A Trick of the Light (11 page)

A large floral arrangement of lilac and Solomon’s Seal and apple boughs stood on the gleaming wood table in the center of the hall.

It felt fresh and light and welcoming.

“May I help you?” a young receptionist asked.

“We were looking for two of your guests. Messieurs Marois and Castonguay.”

“They’re in the living room,” she said, smiling, and led them off to the right.

The two Sûreté officers knew perfectly well where it was, having been in it many times before. But they let the receptionist do her job.

After offering them coffee, which was declined, she left them at the door to the living room. Gamache took in the room. It too was open and bright with floor-to-ceiling windows looking down on the village below. A log fire was laid, but not lit and flowers sat in vases on occasional tables. The room was both modern in its furniture and traditional in details and design. They’d done a sympathetic job of bringing the grand old ruin into the twenty-first century.

“Bonjour.”
François Marois rose from one of the Eames chairs and put down a copy of that day’s
Le Devoir.

André Castonguay looked over from the easy chair where he was reading the
New York Times.
He too rose as the two officers entered the room.

Gamache, of course, already knew Monsieur Marois, having spoken with him the night before at the
vernissage.
But the other man was a stranger to him, known only by reputation. Castonguay stood and Gamache saw a tall man, a little bleary perhaps from celebrating the night before. His face was puffy, and ruddy from tiny broken blood vessels in his nose and cheeks.

“I hadn’t expected to see you here,” said Gamache, walking forward and shaking hands with Marois as though greeting a fellow guest.

“Nor I you,” said Marois. “André, this is Chief Inspector Gamache, of the Sûreté du Québec. Do you know my colleague André Castonguay?”

“Only by reputation. A very good reputation. The Galerie Castonguay is renowned. You represent some fine artists.”

“I’m glad you think so, Chief Inspector,” said Castonguay.

Beauvoir was introduced. He bristled and took an immediate dislike to the man. He’d in fact disliked the man before even hearing the dismissive remark made to the Chief. Any owner of a high-end art gallery was immediately suspect, of arrogance if not murder. Jean Guy Beauvoir had little tolerance for either.

But Gamache didn’t seem put out. Indeed, he seemed almost pleased with André Castonguay’s response. And Beauvoir noticed something else.

Castonguay had begun to relax, to grow more sure of himself. He’d pushed this police officer and he hadn’t pushed back. Clearly Castonguay felt himself the better man.

Beauvoir smiled slightly and lowered his head so Castonguay wouldn’t see.

“Your man took our names and addresses,” said Castonguay, taking the large easy chair by the fireplace. “Our home addresses as well as business. Does this mean we’re suspects?”

“Mais, non, monsieur,”
said Gamache, sitting on the sofa opposite him. Beauvoir stood off to the side and Monsieur Marois took up a position at the mantelpiece. “I hope we haven’t inconvenienced you.”

Gamache looked concerned, contrite even. André Castonguay relaxed more. It was clear he was used to commanding a room. Getting his way.

Jean Guy Beauvoir watched as the Chief Inspector appeared to acquiesce to Castonguay. To bow before the stronger personality. Not mince, exactly. That would be too obviously a conceit. But to cede the space.

“Bon,”
said Castonguay. “I’m glad we got that straight. You didn’t inconvenience us. We were planning to stay a few days anyway.”

We,
thought Beauvoir and looked over at François Marois. The men would be about the same age, Beauvoir guessed. Castonguay’s hair was thick and white. Marois was balding, gray and trimmed. Both men were well groomed and well dressed.

“Here’s my card, Chief Inspector.” Castonguay handed Gamache a business card.

“Do you specialize in modern art?” Gamache asked, crossing his legs as though settling in for a nice chat.

Beauvoir, who knew Gamache better than most, watched with interest and some amusement. Castonguay was being wooed. And it was working. He clearly regarded Chief Inspector Gamache as one step up from the beasts. An evolved creature who walked upright but didn’t have much of a frontal lobe. Beauvoir could guess what Castonguay thought of him. The missing link, if that.

He longed to say something intelligent, something clever and knowledgeable. Or, failing that, something so shockingly, violently rude this smug man would no longer believe he was in charge of anything.

But Beauvoir, with an effort, kept his mouth shut. Mostly because he couldn’t think of anything intelligent to say about art.

Castonguay and the Chief Inspector were now discussing trends in modern art, with Castonguay lecturing and Gamache listening as though rapt.

And François Marois?

Jean Guy Beauvoir had all but forgotten him. He was so quiet. But now the Inspector shifted his eyes to Marois. And discovered the quiet, older man was also staring. But not at Castonguay.

François Marois was staring at Chief Inspector Gamache. Examining him. Closely. Then he shifted his gaze to Beauvoir. It wasn’t a cold look. But it was clear and sharp.

It froze Beauvoir’s blood.

The conversation between the Chief Inspector and Castonguay had segued back to the murder.

“Terrible,” said Castonguay, as though voicing a unique and insightful sentiment.

“Terrible,” agreed Gamache, sitting forward. “We have a couple of photographs of the murdered woman. I wonder if you’d mind looking at them?”

Beauvoir handed the photos to François Marois first. He looked at them then passed them on to André Castonguay.

“I’m afraid I don’t know her,” said Castonguay. To give him grudging credit, Beauvoir thought the man looked pained to see the woman dead. “Who was she?”

“Monsieur Marois?” Gamache turned to the other man.

“No, I’m afraid she doesn’t look familiar to me either. She was at the party?”

“That’s what we’re trying to find out. Did either of you see her there? As you can see in one of the pictures, she was wearing quite a remarkable red dress.”

The men glanced at each other, but shook their heads.

“Désolé,”
said Castonguay. “But I spent the evening speaking to friends I don’t often see. She could’ve been there and I just didn’t notice. Who was she?” he asked again.

The photos were handed back to Beauvoir.

“Her name was Lillian Dyson.”

There was no reaction to the name.

“Was she an artist?” Castonguay asked.

“What makes you ask?” said Gamache.

“Wearing red. Flamboyant. Artists are either complete bums, hardly wash, drunk and filthy most of the time, or they’re well, that.” He waved toward the pictures in Beauvoir’s hand. “Over-the-top. Loud. ‘Look at me’ types. Both are very tiring.”

“You don’t seem to like artists,” said Gamache.

“I don’t. I like the product, not the person. Artists are needy, crazy people who take up a lot of space and time. Exhausting. Like babies.”

“And yet, you were an artist once, I believe,” said François Marois.

The Sûreté agents looked over at the quiet man by the fireplace. Was there a satisfied look on his face?

“I was. Too sane to be a success.”

Marois laughed, and Castonguay looked annoyed. It wasn’t meant as a joke.

“You were at the
vernissage
at the Musée yesterday, Monsieur Castonguay?” Gamache asked.

“Yes. The chief curator invited me. And of course Vanessa is a close friend. We dine together when I’m in London.”

“Vanessa Destin-Brown? The head of the Tate Modern?” asked Gamache, apparently impressed. “She was there last night?”

“Oh yes, there and here. We had a long discussion on the future of figurative—”

“But she didn’t stay? Or is she one of the guests at the inn?”

“No, she left early. I don’t think burgers and fiddle music’s her style.”

“But it is yours?”

Beauvoir wondered if André Castonguay had noticed the tide shifting?

“Not normally, but there were some people here I wanted to speak with.”

“Who?”

“Pardon?”

Chief Inspector Gamache was still cordial, still gracious. But he was also clearly in command. And always had been.

Once again Beauvoir shot a look over to François Marois. He suspected the shift came as no surprise to him.

“Who did you particularly want to speak to at the party here?” Gamache asked, patient, clear.

“Well, Clara Morrow for one. I wanted to thank her for her works.”

“Who else?”

“That’s a private matter,” said Castonguay.

So he had noticed, thought Beauvoir. But too late. Chief Inspector Gamache was the tide and André Castonguay a twig. The best he could hope was to stay afloat.

“It might matter, monsieur. And if it doesn’t I promise to keep it between us.”

“Well, I’d hoped to approach Peter Morrow. He’s a fine artist.”

“But not as good as his wife.”

François Marois spoke quietly. Not much more than a whisper. But everyone turned to look at him.

“Is her work that good?” Chief Inspector Gamache asked.

Marois looked at Gamache for a moment. “I’ll be happy to answer that, but I’m curious to hear what you think. You were at the
vernissage.
You were the one who pointed out that remarkable portrait of the Virgin Mary.”

“The what?” asked Castonguay. “There was no Virgin Mary painting.”

“There was if you looked,” Marois assured him before turning back to the Chief Inspector. “You were one of the few people actually paying attention to her art.”

“As I may have mentioned last night, Clara and Peter Morrow are personal friends,” said Gamache.

This brought a look of surprise and suspicion from Castonguay.

“Is that allowed? That means you’re investigating friends for murder,
n’est-ce pas
?”

Beauvoir stepped forward. “In case you didn’t know it, Chief Inspector Gamache—”

But the Chief put his hand up and Beauvoir managed to stop himself.

“It’s a fair question.” Gamache turned back to André Castonguay. “They are friends and yes, they’re also suspects. In fact, I have a lot of friends in this village, and all of them are suspects as well. And I realize this could be interpreted as a disadvantage, but the fact is, I know these people. Well. Who better to find the murderer among them than someone who knows their weaknesses, their blind spots, their fears? Now,” Gamache leaned slowly forward, toward Castonguay, “if you’re thinking I might find the murderer and let him go…”

The words were friendly, there was even a mild smile on the Chief Inspector’s face. But even André Castonguay couldn’t miss the gravity in the voice and eyes.

“No. I don’t believe you’d do that.”

“I’m glad to hear it.” Gamache leaned back in his seat once again.

Beauvoir stared at Castonguay a moment longer, making certain he wasn’t about to challenge the Chief again. Gamache might think it was natural and even healthy to challenge him, but Beauvoir didn’t.

“You’re wrong about the Morrow woman’s art, you know,” said Castonguay, sullen. “It’s just a bunch of portraits of old women. There was nothing new there.”

“There’s everything new, if you look below the surface,” said Marois, taking the easy chair beside Castonguay. “Look again,
mon ami.
”

But it was clear they were not friends. Not, perhaps, enemies, but would they seek each other out for a friendly lunch at Leméac café bistro or a drink at the bar at L’Express in Montréal?

No. Castonguay might, but not Marois.

“And why are you here, monsieur?” Gamache asked Marois. There seemed no power struggle between the two men. There was no need. Each was confident in himself.

“I’m an art dealer, but not a gallery owner. As I told you last night, the curator gave me a catalog and I was taken with Madame Morrow’s works. I wanted to see them myself. And,” he smiled ruefully, “I’m afraid even at my age I’m a romantic.”

“Are you going to admit to a crush on Clara Morrow?” asked Gamache.

François Marois laughed. “Not exactly, though after seeing her work it’s hard not to like her. But it’s more of a philosophical state, my romanticism.”

“How so?”

“I love that an artist could be plucked out of obscurity and discovered at the age of almost fifty. What artist doesn’t dream of it? What artist doesn’t believe, every morning, it will happen before bedtime? Remember Magritte? Belgian painter?”

“Ceci n’est pas une pipe?”
asked Gamache, losing Beauvoir completely. He hoped the Chief hadn’t just had a seizure and started spouting nonsense.

“That’s the one. He worked away for years, decades. Living in squalor. Supported himself by painting fake Picassos and forging banknotes. When he did his own work Magritte was not only ignored by the galleries and collectors, he was mocked by other artists, who thought he was nuts. I have to say, it gets pretty bad when even other artists think you’re nuts.”

Gamache laughed. “And was he?”

“Well, perhaps. You’ve seen his works?”

“I have. I like them, but I’m not sure how I would have felt had someone not told me they were genius.”

“Exactly,” said Marois, suddenly sitting forward, more animated than Beauvoir had seen him. Excited even. “That’s what makes my job like Christmas every day. While every artist wakes up believing this is the day his genius will be discovered, every dealer wakes up believing this is the day he’ll discover genius.”

“But who’s to say?”

“That’s what makes this all so thrilling.”

Beauvoir could see the man wasn’t putting on an act. His eyes were gleaming, his hands were gesturing, not wildly, but with excitement.

“The portfolio I believe is brilliant someone else can look at and think is dull, derivative. Witness our reactions to Clara Morrow’s paintings.”

“I still say they’re just not interesting,” said Castonguay.