‘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.’
‘You made the mistake of asking Lillian what she thought,’ said Normand.
‘And what did she think?’ asked Beauvoir.
‘I don’t know what she thought, but I can tell you what she did,’ said Paulette. There was no mistaking the anger now, in her voice and in her eyes. ‘She told me Normand had bad-mouthed me at a recent vernissage. Joked about my art and said he’d rather collaborate with a chimp. Lillian said she was telling me as a friend, to warn me.’
‘Lillian came to me shortly after that,’ said Normand. ‘Said Paulette had accused me of plagiarizing her works. Stealing her ideas. Lillian said she knew it wasn’t true, but wanted me to know what Paulette was telling everyone.’
‘What happened?’ asked Gamache. The air around them suddenly seemed to sour, with old words and bitter thoughts.
‘God help us,’ said Paulette. ‘We each believed her. We broke up. Took years for us to realize that Lillian had lied to both of us.’
‘But now we’re together.’ Normand laid a hand softly on Paulette’s and smiled at her. ‘Despite the years wasted.’
Perhaps, thought Gamache as he watched, that was what exhausted Normand. Lugging around this memory.
Unlike Beauvoir, Chief Inspector Gamache had a great deal of respect for artists. They were sensitive. Often self-absorbed. Often not fit for polite society. Some, he suspected, were deeply unbalanced. It would not be an easy life. Living on the margins, often in poverty. Being ignored and even ridiculed. By society, by funding agencies, even by other artists.
François Marois’s story of Magritte wasn’t singular. The man and woman sitting here in the B and B were both Magrittes. Fighting hard to be heard and seen, respected and accepted.
A difficult life for anyone, never mind people as sensitive as artists.
He suspected living like that created fear. And fear begat anger and enough anger over enough time led to a dead woman in a garden.
Yes, Armand Gamache had a great deal of time for artists. But he was under no illusion about what they were capable of. Great creation, and great destruction.
‘When did Lillian leave Montréal?’ Beauvoir asked.
‘I don’t know and I don’t care,’ said Paulette.
‘Did you care that she was back?’ asked Beauvoir.
‘Would you?’ Paulette glared at Beauvoir. ‘I kept my distance. We all knew what she’d done, what she was capable of. You don’t want to be in those sights.’
‘He’s a natural, producing art like it’s a bodily function,’ said Normand.
‘Pardon?’ asked Beauvoir.
‘It’s a line from one of her critiques,’ said Paulette. ‘She’s famous for it. It got picked up by the wire services and the review went international.’
‘Who was she writing about?’ Beauvoir asked.
‘That’s the funny thing,’ said Paulette, ‘everyone remembers the quote, but no one remembers the artist.’
Both Beauvoir and Gamache knew that wasn’t true.
He’s a natural, producing art like it’s a bodily function.
Clever, almost a compliment. But then it veered into a scathing dismissal.
Someone would remember that review.
The artist himself.
SEVEN
Armand Gamache and Jean Guy Beauvoir stepped down from the wide, sweeping verandah of the B and B onto the path.
It was a warm day and Beauvoir was thirsty.
‘Drink?’ he suggested to the Chief, knowing it was a pretty safe bet. But Gamache surprised him.
‘In a few minutes. There’s something I need to do first.’ The two men paused at the dirt road. The day was going from warm to almost hot. Some of the early white irises in the flower beds around the village green had opened fully, and then some. Almost exploding, exposing their black centers.
It seemed to Beauvoir a confirmation. Inside every living thing, no matter how beautiful, if opened fully enough was darkness.
‘I find it interesting that Normand and Paulette knew Lillian Dyson,’ said Gamache.
‘Why’s that interesting?’ asked Beauvoir. ‘Isn’t it what you’d expect? After all they hang around the same crowd. Did twenty-five years ago, and did a few months ago. It would’ve been surprising if they didn’t know each other.’
‘True. What I find interesting is that neither François Marois nor André Castonguay admitted to knowing her. How could Normand and Paulette know Lillian, but Marois and Castonguay not?’
‘They probably didn’t move in the same circles,’ suggested Beauvoir.
They walked away from the B and B and toward the hill out of Three Pines. Beauvoir took off his jacket, but the Chief kept his on. It would take more than a merely warm day to get him to walk around in his shirtsleeves.
‘There aren’t that many circles in the Québec art scene,’ said Gamache. ‘And while the dealers might not be personal friends with everyone, they’d be sure to at least be aware of them. If not today, then back twenty years, when Lillian was a critic.’
‘So they were lying,’ said Beauvoir.
‘That’s what I’m going to find out. I’d like you to check on progress at the Incident Room. Why don’t we meet at the bistro,’ Gamache looked at his watch, ‘in about forty-five minutes.’
The two men parted, Be
auvoir pausing to watch the Chief walk up the hill. His gait strong.
He himself made his way across the village green toward the Incident Room. As he walked across the grass he slowed, then veered off to his right. And sat on the bench.
‘Hello, dick-head.’
‘Hello, you old drunk.’
Ruth Zardo and Jean Guy Beauvoir sat side-by-side, a loaf of stale bread between them. Beauvoir took a piece, broke it up and threw it on the grass for the robins gathered there.
‘What’re you doing? That’s my lunch.’
‘We both know you haven’t chewed lunch in years,’ Beauvoir snapped. Ruth chuckled.
‘That is true. Still, you owe me a meal now.’
‘I’ll buy you a beer later.’
‘So what brings you back to Three Pines?’ Ruth tossed more bread for the birds, or at the birds.
‘The murder.’
‘Oh, that.’
‘Did you see her last night, at the party?’ Beauvoir handed Ruth the photograph of the dead woman. She studied it then handed it back.
‘Nope.’
‘What was the party like?’
‘The barbecue? Too many people. Too much noise.’
‘But free booze,’ said Beauvoir.
‘It was free? Merde. I didn’t have to sneak it after all. Still, more fun to steal it.’
‘Nothing strange happened? No arguments, no raised voices? All that drinking and no one got belligerent?’
‘Drinking? Lead to belligerence? Where’d you get that idea, numb nuts?’
‘Absolutely nothing unusual happened last night?’
‘Not that I saw.’ Ruth tore off another piece of bread and tossed it at a fat robin. ‘I’m sorry about your separation. Do you love her?’
‘My wife?’ Beauvoir wondered what prompted Ruth to ask. Was it caring or simply no sense of personal boundaries? ‘I think—’
‘No, not your wife. The other one. The plain one.’
Beauvoir felt his heart spasm and the blood pour from his face.
‘You’re drunk,’ he said, getting to his feet.
‘And belligerent,’ she said. ‘But I’m also right. I saw how you looked at her. And I think I know who she is. You’re in trouble, young Mr Beauvoir.’
‘You know nothing.’
He walked away. Trying not to break into a run. Willing himself to stay slow, steady. Left, right. Left, right.
Ahead he could see the bridge, and the Incident Room beyond. Where he’d be safe.
But young Mr Beauvoir was beginning to appreciate something.
There was no such place as ‘safe’. Not anymore.
‘Did you read this?’ Clara asked, putting her empty beer glass on the table and handing the Ottawa Star over to Myrna. ‘The Star hated the show.’
‘You’re kidding.’ Myrna took the paper and scanned it. It was, she had to admit, not a glowing review.
‘What was it they called me?’ demanded Clara, sitting on the arm of Myrna’s easy chair. ‘Here it is.’ Clara jabbed a finger and poked the newspaper. ‘Clara Morrow is an old and tired parrot mimicking actual artists.’
Myrna laughed.
‘You find that funny?’ Clara asked.
‘You’re not actually taking that comment seriously?’
‘Why not? If I take the good ones seriously don’t I have to take the bad too?’
‘But look at them,’ said Myrna, waving to the papers on the coffee table. ‘The London Times, the New York Times, Le Devoir, all agree your art is new and exciting. Brilliant.’
‘I hear the critic from Le Monde was there but he didn’t even bother to write a review.’
Myrna stared at her friend. ‘I’m sure he will, and he’ll agree with everyone else. The show’s a massive success.’
‘Her art, while nice, was neither visionary nor bold,’ Clara read over Myrna’s shoulder. ‘They don’t think it’s a massive success.’
‘It’s the Ottawa Star, for God’s sake,’ said Myrna. ‘Someone was bound to dislike it, thank heaven it was them.’
Clara looked at the review then smiled. ‘You’re right.’
She walked back to her chair in the bookshop. ‘Did anyone ever tell you that artists are nuts?’
‘First I’ve heard of it.’
Out the window Myrna watched as Ruth pelted birds with hunks of bread. At the crest of the hill she saw Dominique Gilbert heading back to her barn, riding what looked like a moose. Outside the bistro, on the terrasse, Gabri was sitting at a customer’s table, eating her dessert.
Not for the first time Three Pines struck Myrna as the equivalent of the Humane Society. Taking in the wounded, the unwanted. The mad, the sore.
This was a shelter. Though, clearly, not a no-kill shelter.
*
Dominique Gilbert curried Buttercup’s rump. Around and around her hand went. It always reminded her of the scene in The Karate Kid. Wax goes on. Wax goes off. But instead of a shammy, this was a brush, and instead of a car, this was a horse. Sort of.
Buttercup was in the alley of the barn, outside his stall. Chester was watching this, doing his little dance as though he had a mariachi band in his head. Macaroni was in the field, having already been groomed, and was now rolling in the mud.
As she rubbed the caked and dried dirt off the huge horse, Dominique noticed the scabs, the scars, the patches of skin that would never grow horse hair, so deep were the wounds.
And yet, the massive horse let her touch him. Let her groom him. Let her ride him. As did Chester and Macaroni. If any creatures had earned the right to buck it was them. But instead, they chose to be the gentlest of beasts.
Outside now she could hear voices.
‘You’ve already shown us the photograph.’ It was one of her guests, and Dominique knew which one. André Castonguay. The gallery owner. Most of the guests had left but two remained. Messieurs Castonguay and Marois.
‘I’d like you to look again.’
It was Chief Inspector Gamache, come back. She glanced out the square of light at the end of the barn, hiding slightly behind Buttercup’s enormous bottom. She felt a little uneasy and wondered if she should make her presence known. They were standing in the sunshine, leaning against the fence rails. Surely they knew this wasn’t a private place. Besides, she was there first. Besides, she wanted to hear.
So she said nothing, but continued to curry Buttercup, who couldn’t believe his luck. The grooming was going on so much longer than usual. Though what appeared to be undue fondness for his rump was worrisome.
‘Perhaps we should look again,’ came François Marois’s voice. He sounded reasonable. Friendly even.
There was a pause. Dominique could see Gamache hand a picture each to Marois and Castonguay. The men looked then exchanged photographs.
‘You said you didn’t know the dead woman,’ said Gamache. He also sounded relaxed. A casual conversation with friends.
But Dominique wasn’t fooled. She wondered if these two men were taken in. Castonguay, perhaps. But she doubted Marois was.
‘I thought,’ Gamache continued, ‘you might have been surprised and needed another look.’
‘I don’t—’ Castonguay began, but Marois laid a hand on his arm and he stopped.
‘You’re quite right, Chief Inspector. I don’t know about André but I’m embarrassed to say I do know her. Lillian Dyson, right?’
‘Well, I don’t know her,’ said Castonguay.
‘I think you need to search your memory more thoroughly,’ said Gamache. His voice, still friendly, carried a weight. It wasn’t quite as light as a moment ago.
Behind Buttercup, Dominique found herself praying Castonguay would take the rope offered by the Chief Inspector. That he’d see it for what it was. A gift and not a trap.
Castonguay looked out into the field. All three did. Dominique couldn’t see the field from where she stood, but she knew that view well. Looked at it every day. Often sat on the patio at the back of their home, private from the gu
ests, with a gin and tonic at the end of the day. And stared. The way she’d once stared out the window of her corner office on the seventeenth floor of the bank tower.
The view from her windows now was more limited, but even more beautiful. Tall grasses, tender young wild flowers. Mountains and forests, and the broken-down old horses lumbering about in the fields.
In her view there was nothing more magnificent.
Dominique knew what the men were seeing, but not what they were thinking.
Though she could guess.
Chief Inspector Gamache had returned. To interview these two men again. Ask them the same questions he’d asked before. That much was clear. As was the conclusion.
They’d lied to him the first time.
François Marois opened his mouth to speak but Gamache silenced him with a movement.
No one would rescue Castonguay but himself.
‘It’s true,’ the gallery owner said at last. ‘I guess I do know her.’
‘You guess, or you do?’
‘I do, OK?’
Gamache gave him a stern look and replaced the photographs.
‘Why did you lie?’
Castonguay sighed and shook his head. ‘I didn’t. I was tired, maybe a little hung-over. I didn’t take a good enough look at the picture the first time, that’s all. It wasn’t deliberate.’
Gamache doubted that was true but decided not to press it. It would be a waste of time and only make the man more defensive. ‘Did you know Lillian Dyson well?’ he asked instead.
‘Not well. I’d seen her at a few openings recently. She’d even approached me.’ Castonguay said this as though she’d done something unsavory. ‘Said she had a portfolio of work and could she show me.’
‘And what did you say?’
Castonguay looked at Gamache with astonishment. ‘I said no, of course. Do you have any idea how many artists send me their portfolios?’
Gamache remained silent, waiting for the haughty response.
‘I get hundreds a month, from all over the world.’
‘So you turned her down? But maybe her work was good,’ suggested the Chief Inspector and was treated to another withering look.