did she think she was meeting one person but someone else showed up?”

  “You think she was lured there?”

  “I think it’s a possibility,” said Gamache.

  “So does Inspector Beauvoir. Lillian Dyson was ambitious. She’d just returned to Montréal and needed to jump-start her career. She knew Clara’s party would be packed with gallery owners and dealers. Where better to network? Inspector Beauvoir thinks she was tricked into going to the garden, by someone pretending to be a prominent gallery owner. Then murdered.”

  Gamache smiled. Jean Guy was taking his role as mentor seriously. And doing a good job.

  “And what do you think?” he asked.

  “I think she would have to have a very good reason to show up at Clara Morrow’s party. By all accoun
ts they hated each other. So what could lure Lillian Dyson there? What could overcome that sort of rancor?”

  “It would have to be something she wanted very badly,” said Gamache. “And what would that be?”

  “To meet a prominent gallery owner. Impress him with her art,” said Lacoste without hesitation.

  “I wonder,” said the Chief, leaning over his desk and scanning the reports. “But how’d she find her way down to Three Pines?”

  “Someone must have invited her to the party, perhaps lured her there with the promise of a private meeting with one of the big dealers,” said Lacoste, following the Chief’s train of thought.

  “He’d have had to show her the way there,” Gamache remembered the useless maps on Lillian’s front seat, “then he killed her in Clara’s garden.”

  “But why?” Now it was Agent Lacoste’s turn to ask. “Did the murderer know it was Clara’s garden, or would any place do? Could it just as easily have been Ruth’s or Myrna’s place?”

  Gamache took a deep breath. “I don’t know. Why set up a rendez-vous at a party at all? If he was planning murder wouldn’t he choose someplace more private? And convenient? Why Three Pines and not Montréal?”

  “Maybe Three Pines was convenient, Chief.”

  “Maybe,” he agreed. It was something he’d been considering. The murder happened there because the murderer was there. Lived there.

  “Besides,” said Lacoste, “the killer must’ve known there’d be plenty of suspects. The party was filled with people who knew Lillian Dyson from years ago, and hated her. And it’d be easy to melt back into the crowd.”

  “But why the Morrows’ garden?” the Chief Inspector pressed. “Why not in the woods, or anywhere else? Was Clara’s garden chosen on purpose?”

  No, thought Gamache, getting up from his chair, there was still too much hidden. The alley was still too dim. He liked tossing around ideas, theories, speculation. But he was careful not to run too far ahead of the facts. They were stumbling around now, in danger of getting themselves lost.

  “Any progress on the motive?” he asked.

  “Between Inspector Beauvoir in Montréal and me here we’ve interviewed just about everyone at the party and they all agree. Hardly anyone had any contact with Lillian since she’d been back, but anyone who knew her years ago, when she was a critic, hated and feared her.”

  “So the motive was revenge?” asked Gamache.

  “Either that or to stop her from doing even more damage now that she was back.”

  “Good.” He paused for a moment, thinking. “There’s another possibility, though.”

  He told her about his interview with Denis Fortin and the gallery owner’s certainty that a brilliant dead artist was more valuable than a brilliant living one.

  Chief Inspector Gamache had no doubt that Lillian Dyson was both a loathsome person and a brilliant artist.

  A brilliant dead artist. So much more sellable. And manageable. Her paintings could now make someone very rich indeed.

  He said good night to Agent Lacoste, made a couple more notes, then joined Reine-Marie and Annie in the dining room. They had a quiet dinner of pasta and fresh baguette. He offered them wine but decided not to have a glass himself.

  “Keeping a clear head?” Reine-Marie asked.

  “Actually, I plan to go to an AA meeting tonight. Thought I shouldn’t have alcohol on my breath.”

  His wife laughed. “Though you might not be the only one. You’ve finally admitted you have a problem?”

  “Oh, I have a problem, just not with alcohol.” He smiled at them. Then looked more closely at his daughter, Annie. “You’ve been quiet. Is something wrong?”

  “I need to speak to the two of you.”

  THIRTEEN

  Chief Inspector Gamache stood on rue Sherbrooke, in downtown Montréal, and stared at the heavy, red brick church across the street. It wasn’t made with bricks so much as huge, rectangular ox blood stones. He’d passed it hundreds of times while driving and never really looked at it.

  But now he did.

  It was dark and ugly and uninviting. It didn’t shout salvation. Didn’t even whisper it. What it did shout was penance and atonement. Guilt and punishment.

  It looked like a prison for sinners. Few would enter with an easy step and light heart.

  But now another memory stirred. Of the church bright, not quite in flames, but glowing. And the street he was on a river, and the people reeds.

  This was the church on Lillian Dyson’s easel. Unfinished, but already a work of genius. If he’d had any doubts, seeing the real thing vanquished them. She’d taken a building, a scene, most would find foreboding and made it into something dynamic and alive. And deeply attractive.

  As Gamache watched, the cars became a stream of vehicles. And the people entering the church were reeds. Floating in. Drawn in.

  As was he.

  * * *

  “Hi, welcome to the meeting.”

  Chief Inspector Gamache hadn’t even entered the church but he’d already found himself in a gauntlet of greetings. People on either side of him had their hands out, smiling. He tried not to think they were smiling maniacally, but one or two of them definitely were.

  “Hi, welcome to the meeting,” a young woman said, and led him through the door and down the stairs into the dingy, ill-lit basement. It smelt stale, of old cigarettes and bad coffee, of sour milk and sweat.

  The ceiling was low and everything looked like it had a film of dirt on it. Including most of the people.

  “Thank you,” he said, shaking the hand she offered.

  “Your first time here?” she asked, examining him closely.

  “It is. I’m not sure I’m in the right place.”

  “I felt like that too, at first. But give it a chance. Why don’t I introduce you to someone. Bob!” she bellowed.

  An older man with an uneven beard and mismatched clothes came over. He was stirring his coffee with his finger.

  “I’ll leave you with him,” said his young escort. “Men should stick with men.”

  Leaving the Chief Inspector to wonder further just what he might be getting into.

  “Hi. My name’s Bob.”

  “Armand.”

  They shook hands. Bob’s seemed sticky. Bob seemed sticky.

  “So, you’re new?” asked Bob.

  Gamache bent down and whispered, “Is this Alcoholics Anonymous?”

  Bob laughed. His breath smelled of coffee and tobacco. Gamache straightened up.

  “It sure is. You’re in the right place.”

  “I’m not actually an alcoholic.”

  Bob looked at him with amusement. “Of course you aren’t. Why don’t we get a coffee and we can talk. The meeting’ll start in a few minutes.”

  Bob got Gamache a coffee. Half full.

  “In case,” said Bob.

  “Of what?”

  “The DTs.” Bob cast a critical eye over Gamache and noticed the slight tremor in the hand holding the mug of coffee. “I had ’em. No fun. When was your last drink?”

  “This afternoon. I had a beer.”

  “Just one?”

  “I’m not an alcoholic.”

  Again Bob smiled. His teeth, the few he had left, were stained. “That means you’re a few hours sober. Well done.”

  Gamache found he was quite pleased with himself and was glad he hadn’t had that glass of wine over dinner.

  “Hey, Jim,” Bob shouted across the room to a gray-haired man with very blue eyes. “Got another newcomer.”

  Gamache looked over and saw Jim talking earnestly to a young man who seemed resistant.

  It was Beauvoir.

  Chief Inspector Gamache smiled and caught Beauvoir’s eye. Jean Guy stood up but Jim made him sit back down.

  “Come over here,” said Bob, leading Gamache to a long table filled with books and pamphlets, and coins. Gamache picked one up.

  “A beginner’s chip,” said the Chief, examining it. It was exactly t
he same as the one found in Clara’s garden.

  “I thought you said you weren’t an alcoholic.”

  “I’m not,” said Gamache.

  “Then that was a pretty good guess on your part,” said Bob with a guffaw.

  “Do many people have one of these?” Gamache asked.

  “Sure.”

  Bob produced a shiny coin from his pocket, and looked down at it, his face softening. “Took this at my first meeting. I keep it with me always. It’s like a medal, Armand.”

  Then he reached out to Gamache’s hand and folded it in.

  “No, sir,” protested Gamache. “I really can’t.”

  “But you must, Armand. I give it to you, and you can give it to someone else one day. Someone who needs it. Please.”

  Bob closed Gamache’s fingers over the coin. Before Gamache could say anything else, Bob broke away and turned back to the long table.

  “You’ll also need this.” He held up a thick blue book.

  “I already have one.” Gamache opened his satchel and showed him the book in there.

  Bob raised his brow. “You can use one of these, I think.” He gave Gamache a pamphlet called Living in Denial.

  Gamache brought out the meeting list he found in Lillian’s home and got the look from his new friend he’d so quickly come to expect. Amusement.

  “Still claim not to be an alcoholic? Not many sober people carry around the AA book, a beginner’s chip and a meeting list.” Bob examined the meeting list. “I see you’ve marked a bunch of meetings. Including some women’s meetings. Honestly, Armand.”

  “This doesn’t belong to me.”

  “I see. Does it belong to a friend?” Bob asked with infinite patience.

  Gamache almost smiled. “Not really. The young woman who introduced us said that men should stick with men. What did she mean?”

  “Clearly, you need to be told.” Bob waved the meeting list in front of Gamache. “This isn’t a pick-up joint. Some guys hit on women. Some women want to find a boyfriend. Think that’ll save ’em. It won’t. In fact, just the opposite. Getting sober’s hard enough without that distraction. So men speak mostly to men. Women to women. That way we can concentrate on what’s important.”

  Bob fixed Gamache with a hard stare. A penetrating look. “We’re friendly, Armand, but we’re serious. Our lives are at stake. Your life is at stake. Alcohol’ll kill us, if we let it. But I have to tell you, if an old drunk like me can get sober, so can you. If you’d like help, that’s what I’m here for.”