A Trick of the Light cig-7

by Penny, Louise

  “I’m not imagining anything. Just asking.”

  “I’m trying to help,” said Pineault. His voice was stern, his eyes hard. Gamache was used to this, from court appearances. From high-level Sûreté conferences.

  And he recognized it for what it was. Chief Justice Thierry Pineault was pissing on him. It was delicate, sophisticated, genteel, mannerly. But it was still piss.

  The problem with a pissing contest, as Gamache knew, was that what should have remained private became public. Chief Justice Pineault’s privates were on display.

  “And how do you think you can help, sir? Do you know something I don’t?”

  “I’m here because Suzanne asked me, and because I know where Three Pines is. I drove her down. That’s my help.”

  Gamache looked from Thierry to Suzanne, now ripping up a piece of fresh baguette, smearing it with butter and popping it in her mouth. Could she really command the Chief Justice like that? Treat him like a chauffeur?

  “I asked Thierry for help because I knew he’d be calm. Sensible.”

  “And he’s the Chief Justice?” asked Beauvoir.

  “I’m an alcoholic, not an idiot,” said Suzanne with a smile. “It seemed an advantage.”

  It was an advantage, thought Gamache. But why did she feel she needed one? And why had Chief Justice Pineault chosen this table, away from the others? The worst table on the terrace, and then quickly taken the seat facing the wall.

  Gamache glanced around. Was the Chief Justice hiding? He’d arrived and gone straight into the bookstore, coming out only when Suzanne returned. And now he sat with his back to everyone. Where he couldn’t see anything, but neither could he be seen.

  Gamache’s eyes swept around the village, taking in what Chief Justice Pineault was missing.

  Ruth on the bench, feeding the birds and every now and then glancing into the sky. Normand and Paulette, the middling artists, on the verandah of the B and B. A few villagers were carrying string bags of groceries home from Monsieur Béliveau’s general store. And then there were the other bistro patrons, including André Castonguay and François Marois.

  * * *

  Clara stood in the hallway, staring at the door, slammed in her face. The sound still echoed off the walls, along the corridors, down the stairwell, and finally out the door. Spilling into the bright sunshine.

  Her eyes wide, her heart pounding. Her stomach sour.

  Clara thought she might throw up.

  * * *

  “Ah, there you are,” said Denis Fortin, standing in the doorway of the bistro. He had the great pleasure of seeing André Castonguay jump and almost knock over his white wine.

  François Marois, however, did not jump. He barely reacted.

  Like a lizard, thought Fortin, sunning himself on a rock.

  “Tabernac,” exclaimed Castonguay. “What the hell are you doing here?”

  “May I?” asked Fortin, and took a seat at their table before either man could deny him.

  They’d always denied him a seat at their table. For decades. The cabal of art dealers and gallery owners. Old men now. As soon as Fortin had decided to stop being an artist and had opened his own gallery they’d closed ranks. Against the interloper, the newcomer.

  Well, he was there now. More successful than any of them. Except, maybe, these two men. Of all the members of the art establishment in Québec, the only two whose opinion he cared about were Castonguay and Marois.

  Well, one day they’d have to acknowledge him. And it might as well be today.

  “I’d heard you were here,” he said, signaling to the waiter for another round.

  Castonguay, he saw, was well into the white wine. Marois, though, was sipping an iced tea. Austere, cultured, restrained. Cool. Like the man.

  He himself had switched to a micro-brewery beer. McAuslan. Young, golden, impertinent.

  “What’re you doing here?” Castonguay repeated, the emphasis on “you,” as though Fortin had to explain himself. And he almost did, in an instinctive reaction. A need to appease these men.

  But Fortin stopped himself and smiled charmingly.

  “I’m here for the same reason you are. To sign the Morrows.”

  That brought a reaction from Marois. Slowly, so slowly, the art dealer turned his head and, looking directly at Fortin, he slowly, so slowly lifted his brows. In anyone else it might have been comical. But from Marois, the results were terrifying.

  Fortin felt himself grow cold, as though he’d looked at the Gorgon’s Head.

  He swallowed hard and continued to stare, hoping if he’d been turned to stone it was at least with a look of casual disdain on his face. He feared, though, his face had a whole other expression.

  Castonguay sputtered with laughter.

  “You? Sign the Morrows? You had your shot and you blew it.” Castonguay grabbed his glass and took a great draught.

  The waiter brought more drinks and Marois put out his hand to stop him. “I think we’ve had enough.” He turned to Castonguay. “Perhaps time for a little walk, don’t you think?”

  But Castonguay didn’t think. He took the glass. “You’ll never sign the Morrows, and do you know why?”

  Fortin shook his head and could have kicked himself for even reacting.

  “Because they know you for what you are.” He was speaking loudly now. So loudly conversation around them died.

  At the back table everyone looked around, except Thierry Pineault. He kept his face to the wall.

  “That’s enough, André,” said Marois, laying a hand on the other man’s arm.

  “No, it’s not enough.” Castonguay turned to François Marois. “You and I worked hard for what we have. Studied art, know technique. We might disagree, but it’s at least an intelligent discussion. But this one,” his arm jerked in Fortin’s direction, “all he wants is a quick buck.”

  “And all you want, sir,” said Fortin, getting to his feet, “is a bottle. Who is worse?”

  Fortin gave a stiff little bow and walked away. He didn’t know where he was going. Just away. From the table. From the art establishment. From the two men staring at him. And probably laughing.

  * * *

  “People don’t change,” said Beauvoir, squashing his burger and watching the juices ooze out.

  Chief Justice Pineault and Suzanne had left, walking over to the B and B. And now, finally, Inspector Beauvoir could discuss murder, in peace.

  “You think not?” asked Gamache. On his plate were grilled garlic shrimp and quinoa mango salad. The barbeque was working overtime for the hungry lunch crowd, producing char-grilled steaks and burgers, shrimp and salmon.

  “They might seem to,” said Beauvoir, picking his burger up, “but if you were a nasty piece of work growing up, you’ll be an asshole as an adult and you’ll die pissed off.”

  He took a bite. Where once this burger, with bacon and mushrooms, caramelized onions and melting blue cheese, would have sent him into raptures, now it left him feeling slightly queasy. Still, he forced himself to eat, to appease Gamache.

  Beauvoir noticed the Chief watching him eat and felt a slight annoyance, but that quickly faded. Mostly he didn’t care. After his conversation with Myrna he’d taken himself off to the bathroom and popped a Percocet, staying there, his head in his hands, until he could feel the warmth spread, and the pain ebb and drift away.

  Across the table Chief Inspector Gamache took a forkful of grilled garlic shrimp and the quinoa mango salad with genuine enjoyment.

  They’d both looked up when André Castonguay had raised his voice.

  Beauvoir had even gone to get up, but the Chief had stopped him. Wanting to see how this would play out. Like the rest of the patrons, they watched Denis Fortin walk stiffly away, his back straight, his arms at his side.

  Like a little soldier, Gamache had thought, reminded of his son Daniel as a child, marching around the park. Either into or away from a battle. Resolute.

  Pretending.

  Denis Fortin was retreating, G
amache knew. To nurse his wounds.

  “I suspect you don’t agree?” said Beauvoir.

  “That people don’t change?” asked Gamache, looking up from his plate. “No, I don’t agree. I believe people can and do.”

  “But not as much as the victim appeared to change,” said Beauvoir. “That would be very chiaroscuro.”

  “Very what?” Gamache lowered his knife and fork and stared at his second in command.

  “It means a bold contrast. The play of light and dark.”

  “Is that so? And did you make up that word?”

  “I did not. Heard it at Clara’s vernissage and even used it a few times. Such a snooty crowd. All I had to do was say ‘chiaroscuro’ a few times and they were convinced I was the critic for Le Monde.”

  Gamache picked his knife and fork back up and shook his head. “So it could’ve meant anything and you still used it?”

  “Didn’t you notice? The more ridiculous the statement the more it was accepted. Did you see their faces when they realized I wasn’t with Le Monde?”

  “Very schadenfreude of you,” said Gamache and wasn’t surprised to see the suspicious look on Beauvoir’s face. “So you looked up ‘chiaroscuro’ this morning. Is that what you do when I’m not around?”

  “That and Free Cell. And porn, of course, but we only do that on your computer.”

  Beauvoir grinned and took a bite of his burger.

  “You think the victim was very chiaroscuro?” asked Gamache.

  “I don’t actually. Just said that to show off. I think it’s all bullshit. One moment she’s a bitch, the next she’s this wonderful person? Come on. That’s crap.”

  “I can see how they’d mistake you for a formidable critic,” said Gamache.

  “Fucking right. Listen, people don’t change. You think the trout in the Bella Bella are there because they love Three Pines? But maybe next year they’ll go somewhere else?” Beauvoir jerked his head toward the river.

  Gamache looked at his Inspector. “What do you think?”

  “I think the trout have no choice. They return because they’re trout. That’s what trout do. Life is that simple. Ducks return to the same place every year. Geese do it. Salmon and butterflies and deer. Jeez, deer are such creatures of habit they wear a trail through the woods and never deviate. That’s why so many are shot, as we know. They never change. People are the same. We are what we are. We are who we are.”

  “We don’t change?” Gamache took a piece of fresh asparagus.

  “Exactly. You taught me that people, that cases, are basically very simple. We’re the ones who complicate it.”

  “And the Dyson case? Are we complicating it?”

  “I think so. I think she was killed by someone she screwed. End of story. A sad story, but a simple one.”

  “Someone from her past?” Gamache asked.

  “No, that’s where I think you’re wrong. The people who knew the new Lillian after she stopped drinking say she’d become a decent person. And the people who knew the old one, before she stopped drinking, say she was a bitch.”

  Beauvoir was holding up both hands, one was clutching the massive burger, the other held a french fry. Between them was space, a divide.

  “And I’m saying the old and new are the same person.” He brought his hands together. “There’s only one Lillian. Just as there’s only one me. Only one you. She might have gotten better at hiding it after she joined AA, but believe me, that bitter, nasty, horrible woman was still there.”

  “And still hurting people?” the Chief asked.

  Beauvoir ate the fry and nodded. This was his favorite part of an investigation. Not the food, though in Three Pines that was never a hardship. He could remember other cases, in other places, when he and the Chief had gone days with barely anything to eat, or shared cold canned peas and Spam. Even that, he had to admit, had been fun. In retrospect. But this little village produced bodies and gourmet meals in equal proportion.

  He liked the food, but what he mostly loved were the conversations with the Chief. Just the two of them.

  “One theory is that Lillian Dyson came here to make amends to someone,” said Gamache. “To apologize.”

  “If she did I bet she wasn’t sincere.”

  “So why would she have been here, if she wasn’t sincere?”

  “To do what it was in her nature to do. To screw someone.”

  “Clara?” Gamache asked.

  “Maybe. Or someone else. She had lots to choose from.”

  “And it went wrong,” said Gamache.

  “Well, it sure didn’t go right, for her anyway.”

  Was the answer so simple? Gamache wondered. Was Lillian Dyson just being true to who she really was?

  A selfish, destructive, hurtful person. Drunk or sober.

  The same person, with the same instincts and nature.

  To hurt.

  “But,” said Gamache, “how’d she know about this party? It was a private party. By invitation only. And we all know Three Pines is hard to find. How did Lillian know about the party, and how’d she find it? And how did the murderer know she’d even be here?”

  Beauvoir took a deep breath, trying to think, then shook his head.

  “I got us this far, Chief. It’s your turn to do something useful.”

  Gamache sipped his beer and grew quiet. So quiet, in fact, that Beauvoir became concerned. Maybe he’d upset the Chief with his flippant remark.

  “What is it?” Beauvoir asked. “Something wrong?”

  “No, not really.” Gamache looked at Beauvoir, as though trying to make up his mind about something. “You say people don’t change, but you and Enid loved each other once, right?”

  Beauvoir nodded.

  “But now you’re separated, on your way to a divorce. So what happened?” Gamache asked. “Did you change? Did Enid? Something changed.”

  Beauvoir looked at Gamache with surprise. The Chief was genuinely perturbed.

  “You’re right,” admitted Beauvoir. “Something changed. But I don’t think it was us really. I think we just realized that we weren’t the people we pretended to be.”

  “I’m sorry?” asked Gamache, leaning forward.

  Beauvoir collected his scattered thoughts. “I mean, we were young. I think we didn’t know what we wanted. Everyone was getting married and it seemed like fun. I liked her. She liked me. But I don’t think it was ever really love. And I think I was pretending, really. Trying to be someone I wasn’t. The man Enid wanted.”

  “So what happened?”

  “After the shootings, I realized I had to be the man I was. And that man didn’t love Enid enough to stay.”

  Gamache was quiet for a few moments, immobile, thinking.

  “You spoke to Annie Saturday night, before the vernissage,” said Gamache finally.

  Beauvoir froze. The Chief went on, not needing a reply.

  “And you saw her and David together at the party.”

  Beauvoir willed himself to blink. To breathe. But he couldn’t. He wondered how long before he passed out.

  “You know Annie well.”

  Beauvoir’s brain was shrieking. Wanting this to be over, for the Chief to just say what was on his mind. Gamache finally looked up, directly at Beauvoir. His eyes, far from angry, were imploring.

  “Did she tell you about her marriage?”

  “Pardon?” Beauvoir barely whispered.

  “I thought she might have said something to you, asked your advice or something. Knowing about you and Enid.”

  Beauvoir’s head swam. None of this was making sense.

  Gamache leaned back and exhaled deeply, throwing his balled-up napkin onto his plate. “I feel such a fool. We’d had little signs that things weren’t well. David canceling dinners together, showing up late, like on Saturday night. Leaving early. They weren’t as demonstrative as before. Madame Gamache and I had talked about it, but thought it might just be their relationship evolving. Less in each other’s pockets. And couples
grow apart, then come back together again.”

  Beauvoir felt his heart start again. With a mighty thump.

  “Are Annie and David growing apart?”

  “She didn’t say anything to you?”

  Beauvoir shook his head. His brain sloshing about in there. With only one thought now. Annie and David were growing apart.

  “Had you noticed anything?”

  Had he? How much was real and how much was imagined, exaggerated? He remembered Annie’s hand on David’s arm. And David not caring. Not listening. Distracted.

  Beauvoir had seen all that, but had been afraid to believe it was anything other than a shame. Affection wasted on a man who didn’t care. His own jealousy speaking, and not the truth. But now—

  “What’re you saying, sir?”

  “Annie came over last night for dinner and to talk. She and David are having a difficult time.” Gamache sighed. “I’d hoped she’d said something to you. For all your arguing, I know Annie’s like a little sister to you. You’ve known her since she was, what?”

  “Fifteen.”

  “Has it been that long?” asked Gamache, with amazement. “Not a happy year for Annie. Her first crush, and it had to be on you.”

  “She had a crush on me?”

  “Didn’t you know? Oh yes. Madame Gamache and I had to hear about it every time you visited. Jean Guy this and Jean Guy that. We tried to tell her what a degenerate you were but that just seemed to add to the attraction.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  Gamache looked at him with amusement. “You’d have wanted to know? You were already teasing her, it would’ve been intolerable. Besides, she begged us not to tell you.”

  “But now you have.”

  “A confidence broken. I trust you not to tell her.”

  “I’ll do my best. What’s the problem with David?” Beauvoir looked down at his half-eaten burger, as though it had suddenly done something fascinating.

  “She won’t be specific.”

  “Are they separating?” he asked, hoping he sounded politely disinterested.

  “I’m not sure,” said Gamache. “There’s so much happening in her life, so many changes. She’s taken another job, as you know. In the Family Court office.”