A Trick of the Light cig-7

by Penny, Louise

  The home smelled of salmon and fresh bread, with slight hints of lemon and dill.

  “Dinner won’t be long,” said their host as he led them through the kitchen and into the living room.

  Within minutes Beauvoir and Lacoste had glasses of wine. Gamache, already tired, asked for water. Lacoste wandered over to the two artists, Normand and Paulette. Beauvoir chatted with Myrna and Gabri. Mostly, Gamache suspected, because they were as far from Ruth as possible.

  Gamache’s eyes swept the room. It was habit now. Noticing where everyone was, and what they were doing.

  Olivier was by the bookcases, his back to the room. Apparently fascinated by the books, but Gamache suspected he’d seen those shelves many times.

  François Marois and Denis Fortin were standing together, though not talking. Gamache wondered where the other one was. André Castonguay.

  And then he found him. In a corner of the room, talking with Chief Justice Pineault while a few steps away young Brian was watching.

  What was the look on Brian’s face, Gamache wondered. It took an effort to dig below the tattoos, the swastika, the raised finger, the “fuck you.” And see other expressions. Brian was certainly alert, watchful. Not the detached youth of the evening before.

  “You must be kidding,” said Castonguay, his voice raised. “You can’t tell me you like it.”

  Gamache wandered a little closer, while everyone else glanced over, then wandered a little further away. Except Brian. He stood his ground.

  “I don’t just like it, I think it’s amazing,” Pineault was saying.

  “Waste of time,” said the art dealer, his voice thick. He clutched an almost empty glass of red wine.

  Gamache maneuvered closer and noticed the two men were standing in front of one of Clara’s paintings. A study, really, of hands. Some clutching, some fists, some just opening, or closing, depending on your perception.

  “It’s all just bullshit,” said Castonguay, and Pineault made a subtle gesture to try to get the art dealer to lower his voice. “Everyone says it’s so great, but you know what?”

  Castonguay leaned toward Pineault, and Gamache focused on Castonguay’s lips, hoping to make out what the art dealer was about to whisper.

  “People who think that are idiots. Morons. Wet brains.”

  Gamache needn’t have worried about hearing. Everyone heard. Castonguay shouted his opinion.

  Again the circle around the dealer grew. Pineault scanned the room, looking for Clara, Gamache supposed. Hoping she wasn’t hearing what one of her guests was saying about her work.

  Then the Chief Justice’s gaze settled back on Castonguay, his eyes hard. Gamache had seen that look often in court. Rarely directed at him, mostly directed at some poor trial lawyer who’d transgressed.

  Had Castonguay been a Death Star, his head would have exploded.

  “I’m sorry to hear that, André,” said Pineault, his voice polar. “Maybe one day you’ll feel as I do.”

  The Chief Justice turned and walked away.

  “Feel?” demanded Castonguay to Pineault’s retreating back. “Feel? Jeez, maybe you should try using your brains.”

  Pineault hesitated, his back to Castonguay. The entire room was quiet now, watching. Then the Chief Justice continued walking away.

  And André Castonguay was left all alone.

  “He needs to hit bottom,” said Suzanne.

  “I’ve hit many bottoms,” said Gabri. “And I find it helps.”

  Gamache looked around the room for Clara, but fortunately she wasn’t there. Almost certainly in the kitchen preparing dinner. Wonderful aromas drifted through the open door, almost masking the stink of Castonguay’s words.

  “So,” said Ruth, turning her back on the swaying art dealer and focusing on Suzanne. “I hear you’re a drunk.”

  “Very true,” said Suzanne. “In fact, I come from a long line of drunks. They’d drink anything. Lighter fluid, pond scum, one of my uncles swore he could turn urine into wine.”

  “Really?” said Ruth, perking up. “I can turn wine into urine. Did he perfect the process?”

  “Not surprisingly, he died before I was born but my mother had a still and would ferment everything. Peas, roses. Lamps.”

  Ruth looked disbelieving. “Come on. Peas?”

  Still, she looked ready to try. She took a swig of her drink and inclined it toward Suzanne. “Bet your mother never tried this.”

  “What is it?” asked Suzanne. “If it’s a distilled Oriental carpet, she did that too. Tasted like my grandfather, but got the job done.”

  Ruth looked impressed, but shook her head. “It’s my special blend. Gin, bitters, and the tears of little children.”

  Suzanne didn’t seem surprised.

  Armand Gamache decided not to join that conversation.

  Just then Peter called, “Dinner!” and the guests filed into the kitchen.

  Clara had lit candles around the large room, and vases of flowers had been placed along the center of the long pine table.

  As Gamache took his seat he noticed that while the three art dealers seemed to travel together, so did the three AA members. Suzanne, Thierry and Brian.

  “What’re you thinking?” Myrna asked, taking a seat on his right. She handed him a basket of warm baguettes.

  “Groups of threes.”

  “Really? Last time we were together you were thinking of Humpty Dumpty.”

  “Christ,” muttered Ruth, on his other side, “this murder’ll never be solved.”

  Gamache looked at the old poet. “Guess what I’m thinking now.”

  She stared back at him, her cold blue eyes narrowing, her face flint. Then she laughed. “Quite right too,” she said, grabbing some bread. “I’m all that, and more.”

  The platter, with the whole poached salmon, was being passed in one direction, while spring vegetables and salad were going in the other. Everyone helped themselves.

  “So, groups of threes,” Ruth nodded to the art dealers. “Like Curly, Larry and Moe over there?”

  François Marois laughed but André Castonguay looked bleary and peeved.

  “There’s a long tradition of groups of threes,” said Myrna. “Everyone thinks in terms of couples, but actually threes are very common. Mystical even. The holy trinity.”

  “Three Graces,” said Gabri, helping himself to vegetables. “Like in your painting, Clara.”

  “The Three Fates,” said Paulette.

  “There’s ‘three on a match,’” said Denis Fortin. “Ready. Aim.” He looked at Marois. “Fire. But we’re not the only ones to move in threes,” said Fortin.

  Gamache looked at him inquiringly.

  “You do too,” said Fortin, looking from Gamache, to Beauvoir to Lacoste.

  Gamache laughed. “I hadn’t thought of that, but it’s true.”

  “Three blind mice,” said Ruth.

  “Three pines,” said Clara. “Maybe you’re the three pines. Keeping us safe.”

  “Sure made a balls-up of that,” said Ruth.

  “Stupid conversation,” muttered Castonguay, and knocked his fork to the floor. He glared at it, a stupid look on his face. The room grew quiet.

  “Never mind,” said Clara cheerfully. “We have plenty.”

  She got up but Castonguay reached out to grab her as she passed.

  “I’m not hungry,” he said, his voice loud and querulous.

  Missing Clara, his hand hit Agent Lacoste beside him. “Sorry,” he mumbled.

  Peter, Gabri and Paulette began speaking at once. Loudly, cheerfully.

  “Don’t want any,” snapped Castonguay as Brian offered him the salmon. Then the gallery owner seemed to focus on the young man. “Jeez, who invited you?”

  “The same person who invited you,” said Brian.

  Peter, Gabri and Paulette spoke even more loudly. More cheerfully.

  “What’re you?” slurred Castonguay, trying to focus on Brian. “Christ, don’t tell me you’re an artist too. You look fucked
up enough to be one.”

  “I am,” said Brian. “I’m a tattoo artist.”

  “What?” demanded Castonguay.

  “It’s all right, André,” said François Marois, in a soothing voice, and it seemed to work. Castonguay swayed a bit in his chair and stared down at his plate, mesmerized.

  “Who wants seconds?” asked Peter, brightly.

  No one put their hand up.

  TWENTY-SIX

  “So,” said Denis Fortin, as they stood on the covered porch with their coffees and cognacs. “Have you two had a chance to talk?”

  “About what?” asked Peter, turning from surveying the wet village to surveying the gallery owner. It was still raining, a fine drizzle.

  Fortin looked at Clara. “You haven’t discussed it with him?”

  “Not yet,” said Clara, feeling guilty. “But I will.”

  “What?” asked Peter again.

  “I came by today to see if you and Clara might be interested in being represented by me. I know I screwed up the first time, and I really am sorry. I’m just…” he paused to collect his thoughts, then looked from Peter back to Clara. “I’m asking for another chance. Please let me prove that I’m sincere. I really think we’d make a great team, the three of us.”

  * * *

  “What do you think?” Chief Inspector Gamache nodded out the window toward Peter, Clara and Fortin standing on the porch.

  “About them?” asked Myrna. They couldn’t hear what the three were talking about, but it was easy enough to guess.

  “Will Fortin convince Clara to give him another shot?” asked the Chief, taking a sip of his double espresso.

  “It’s not Fortin who needs another shot,” said Myrna.

  Gamache turned to her. “Peter?”

  But Myrna lapsed into silence and Gamache wondered if Peter had told Clara about his part in the scathing review years ago.

  * * *

  “I think we need time to consider it,” said Clara.

  “I understand,” said Fortin, with a charming smile. “No pressure. The only thing I’ll say is that you might want to consider signing with a younger, growing gallery. Someone who won’t retire in a few years. Just a thought.”

  “It’s a good point,” said Peter.

  Not long ago that would have been enough for Clara to go with Fortin. Peter’s obvious enthusiasm. She’d trusted him completely to know what was best for them. For both of them. To have her best interests at heart.

  Now she realized, looking at this man she’d spent the past twenty-five years with, that she had no idea what he kept in his heart. But she was pretty sure it wasn’t her best interests.

  Clara didn’t know what to do. But she did know that something had to change.

  Peter was trying, she knew that. He was trying so hard to change. And now, maybe, it was her turn to try too.

  * * *

  “He’s still suffering, you know,” said Myrna.

  “Peter?” asked Gamache, then he followed her look. She was no longer watching the three people on the verandah. Her gaze was closer to home. She was staring at Jean Guy Beauvoir, who was standing with Ruth and Suzanne.

  Ruth seemed to have quite lost her heart to the odd former drunk, who apparently had endless recipes for distilling furniture.

  “I know,” said Gamache, quietly. “I spoke with Jean Guy about it this morning.”

  “And what did he say?”

  “That he was fine, getting better. But of course, he isn’t.”

  Myrna was quiet for a moment. “No. He isn’t. Did he tell you why he’s suffering?”

  Gamache studied her for a moment. “I asked, but he didn’t say. I presumed it was the combination of his wounds and losing so many colleagues.”

  “It is, but I think it’s more specific than that. In fact, I know it is. He told me.”

  Gamache turned his full attention to her. In the background Castonguay raised his voice. Vexed, whining, petulant. But nothing would get Gamache to look away from Myrna now.

  “What did Jean Guy tell you?”

  Myrna examined Gamache for a moment. “You’re not going to like it.”

  “There’s nothing about what happened in that factory I like. But I need to hear it.”

  “Yes,” said Myrna, making up her mind. “He feels guilty.”

  “About what?” asked Gamache, astonished. This wasn’t the answer he’d expected.

  “About not being able to help you. He can’t get beyond seeing you fall, and not being able to help. As you helped him.”

  “But that’s ridiculous. He couldn’t.”

  “You know that, and I know that. He even knows that. But what we know and what we feel can be two different things.”

  Gamache’s heart dropped. Remembering the sallow young man early that morning in the Incident Room, his face made all the paler by the harsh light from the computer screen. Watching that damned video, over and over.

  But not the scene of Gamache himself being gunned down. Jean Guy was watching himself being shot. He told Myrna what he’d found the night before.

  Myrna exhaled. “I think he’s punishing himself. Like self-mutilation. Taking a knife to himself, only the video is the blade.”

  The video, thought Gamache, feeling his fury rise. The goddamned video. It had already done so much damage, and now it was killing a young man he loved.

  “I’ve ordered him back to counseling—”

  “Ordered?”

  “It started as a suggestion,” said the Chief, “but ended up an order.”

  “He was resistant?”

  “Very.”

  “He loves you,” said Myrna. “That’s his road home.”

  Gamache looked over at Jean Guy and waved across the crowded room. Once again the Chief saw him fall. And hit the ground.

  And Jean Guy, across the living room, smiled and waved back.

  He saw Gamache looking down at him, eyes filled with concern.

  And then leaving.

  * * *

  “Christ,” said Castonguay in disgust, and gestured to the room in general. “That’s it. The end of the world. The end of civilization.” He slurped his drink toward Brian. “He tattoos ‘Mother’ on bikers and calls himself an artist. Maudit tabernac.”

  “Come on,” said Thierry Pineault. “Let’s get some fresh air.”

  He took Castonguay by the elbow and tried to lead him to the front door but Castonguay shook him off.

  “I haven’t seen a good artist in years. Not her.” He gestured toward Clara, just coming in from the porch. “She’s been circling the drain for years. Stuff’s trite. Sentimental. Portraits.” He almost spat the word.

  People were stepping away, leaving Castonguay alone in the void.

  “And him,” said Castonguay, choosing his next victim. It was Peter. “His stuff’s OK. Conventional, but I could sell it to Kelley Foods. Bury it in their Guatemalan office. Depends how drunk I can get their buyers. Though fucking Kelley’s won’t allow drinking. Ruins the corporate image. So I guess I won’t be able to sell you after all, Morrow. But neither will he.”

  Castonguay fixed a belligerent look on Denis Fortin. “What’s he been promising you? Solo shows? A joint show? Or maybe just a joint? He could be selling lawn furniture, for all he knows about art. Stank at it himself, and now he stinks as a gallery owner. The only thing he’s good at is mind-fucks.”

  Gamache caught Beauvoir’s eye, who signaled subtly to Lacoste. The three officers positioned themselves around Castonguay, but let him continue.

  François Marois appeared at Gamache’s elbow.

  “Stop this,” he whispered.

  “He’s done nothing wrong,” said the Chief.

  “He’s humiliating himself,” said Marois, looking agitated. “He doesn’t deserve this. He’s sick.”

  “Now, you two.” Castonguay swirled and lost his balance, stumbling against the sofa.

  “Jeez,” said Ruth, “don’t you just hate a drunk?”

&n
bsp; Castonguay righted himself and turned to, and on, Normand and Paulette. “Don’t think we don’t know why you’re here.”

  “We came down for Clara’s party,” said Paulette.

  “Shhh,” hissed Normand. “Don’t encourage him.” But it was too late. Castonguay had her in his sights.

  “But why’d you stay? Not to support Clara,” he sputtered with laughter. “The only thing worse than poets for hating each other is artists.” He turned to Ruth and bowed exaggeratedly. “Madame.”

  “Fucking idiot,” said Ruth, then she turned to Gabri. “Can’t say he isn’t right, though.”

  “You hate Clara, you hate her art, you hate all artists,” Castonguay closed in on Normand and Paulette. “Probably even hate each other. And yourselves. And you sure hated the dead woman, and with good reason.”

  “All right,” said Marois, breaking into the void and approaching Castonguay. “Time to say good night to these nice people and go to bed.”

  “I’m not going anywhere,” shouted Castonguay, twisting away from Marois.

  Gamache, Beauvoir and Lacoste moved a step closer as everyone else took a step back.

  “You’d like that. You’d like me to just go away. But I found her first. She was going to sign with me. And then you stole her.”

  His voice rose, and with a jerk Castonguay pitched his glass at Marois. It whizzed by him, shattering against the wall.

  And then Castonguay launched himself at the elderly dealer, clasping his strong hands around Marois’s throat, propelling the two of them backward.

  The Sûreté officers leapt after them, Gamache and Beauvoir grabbing Castonguay, and Lacoste trying to get her body between the struggling art dealers. Finally Castonguay was pried off Marois.

  François Marois held his throat and stared, shocked, at his colleague. And he wasn’t alone. Everyone in the room stared at Castonguay, as he was arrested and led away.

  * * *

  Armand Gamache and Jean Guy Beauvoir returned to Peter and Clara’s home an hour later. This time Gamache did accept a drink, and subsided into the large armchair Gabri offered.

  Everyone was still there, as he expected they would be. Too wired from the events, and with too many questions still to be answered to be able to go to bed. They couldn’t rest yet.