A Trick of the Light (43 page)

“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?”

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.

And neither could he.

“Ahh,” he said, taking a sip of cognac. “This tastes good.”

“What a day,” said Peter.

“And it’s not over yet. Agent Lacoste is looking after Monsieur Castonguay and the paperwork.”

“By herself?” asked Myrna, looking from Gamache to Beauvoir.

“She knows what she’s doing,” said the Chief Inspector. Myrna’s look said she sure hoped he knew what he was doing.

“So what happened?” asked Clara. “I’m all confused.”

Gamache sat forward in the chair. Everyone took seats or perched on the arms of the easy chairs. Only Beauvoir and Peter remained standing. Peter as a good host, and Beauvoir as a good officer.

Outside the rain had picked up and they could hear it tapping against the windowpanes. The door to the porch was still open, to let in fresh air, and they could hear rain hitting the leaves outside.

“This murder is about contrasts,” said Gamache, his voice low, soft. “About sober and drunk. About appearance and reality. About change for the better, or for the worse. The play of light and dark.”

He looked at their attentive faces.

“A word was used at your
vernissage.
” He turned to Clara. “To describe your paintings.”

“I’m almost afraid to ask,” she said, with a weary smile.

“Chiaroscuro. It means the contrast between light and dark. Their juxtaposition. You do it in your portraits, Clara. In the colors you use, the shading, but also in the emotions your works evoke. Especially in the portrait of Ruth—”

“There’s one of me?”

“—there’s a clear contrast. The dark hues, the trees in the background. Her face partly in shadow. Her expression thunderous. Except for one tiny dot. The smallest hint of light, in her eyes.”

“Hope,” said Myrna.

“Hope. Or maybe not.” Gamache turned to François Marois. “You said something curious, when we were standing in front of that portrait. Do you remember?”

The art dealer looked perplexed. “I said something useful?”

“You don’t remember?”

Marois was quiet for a moment, one of those rare people who could keep others waiting without distress. Finally he smiled.

“I asked if you thought it was real,” said Marois.

“You did,” nodded the Chief Inspector. “Was it real, or just a trick of the light? Hope offered, then denied. A particular cruelty.”

He looked around the gathering. “That’s what this crime, this murder was about. The question of just how genuine the light actually was. Was the person really happy, or just pretending to be?”

“Not waving but drowning,”
said Clara. She noticed again Gamache’s kindly eyes beneath the deep scar.

“Nobody heard him,”
Clara quoted, “
the dead man,

But still he lay moaning:

I was much further out than you thought

And not waving but drowning.”

But this time, as Clara recited the poem, Peter didn’t come to mind. This time Clara thought of someone else.

Herself. Pretending, for a lifetime. Looking on the bright side, but not always feeling it. But no more. Things were going to change.

The room fell silent, except for the gentle tip-tapping of the rain.

“C’est ça,”
said Gamache. “How often have we mistaken the one for the other? Too afraid, or in too much of a hurry to see what was really happening? To see someone sinking?”

“But drowning men are sometimes saved.”

They swung their eyes from Gamache to the man who’d spoken. The young man. Brian.

Gamache regarded him for a few moments in silence, taking in the tattoos, the piercing, the studs on the clothing, and through the skin. Slowly the Chief Inspector nodded, then shifted his glance to the others.