A Trick of the Light (13 page)

“They’re raving, Clara,” said Myrna with a smile so wide it hurt.

The pages dropped from Clara’s hand and she looked at her friend. The one who’d whispered into the silence.

Clara got up. Arisen, she thought. Arisen.

And she hugged Myrna.

*   *   *

Peter Morrow sat in his studio. Hiding from the ringing phone.

Ring. Ring. Ring.

He’d gone back into their home after lunch, hoping for some peace and quiet. Clara had taken the papers and gone off, presumably to read them by herself. So he had no idea what the critics had said. But as soon as he’d walked in the door the phone had started to ring, and had barely stopped since. All wanting to congratulate Clara.

There were messages from the curators at the Musée, thrilled with the reviews and the subsequent ticket sales. There was a message from Vanessa Destin-Browne, of the Tate Modern in London, thanking them for the party and congratulating Clara. And wondering if they might get together to discuss a show.

For Clara.

He’d eventually just let the phone ring and had gone to stand at the open door to her studio. From there he could see a few puppets, from the time she thought she might do a series on them.

“Perhaps too political,” Clara had said.

“Perhaps,” said Peter, but “political” wasn’t the word that had sprung to mind.

He could see the Warrior Uteruses stacked in the corner. Left there after another disastrous show.

“Perhaps ahead of its time,” Clara had said.

“Perhaps,” said Peter. But “ahead of its time” wasn’t what came to mind either.

And when she’d started in on the
Three Graces,
and even had the three elderly friends pose for her, he’d felt sorry for the women. Thought Clara was being selfish, expecting the old women to stand there for some painting that would never see the light of day.

But the women hadn’t minded. Had seemed to have fun, judging by the laughter that disturbed his concentration.

And now that painting was hanging in the Musée d’Art Contemporain. While his meticulous works were on someone’s stairway or perhaps, if he was lucky, above a fireplace.

Seen by a dozen people a year. And noticed as much as the wallpaper or curtains. Interior decoration in an affluent home.

How could Clara’s portraits of unremarkable women possibly be masterpieces?

Peter turned his back on her studio, but not before he saw the afternoon sun catch Clara’s huge fiberglass feet, marching across the back of her space.

“Perhaps too sophisticated,” Clara had said.

“Perhaps,” Peter had mumbled.

He closed the door and went back to his studio, the sound of the ringing phone in his ears.

*   *   *

Chief Inspector Gamache sat in the large living room of the bed and breakfast. The walls were painted a creamy linen, the furniture was handpicked by Gabri from Olivier’s antiquing finds. But rather than heavy Victoriana he’d gone for comfort. Two large sofas faced each other across the stone fireplace and armchairs created quiet conversation areas around the room. Where Dominique’s inn and spa gleamed and preened like a delightful gem on the hill, Gabri’s bed and breakfast sat peacefully, cheerfully, a little shabbily in the valley. Like Grandma’s house, if Grandma had been a large gay man.

Gabri and Olivier were over at the bistro still serving lunch, leaving the Sûreté officers alone with the B and B guests.

It had been a rocky start to the interviews, beginning before they’d even crossed the threshold. Beauvoir gingerly took the Chief aside just as they reached the porch of the B and B.

“There’s something I think you should know.”

Armand Gamache looked at Beauvoir with amusement.

“What have you done?”

“What do you mean?”

“You sound exactly like Daniel when he was a teenager and had gotten into trouble.”

“I got Peggy Sue pregnant at the big dance,” said Beauvoir.

For just an instant Gamache looked surprised, then he smiled. “What is it really?”

“I did something stupid.”

“Ahh, this does bring me back. Good times. Go on.”

“Well—”

“Monsieur Beauvoir, what a pleasure to see you again.”

The screen door opened and a woman in her late fifties greeted him.

Gamache turned to Beauvoir. “What exactly have you done?”

“I hope you remember me,” she said with a coy smile. “My name’s Paulette. We met at the
vernissage
last night.”

The door swung open again and a middle-aged man appeared. Seeing Beauvoir, he beamed.

“It is you,” he said. “I thought I saw you coming down the road just now. I looked at the barbeque last night but you weren’t there.”

Gamache gave Beauvoir an inquiring gaze.

Beauvoir turned his back on the smiling artists. “I told them I was the art critic for
Le Monde.
”

“And why would you do that?” the Chief Inspector asked.

“It’s a long story,” said Beauvoir. But it wasn’t so much long as embarrassing.

These were the two artists who’d insulted Clara Morrow’s works. Mocking the Three Graces as clowns. And while Beauvoir didn’t much like art, he did like Clara. And he’d known and admired the women who became the Three Graces.

So he’d turned to the smug artists and said he very much liked the work. Then he used some of the phrases he’d heard floating around the cocktail party. About perspective, and culture and pigment. The more he said the harder it was to stop himself. And he could see that the more ridiculous his statements the more these two paid attention.

Until he’d finally delivered his
coup de grâce.

He trotted out a word he’d heard someone use that evening, a word he’d never heard before and had no idea what it meant. He’d turned to the painting of the Three Graces, the elderly and joyous old women, and said—

“The only word that comes to mind is, of course, ‘chiaroscuro.’”

Not surprisingly, the artists had looked at him as though he was mad.

Which made him mad. So mad he said something he instantly regretted.

“I haven’t introduced myself,” he said in his most refined French. “I am Monsieur Beauvoir, the art critic for
Le Monde.
”

“Monsieur Beauvoir?” the man had asked, his eyes widening nicely.

“But of course. Just Monsieur Beauvoir. I find no need for a first name. Too bourgeois. Clutters up the page. You read my reviews,
bien sûr
?”

The rest of the evening had been quite pleasant, as word spread that the famous Parisian critic “Monsieur Beauvoir” was there. And all agreed that Clara’s works were a marvelous example of chiaroscuro.

He’d have to look it up, one of these days.

The two artists had in turn introduced themselves as simply “Normand” and “Paulette.”

“We use only our first names.”

He’d thought they were joking, but apparently not. And now here they were again.

Normand, in the same slacks, worn tweed jacket and scarf from the night before, and his partner Paulette, also in the same peasant-type skirt, blouse and scarves.

Now they were looking from him to Gamache, and back again.

“I have two pieces of bad news,” said Gamache, steering them inside. “There’s been a murder, and this is not Monsieur Beauvoir, the art critic for
Le Monde,
but Inspector Beauvoir, a homicide investigator with the Sûreté du Québec.”

The murder they already knew about, so it was the Beauvoir news they found most upsetting. Gamache watched with some amusement as they lit into the Inspector.

Beauvoir, noticing the Chief’s grin, whispered, “Just so you know, I also said you were Monsieur Gamache, the head curator at the Louvre. Enjoy.”

That, thought Gamache, would explain the unexpectedly large number of invitations to art shows he’d received at the
vernissage.
He made a note not to show up to any of them.

“When did you decide to stay overnight?” asked the Chief, once the vitriol had been exhausted.

“Well, we’d planned to head home after the party, but it was late and…” Paulette gave a shove of her head toward Normand, as though to indicate he’d had too many.

“The B and B owner gave us toiletries and bathrobes,” Normand explained. “We’re heading off to Cowansville in a few minutes to buy some clothes.”

“Not going back to Montréal?” asked Gamache.

“Not right away. We thought we’d stay for a day or so. Make a holiday of it.”

At Gamache’s invitation they took seats in the comfortable living room, the artists sitting side-by-side on one sofa, Beauvoir and the Chief Inspector sitting opposite them on the other.

“So who was killed?” Paulette asked. “It wasn’t Clara, was it?”

She almost managed to hide her optimism.

“No,” said Beauvoir. “Are you friends?” Though the answer seemed obvious.

This brought a snort of amusement from Normand.

“You clearly don’t know artists, Inspector. We can be civil, friendly even. But friends? Better to make friends with a wolverine.”

“What brought you here then, if not friendship with Clara?” Beauvoir asked.

“Free food and drink. Lots of drink,” said Normand, smoothing the hair from his eyes. There was a sort of world-weary style about the man. As though he’d seen it all and was slightly amused and saddened by it.

“So it wasn’t to celebrate her art?” Beauvoir asked.

“Her art isn’t bad,” said Paulette. “I like it better than what she was producing a decade ago.”

“Too much chiaroscuro,” said Normand, apparently forgetting who’d mentioned the word to begin with. “Her show last night was an improvement,” Normand continued, “though that wouldn’t be hard. Who could forget her exhibition of massive feet?”

“But really, Normand,” said Paulette. “Portraits? What self-respecting artist does portraits anymore?”

Normand nodded. “Her art’s derivative. Facile. Yes the subjects had character in their faces, and they were well executed, but not exactly breaking new ground. Nothing original or bold. There was nothing there we couldn’t see in a second-rate provincial gallery in Slovenia.”

“Why would the Musée d’Art Contemporain give her a solo show if her art was so bad?” asked Beauvoir.

“Who knows,” said Normand. “A favor. Politics. These big institutions aren’t about real art, not about taking chances. They play it safe.”

Paulette was nodding vigorously.

“So if Clara Morrow wasn’t a friend and if you thought her art was so crappy, why’re you here?” Beauvoir asked Normand. “I can see going to the
vernissage
for the free food and drink, but to come all the way here?”

He had the man, and they both knew it.

After a moment Normand answered. “Because this was where the critics were. Where the gallery owners and dealers were. Destin-Browne from the Tate Modern. Castonguay, Fortin, Bishop from the Musée.
Vernissages
and art shows aren’t about what’s on the walls, they’re about who’s in the room. That’s the real work. I came to network. I don’t know how the Morrows did it, but it was an amazing group of critics and curators in one place.”

“Fortin?” asked Gamache, clearly surprised. “Would that be Denis Fortin?”

Now it was Normand’s turn to be surprised, that this rustic cop should know who Denis Fortin was.

“That’s right,” he said. “Of the Galerie Fortin.”

“Denis Fortin was at the
vernissage
in Montréal,” pressed Gamache, “or here?”

“Both. I tried to speak to him but he was busy with others.”

There was a pause, and the world-weary artist seemed to sag. Dragged down by the great weight of irrelevance.

“Very surprising Fortin was here,” said Paulette, “considering what he did to Clara.”

It was left hanging, begging a question. Paulette and Normand looked eagerly at the two investigators, like hungry children staring at a cake.

To Beauvoir’s delight Chief Inspector Gamache chose to ignore the opening. Besides, they already knew what Denis Fortin had done to Clara. Which was why his presence at the party surprised them so much.

Beauvoir watched Normand and Paulette. They looked exhausted. But from what, the Inspector wondered. The long night of free food and drink? The longer night of desperate networking, disguised as a party? Or just plain tired of swimming so hard but still going under.

Chief Inspector Gamache took a photograph from his pocket. “I have a picture of the dead woman. I’d like you to take a look please.”

He handed it to Normand, whose brows immediately rose.

“That’s Lillian Dyson.”

“You’re kidding,” said Paulette, moving closer and grabbing the picture. After a moment she nodded. “That is her.”

Paulette’s eyes rose to the Chief Inspector. It was a sharp look, clever. Not as immature as she’d first appeared. If she was child-like, thought Gamache, she was a cunning child.

“So you knew Madame Dyson?” Beauvoir asked.

“Well, didn’t know, exactly,” said Normand. He seemed, Gamache thought, almost liquid. Certainly languid. Someone who adjusted to the currents.

“Then what, exactly?” asked Beauvoir.

“We knew her a long time ago, but hadn’t seen her for a while. Then she showed up again this past winter at a couple of shows.”

“Art shows?” asked Beauvoir.

“Of course,” said Normand. “What else?” As though no other form of culture existed, or mattered.

“I saw her too,” said Paulette, not wanting to be left behind. Gamache wondered at their partnership, and what creations came out of it. “At a few shows. Didn’t recognize her at first. She had to introduce herself. She’d dyed her hair. Used to be bright red, orange really. Now it’s blond. She’d put on weight too.”

“Was she working again as a critic?” Gamache asked.

“Not that I know of. I have no idea what she was doing,” said Paulette.

Gamache looked at her for a moment. “Were you friends?”

Paulette hesitated. “Not now.”

“But back then, before she left?” asked the Chief.

“I thought we were,” said Paulette. “I was getting my career going. Had had some successes. Normand and I had just met and were trying to decide if we should collaborate. It’s very unusual for two artists to work on the same painting.”