A Trick of the Light (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #7)

A Trick of the Light (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #7) Page 45

Gamache listened and wondered if this was how the Paris Peace Conference was negotiated after the Great War. When Europe was divided up by the winners. And Gamache wondered if this would have the same disastrous results.

“I don’t want one,” said Marois. His voice was reasonable, silken, contained. “I want both.”

“Fucking bastard,” said Castonguay, but Marois didn’t seem to care. He turned back to the Chief Inspector as though Castonguay had just complimented him.

“At what point yesterday did you decide Clara Morrow was the one?” asked Gamache.

“You were with me, Chief Inspector. The moment I saw the light in the Virgin Mary’s eye.”

Gamache was quiet, recalling that moment. “As I remember you thought it might simply be a trick of the light.”

“I still do. But how remarkable is that? For Clara Morrow to, in essence, capture the human experience? One person’s hope is another person’s cruelty. Is it light, or a false promise?”

Gamache turned to André Castonguay, who seemed completely taken aback by their conversation, as though they’d been at different art shows.

“I want to get back to the dead woman,” said Gamache, and saw Castonguay looking lost for a moment. Murder eclipsed by greed. And fear.

“Were you surprised to see Lillian Dyson back in Montréal?” the Chief asked.

“Surprised?” asked Castonguay. “I felt nothing either way. Didn’t give her a second thought.”

“I’m afraid I felt the same way, Chief Inspector,” said Marois. “Madame Dyson in Montréal or Madame Dyson in New York was all the same to me.”

Gamache looked at him with interest. “How did you know she’d been in New York?”

For the first time Marois hesitated, his composure pierced.

“Someone must have mentioned it. The art world’s full of gossips.”

The art world, thought Gamache, was full of something else he could mention. And this seemed a fine example. He stared at Marois until the dealer dropped his eyes and brushed an invisible hair off his immaculate shirt.

“I hear another of your colleagues was here at the party. Denis Fortin.”

“That’s true,” said Marois. “I was surprised to see him.”

“Now there’s an understatement,” snorted Castonguay. “After how he treated Clara Morrow. Did you hear about that?”

“Tell me,” said Gamache, though he knew the story perfectly well himself, and the two artists had also just taken pleasure in reminding him.

And so, with glee, André Castonguay related how Denis Fortin had signed Clara to a solo show only to change his mind and drop her.

“And not just drop her, but treated her like shit. Told everyone she was worthless. I actually agree, but can you imagine his surprise when the Musée of all places picked her up?”

It was a story that appealed to Castonguay, since it belittled both Clara and his competitor, Denis Fortin.

“Then why do you think he was here?” asked Gamache. Both men considered it.

“Not a clue,” admitted Castonguay.

“He had to have been invited,” said Marois, “but I can’t see him being on Clara Morrow’s guest list.”

“Do people crash these parties?” asked Gamache.

“Some,” said Marois, “but mostly artists looking to make connections.”

“Looking for free booze and food,” mumbled Castonguay.

“You said Madame Dyson asked you to look at her portfolio,” Gamache said to Castonguay, “which you refused. But I was under the impression she was a critic, not an artist.”

“True,” said Castonguay. “She’d written for La Presse, but that was many years ago. Then she vanished and someone else took over.”

He seemed barely polite, bored.

“Was she a good critic?”

“How d’you expect me to remember that?”

“The same way I expected you to remember her from the photo, monsieur.” Gamache eyed the art gallery owner steadily. Castonguay’s already flushed face grew ruddier.

“I remember her reviews, Chief Inspector,” Marois said and turned to Castonguay. “And so do you.”

“I do not.” Castonguay shot him a look of loathing.

“He’s a natural, producing art like it’s a bodily function.”

“No,” laughed Castonguay. “Lillian Dyson wrote that? Merde. With that sort of bile she might’ve been a decent artist after all.”