A Trick of the Light (3 page)

Gamache, with one last look at the two younger people, continued his conversation with Reine-Marie.

“Do you really think I don’t want to go to the
vernissage
?” he asked.

She considered for a moment. “I’m not sure. Let’s just say you don’t seem in a hurry to get there.”

Gamache nodded and thought for a moment. “I know everyone will be there. I suppose it might be awkward.”

“You arrested one of them for a murder he didn’t commit,” said Reine-Marie. It wasn’t an accusation. In fact, it was said quietly and gently. Trying to tease the truth of her husband’s feelings from him. Feelings he himself might not even be aware he had.

“And you consider that a social
faux pas
?” he asked with a smile.

“More than just a social
faux pas
, I’d say,” she laughed, relieved to see the genuine humor in his face. A face now clean-shaven. No more moustache. No more graying beard. Just Armand. He looked at her with his deep brown eyes. And as she held them she could almost forget the scar above his left temple.

After a moment his smile faded and he nodded again, taking a deep breath.

“It was a terrible thing to do to someone,” he said.

“You didn’t do it on purpose, Armand.”

“True, but his time in prison wasn’t more pleasant because of that.” Gamache thought for a moment, looking from the gentle face of his wife out into the trees of the park. A natural setting. He so yearned for that, since his days were filled with hunting the unnatural. Killers. People who took the lives of others. Often in gruesome and dreadful ways. Armand Gamache was the head of homicide for the famed Sûreté du Québec. He was very good at his job.

But he wasn’t perfect.

He’d arrested Olivier Brulé for a murder he didn’t commit.

*   *   *

“So what happened?” Annie asked.

“Well, you know most of it, don’t you? It was in all the papers.”

“Of course I read the reports, and talked to Dad about it. But he never mentioned that someone involved might still hate him.”

“Well, as you know, it was almost a year ago,” said Jean Guy. “A man was found dead in the bistro in Three Pines. We investigated and the evidence seemed overwhelming. We found fingerprints, the murder weapon, stuff stolen from the dead man’s cabin in the woods. All of it hidden in the bistro. We arrested Olivier. He was tried and convicted.”

“Did you think he’d done it?”

Beauvoir nodded. “I was sure of it. It wasn’t just your father.”

“So how come you changed your mind? Did someone else confess?”

“No. You remember a few months ago, after that raid on the factory? When your father was recovering in Quebec City?”

Annie nodded.

“Well, he began to have his doubts, so he asked me to go back to Three Pines to investigate.”

“And you did.”

Jean Guy nodded. Of course he’d gone back. He’d do anything the Chief Inspector asked of him. Though he himself had no such doubts. He believed the right man was in prison. But he’d investigated, and discovered something that had truly shocked him.

The real murderer. And the real reason for the killing.

*   *   *

“But you’ve been back to Three Pines since you arrested Olivier,” said Reine-Marie. “This won’t be the first time you’ll have seen them.”

She too had visited Three Pines and become friends with Clara and Peter and the others, though she hadn’t seen them in quite a while. Not since all this had happened.

“That’s true,” said Armand. “Jean Guy and I took Olivier back after his release.”

“I can’t even imagine how that felt for him.”

Gamache was quiet. Seeing the sun gleaming off snowbanks. Through the frosted panes of glass he could see the villagers gathered in the bistro. Warm and safe. The cheery fires lit. The mugs of beer and bowls of
café au lait.
The laughter.

And Olivier, stalled. Two feet from the closed door. Staring at it.

Jean Guy had gone to open it, but Gamache had lain a gloved hand on his arm. And together in the bitter cold they’d waited. Waited. For Olivier to make the move.

After what seemed an age, but was probably only a few heartbeats, Olivier reached out, paused for one more moment, then opened the door.

“I wish I could’ve seen Gabri’s face,” said Reine-Marie, imagining the large, expressive man seeing his partner returned.

Gamache had described it all to Reine-Marie, when he’d returned home. But he knew that no matter how much ecstasy Reine-Marie imagined, the reality was even greater. At least on Gabri’s part. The rest of the villagers were elated to see Olivier too. But—

“What is it?” Reine-Marie asked.

“Well, Olivier didn’t kill the man, but as you know a lot of unpleasant things about him came out in the trial. Olivier had certainly stolen from the Hermit, taken advantage of their friendship and the man’s frail state of mind. And it turned out that Olivier had used the stolen money to secretly buy up a lot of property in Three Pines. Gabri didn’t even know about that.”

Reine-Marie was quiet, considering what she’d just heard.

“I wonder how his friends feel about that,” said Reine-Marie at last.

So did Gamache.

*   *   *

“Olivier is the one who hates my father?” asked Annie. “But how could that be? Dad got him out of prison. He took him back to Three Pines.”

“Yes, but the way Olivier sees it, I got him out of prison. Your father put him in.”

Annie stared at Beauvoir, then shook her head.

Beauvoir went on. “Your father apologized, you know. In front of everyone in the bistro. He told Olivier he was sorry for what he did.”

“And what did Olivier say?”

“That he couldn’t forgive him. Not yet.”

Annie thought about that. “How did Dad react?”

“He didn’t seem surprised, or upset. In fact, I think he’d have been surprised had Olivier suddenly decided all was forgiven. He wouldn’t have really meant it.”

Beauvoir knew the only thing worse than no apology was an insincere one.

Jean Guy had to give Olivier that. Instead of appearing to accept the apology, Olivier had finally told the truth. The hurt went too deep. He wasn’t ready to forgive.

“And now?” asked Annie.

“I guess we’ll see.”

TWO

“Remarkable, don’t you think?”

Armand Gamache turned to the distinguished older man beside him.

“I do,” nodded the Chief Inspector. Both men were silent for a moment, contemplating the painting in front of them. All around was the hubbub of the party in full swing, talking, laughing, friends getting caught up, strangers being introduced.

But the two men seemed to have formed a separate peace, a quiet little
quartier.

In front of them on the wall was, either intentionally or naturally, the centerpiece of Clara Morrow’s solo show. Her works, mostly portraits, hung all around the white walls of the main gallery of the Musée d’Art Contemporain. Some were clustered close together, like a gathering. Some hung alone, isolated. Like this one.

The most modest of the portraits, on the largest of the walls.

Without competition, or company. An island nation. A sovereign portrait.

Alone.

“How do you feel when you look at it?” the man asked and turned his keen gaze on Gamache.

The Chief Inspector smiled. “Well, it isn’t the first time I’ve seen it. We’re friends of the Morrows. I was there when she first brought it out of her studio.”

“Lucky man.”

Gamache took a sip of the very good red wine and agreed. Lucky man.

“François Marois.” The older man put out his hand.

“Armand Gamache.”

Now his companion looked more closely at the Chief and nodded.

“
Désolé.
I should have recognized you, Chief Inspector.”

“Not at all. I’m always happier when people don’t,” smiled Gamache. “Are you an artist?”

He looked, in fact, more like a banker. A collector, perhaps? The other end of the artistic chain. He’d be in his early seventies, Gamache guessed. Prosperous, in a tailored suit and silk tie. There was a hint of expensive cologne about the man. Very subtle. He was balding, with hair immaculately and newly cut, clean-shaven, with intelligent blue eyes. All this Chief Inspector Gamache took in quickly and instinctively. François Marois seemed both vibrant and contained. At home in this rarified, and quite artificial, setting.

Gamache glanced into the body of the room, packed with men and women milling about and chatting, juggling hors d’oeuvres and wine. A couple of stylized, uncomfortable benches were installed in the middle of the cavernous space. More form than function. He saw Reine-Marie chatting with a woman across the room. He found Annie. David had arrived and was taking off his coat, then he went to join her. Gamache’s eyes swept the room until he found Gabri and Olivier, side-by-side. He wondered if he should go and speak with Olivier.

And do what? Apologize again?

Had Reine-Marie been right? Did he want forgiveness? Atonement? Did he want his mistake purged from his personal record? The one he kept deep inside, and wrote in each day.

The ledger.

Did he want that mistake stricken?

The fact was, he could live just fine without Olivier’s forgiveness. But now that he saw Olivier again he felt a slight
frisson
and wondered if he wanted that forgiveness. And he wondered if Olivier was ready to give it.

His eyes swept back to his companion.

It interested Gamache that while the best art reflected humanity and nature, human or otherwise, galleries themselves were often cold and austere. Neither inviting nor natural.

And yet, Monsieur Marois was comfortable. Marble and sharp edges appeared to be his natural habitat.

“No,” said Marois to Gamache’s question. “I’m not an artist.” He gave a little laugh. “Sadly, I’m not creative. Like most of my colleagues I dabbled in art as a callow youth and immediately discovered a profound, almost mystical lack of talent. Quite shocking, really.”

Gamache laughed. “So what brings you here?”

It was, as the Chief knew, a private cocktail party the night before the public opening of Clara’s big show. Only the select were invited to a
vernissage,
especially at the famous Musée in Montréal. The monied, the influential, the artist’s friends and family. And the artist. In that order.

Very little was expected of an artist at the
vernissage.
If they were clothed and sober most curators considered themselves fortunate. Gamache stole a glance at Clara, looking panicked and disheveled in a tailored power suit that had experienced a recent failure. The skirt was slightly twisted and the collar was riding high as though she’d tried to scratch the middle of her back.

“I’m an art dealer.” The man produced his card and Gamache took it, examining the cream background with the simple embossed black lettering. Just the man’s name and a phone number. Nothing more. The paper was thick and textured. A fine-quality business card. No doubt for a fine-quality business.

“Do you know Clara’s work?” Gamache asked, tucking the card into his breast pocket.

“Not at all, but I’m friends with the chief curator of the Musée and she slipped me one of the brochures. I was frankly astonished. The description says Madame Morrow has been living in Québec all her life and is almost fifty. And yet no one seems to know her. She came out of nowhere.”

“She came out of Three Pines,” said Gamache and at the blank look from his companion, he explained. “It’s a tiny village south of here. By the Vermont border. Not many people know it.”

“Or know her. An unknown artist in an anonymous village. And yet—”

Monsieur Marois opened his arms in an elegant and eloquent gesture, to indicate the surroundings and the event.

They both went back to gazing at the portrait in front of them. It showed the head and scrawny shoulders of a very old woman. A veined and arthritic hand clutched a rough blue shawl to her throat. It had slipped to reveal skin stretched over collarbone and sinew.

But it was her face that captivated the men.

She looked straight at them. Into the gathering, with the clink of glasses, the lively conversations, the merriment.

She was angry. Filled with contempt. Hating what she heard and saw. The happiness all around her. The laughter. Hating the world that had left her behind. Left her alone on this wall. To see, to watch and to never be included.

Like Prometheus Bound, here was a great spirit endlessly tormented. Grown bitter and petty.

Beside him Gamache heard a small gasp and knew what it was. The art dealer, François Marois, had understood the painting. Not the obvious rage, there for all to see, but something more complex and subtle. Marois had got it. What Clara had really created.

“Mon Dieu,”
Monsieur Marois exhaled. “My God.”

He looked from the painting to Gamache.

*   *   *

Across the room Clara nodded and smiled, and took in almost nothing.

There was a howl in her ears and a swirl before her eyes, her hands were numb. She was losing her senses.

Deep breath in,
she repeated to herself.
Deep breath out.

Peter had brought her a glass of wine and her friend Myrna had offered a plate of hors d’oeuvres, but Clara was shaking so badly she’d had to give them both back.

And now she concentrated on trying not to look demented. Her new suit itched and she realized she looked like an accountant. From the old Eastern Bloc. Or maybe a Maoist. A Maoist accountant.

It wasn’t the look she’d been going for when she’d bought the suit at a swank boutique on rue St-Denis in Montréal. She’d wanted a change, something different from her usual billowy skirts and dresses. Something sharp and sleek. Something minimalist and coordinated.

And in the store she’d looked just great, smiling at the smiling saleswoman in the mirror and telling her all about the upcoming solo show. She told everyone about it. Cab drivers, waiters, the kid sitting next to her on the bus, plugged into his iPod and deaf. Clara hadn’t cared. She’d told him anyway.