A Trick of the Light (16 page)

It was said without malice, making the cold analysis all the more damning. And perhaps true.

“You said you had only so much time and energy left,” persisted Gamache. “I can see why you’d choose Clara. But why Peter, an artist you don’t even like?”

Marois hesitated. “It’s just easier to manage. We can make career decisions for both of them. I want Clara to be happy, and I think she’s happiest if Peter is also looked after.”

Gamache looked at the art dealer. It was an astute observation. But it didn’t go far enough. Marois had made it about Clara and Peter’s happiness. Deflecting the question.

Then the Chief Inspector remembered the story Marois told, of his first client. The elderly artist whose wife overtook him. And, to protect her husband’s fragile ego the woman had never painted again.

Was that what Marois was afraid of? Losing his final client, his final find, because Clara’s love for Peter was greater than her love for art?

Or was it, again, even more personal? Did it have nothing to do with Clara, with Peter, with art? Was François Marois simply afraid of losing?

André Castonguay owned art. But François Marois owned the artists. Who was the more powerful? But also the more vulnerable?

Framed paintings couldn’t get up and leave. But the artists could.

What was François Marois afraid of? Gamache asked himself again.

“Why are you here?”

Marois looked surprised. “I’ve already told you, Chief Inspector. Twice. I’m here to try to sign Peter and Clara Morrow.”

“And yet you claim not to care if Monsieur Castonguay gets there first.”

“I can’t control other people’s stupidity,” smiled Marois.

Gamache considered the man, and as he did the art dealer’s smile wavered.

“I’m late for drinks, monsieur,” said Gamache pleasantly. “If we have nothing more to talk about I’ll be going.”

He turned and walked toward the bistro.

*   *   *

“Bread?” Ruth offered Clara what looked and felt like a brick.

They each hacked off pieces. Ruth tossed them at the robins, who darted away. Clara just pelted the ground at her feet.

Thump, thump, thud.

“I hear the critics saw something in your paintings I sure don’t see,” said Ruth.

“What d’you mean?”

“They liked them.”

Thud, thud, thud.

“Not all,” laughed Clara. “The
Ottawa Star
said my art was nice, but neither visionary nor bold.”

“Ahh, the
Ottawa Star.
The journal of note. I remember the
Drummondville Post
once called my poetry both dull and uninteresting.” Ruth snorted. “Look, get that one.” She pointed to a particularly bold blue jay. When Clara didn’t move Ruth tossed a bread stone at him.

“Almost got him,” said Ruth, though Clara suspected if she’d wanted to hit the bird she wouldn’t have missed.

“They called me an old and tired parrot mimicking actual artists,” said Clara.

“That’s ridiculous,” said Ruth. “Parrots don’t mimic. Mynah birds mimic. Parrots learn the words and say them in their own way.”

“Fascinating,” mumbled Clara. “I’ll have to write a stern letter correcting them.”

“The
Kamloops Record
complained that my poetry doesn’t rhyme,” said Ruth.

“Do you remember all your reviews?” asked Clara.

“Only the bad ones.”

“Why?”

Ruth turned to look at her directly. Her eyes weren’t angry or cold, not filled with malice. They were filled with wonder.

“I don’t know. Perhaps that’s the price of poetry. And, apparently, art.”

“What d’you mean?”

“We get hurt into it. No pain, no product.”

“You believe that?” asked Clara.

“Don’t you? What did the
New York Times
say about your art?”

Clara searched her brain. She knew it was good. Something about hope and rising up.

“Welcome to the bench,” said Ruth. “You’re early. I’d have thought it would take another ten years. But here you are.”

And for a moment Ruth looked exactly like Clara’s portrait. Embittered, disappointed. Sitting in the sun but remembering, reviewing, replaying every insult. Every unkind word, bringing them out and examining them like disappointing birthday gifts.

Oh, no no no,
thought Clara.
Still the dead one lay moaning.
Is this how it starts?

She watched as Ruth again pelted a bird with a chunk of inedible bread.

Clara got up to leave.

“Hope takes its place among the modern masters.”

Clara turned back to Ruth, looking at her, the sun just catching her rheumy eyes.

“That’s what the
New York Times
said,” said Ruth. “And the London
Times
said,
Clara Morrow’s art makes rejoicing cool again
. Don’t forget, Clara,” she whispered.

Ruth turned away again and sat ramrod straight, alone with her thoughts and her heavy, stone bread. Glancing, occasionally, into the empty sky.

EIGHT

Gabri put a lemonade in front of Beauvoir and a glass of iced tea in front of the Chief Inspector. A wedge of lemon sat on each rim and the glasses were already perspiring in the warm afternoon.

“Do you want to make a reservation at the B and B?” Gabri asked. “There’s plenty of room, if you’d like.”

“We’ll discuss it.
Merci, patron,
” said Beauvoir with a small smile. He still didn’t feel comfortable making friends with suspects, but he couldn’t seem to help it. They got up his nose, to be sure. But they also got under his skin.

Gabri left and the men drank in silence for a moment.

Beauvoir had arrived at the bistro first and gone directly to the bathroom. He’d splashed cool water on his face and wished he could take a pill. But he’d promised himself to wait until bedtime for the next one, to help him sleep.

By the time he returned to the table the Chief was there.

“Any luck?” he asked Gamache.

“The dealers admitted they knew Lillian Dyson, though claim not to know her well.”

“Do you believe them?”

It was always the question. Who do you believe? And how do you decide?

Gamache thought about it, then shook his head. “I don’t know. I thought I knew the art world, but I realize now I only saw what they wanted me—what they want everyone—to see. The art. The galleries. But there’s so much more going on behind.” Gamache leaned toward Beauvoir. “For instance, André Castonguay owns a prestigious gallery. Shows artists’ works. Represents artists. But François Marois? What does he have?”

Beauvoir was quiet, watching the Chief, taking in the gleam in his eye, the enthusiasm as he described what he’d found. Not the physical landscape, but the emotional. The intellectual.

Many might have thought the Chief Inspector was a hunter. He tracked down killers. But Jean Guy knew he wasn’t that. Chief Inspector Gamache was an explorer by nature. He was never happier than when he was pushing the boundaries, exploring the internal terrain. Areas even the person themselves hadn’t explored. Had never examined. Probably because it was too scary.

Gamache went there. To the end of the known world, and beyond. Into the dark, hidden places. He looked into the crevices, where the worst things hid.

And Jean Guy Beauvoir followed.

“What François Marois has,” Gamache continued, holding Beauvoir’s eyes, “is the artists. But even more than that, what he really has is information. He knows people. The buyers, the artists. He knows how to navigate a complex world of money and ego and perception. Marois hoards what he knows. I think he only lets it out when it either suits his purposes or he has no choice.”

“Or when he’s trapped in a lie,” said Beauvoir. “As you trapped him this afternoon.”

“But how much more does he know that he isn’t telling?” asked Gamache, not expecting an answer from Beauvoir, and not getting one.

Beauvoir glanced at the menu but without interest.

“Have you chosen?” Gabri asked, his pen at the ready.

Beauvoir closed the menu and handed it to Gabri. “Nothing, thanks.”

“I’m fine,
merci, patron,
” said the Chief, handing the menu back and watching Clara leave Ruth and walk toward Myrna’s bookstore.

*   *   *

Clara hugged her friend and felt the thick rolls of Myrna under the brilliant yellow caftan.

Finally they pulled apart and Myrna looked at her friend.

“What brought that on?”

“I was just talking to Ruth—”

“Oh, dear,” said Myrna and gave Clara another hug. “How many times have I told you to never speak to Ruth on your own? It’s far too dangerous. You don’t want to go wandering around in that head all alone.”

Clara laughed. “You’ll never believe it, but she helped me.”

“How?”

“She showed me my future, if I’m not careful.”

Myrna smiled, understanding. “I’ve been thinking about what happened. The murder of your friend.”

“She wasn’t a friend.”

Myrna nodded. “What do you think about a ritual? Something to heal.”

“The garden?” It seemed a little late to heal Lillian, and privately Clara doubted she’d have wanted to bring her back to life anyway.

“Your garden. And whatever else might need healing.” Myrna looked at Clara with a melodramatic gaze.

“Me? You think finding a woman I hated dead in my garden might have screwed me up?”

“I hope it has,” said Myrna. “We could do a smudging ritual to get rid of whatever bad energy and thoughts are still hanging around your garden.”

It sounded silly, Clara knew, said so boldly like that. As though wafting smoke over a place where murder had happened could have any effect. But they’d done smudging rituals before and it was very calming, very comforting. And Clara needed both right now.

“Great,” she said. “I’ll call Dominique—”

“—and I’ll get the stuff.”

By the time Clara got off the phone Myrna was back down from her apartment above the bookshop. She carried a gnarled old stick, some ribbons and what looked like a huge cigar. Or something.

“I think I have smudge envy,” said Clara, pointing to the cigar.

“Here,” said Myrna, handing Clara the tree limb. “Take this.”

“What is it? A stick?”

“Not just a stick. It’s a prayer stick.”

“So I probably shouldn’t beat the crap out of the critic for the
Ottawa Star
with it,” Clara said, following Myrna out of the bookshop.

“Perhaps not. And don’t beat yourself with it either.”

“What makes it a prayer stick?”

“It’s a prayer stick because I say it is,” Myrna said.

Dominique was coming down du Moulin and they waved to each other.

“Wait a second.” Clara veered off to speak to Ruth, still sitting on the bench. “We’re going into the back garden. Want to join us?”

Ruth looked at Clara holding the stick, then at Myrna with the cigar made of dried sage and sweetgrass.

“You’re not going to do one of those profane witch ritual things are you?”

“We certainly are,” said Myrna from behind Clara.

“Count me in.” Ruth struggled to her feet.

The police were gone. The garden was empty. No one to even stand watch over the place where a life was lost. Where a life was taken. The yellow “crime scene” tape fluttered and circled part of the lawn grass and one of the perennial beds.

“I’ve always thought this garden was a crime,” said Ruth.

“You have to admit, it’s gotten better since Myrna started helping,” said Clara.

Ruth turned to Myrna. “So that’s who you are. I’ve been wondering. You’re the gardener.”

“I’d plant you,” said Myrna, “if you weren’t a toxic waste site.”

Ruth laughed.
“Touché.”

“Is this where the body was found?” Dominique asked, pointing to the circle.

“No, the tape is part of Clara’s garden design,” snapped Ruth.

“Bitch,” said Myrna.

“Witch,” said Ruth.

They were beginning to like each other, Clara could see.

“Do you think we should cross it?” asked Myrna. She hadn’t expected the yellow tape.

“No,” said Ruth, batting the tape down with her cane and stepping over it. She turned back to the others. “Come on in, the water’s fine.”

“Except it’s very hot,” said Clara to Dominique.

“And there’s a shark in it,” said Dominique.

The three women joined Ruth. If anyone could contaminate a site it was Ruth, and the damage was probably already done. Besides, they were there to decontaminate it.

“So what do we do?” Dominique asked as Clara planted the prayer stick into the flower bed beside where Lillian’s body was found.

“We’re going to do a ritual,” Myrna explained. “It’s called smudging. We light this,” Myrna held up the dried herbs, “and then we walk around the garden with it.”

Ruth was staring at the cigar of herbs. “Freud might have a little something to say about your ritual.”

“Sometimes a smudge stick is just a smudge stick,” said Clara.

“Why’re we doing this?” Dominique asked. This was clearly a side to her neighbors she hadn’t seen before and it didn’t seem an improvement.

“To get rid of the bad spirits,” said Myrna. It did, when said so baldly, sound a little unlikely. But Myrna believed it, with all her considerable heart.

Dominique turned to Ruth. “Well, I guess you’re screwed.”

There was a pause and then Ruth snorted in laughter. Hearing that Clara wondered whether turning into Ruth Zardo would be such a bad thing.

“First, we form a circle,” said Myrna. And they did. Myrna lit the sage and sweetgrass and walked from Clara to Dominique to Ruth, wafting the perfumed smoke over each woman. For protection, for peace.

Clara inhaled and closed her eyes as the soft smoke swirled around her for a moment. Taking, said Myrna, all their negative energy. The bad spirits, outside and in. Absorbing them. And making room for healing.

Then they walked around the garden, not just the dreadful place Lillian had died, but the entire garden. They took turns drifting smoke into the trees, into the babbling Rivière Bella Bella, into the roses and peonies and black-centered irises.