A Trick of the Light (32 page)

“How do you know?” demanded Beauvoir. “How can you know?”

“Because I saw it. On the video.”

“And you think that tells you everything?” he demanded.

“Do you really believe there was more you could’ve done?”

Beauvoir turned away, feeling the familiar ache in his belly turn into jabs of pain. He knew Myrna was trying to be kind but he just wished she’d go away.

She hadn’t been there. He had, and he’d never believe there was nothing more he could have done.

The Chief had saved his life. Dragged him to safety. Bandaged him. But when Gamache himself had been hurt it had been Agent Lacoste who’d fought her way to him. Saved the Chief’s life.

While he himself had done nothing. Just lay there. Watching.

*   *   *

“You liked her?” Gamache asked.

They’d come full circle and were now standing on the village green, just across from the
terrasse.
He could see André Castonguay and François Marois sitting at a table, enjoying lunch. Or at least, enjoying the food if not the company. They didn’t seem to be talking much.

“I did,” said Suzanne. “She’d become kind. Thoughtful even. Happy. I didn’t expect to like her when she first dragged her sorry ass into the church basement. We weren’t exactly best friends before she’d left for New York. But we were both younger then, and drunker. And I suspect neither of us was very nice. But people change.”

“Are you so sure Lillian had?”

“Are you so sure I have?” Suzanne laughed.

It was, Gamache had to admit, a good question.

And then another question occurred to him. One he was surprised he hadn’t thought of earlier.

“How did you find Three Pines?”

“What do you mean?”

“The village. It’s almost impossible to find. And yet, here you are.”

“He drove me down.”

Gamache turned and looked to where she was pointing. Past the
terrasse
and into a window, where a man stood, his back to them. A book in his hand.

Though the Chief Inspector couldn’t see his face Gamache did recognize the rest of the man. Thierry Pineault was standing at the window of Myrna’s bookstore.

NINETEEN

Clara Morrow sat in the car, staring at the decrepit old apartment building. It was a far cry from the pretty little home the Dysons had lived in when Clara knew them.

For the whole drive in she’d been remembering her friendship with Lillian. The mind-numbing Christmas job they got together sorting mail. Then later, as lifeguards. That’d been Lillian’s idea. They’d taken the lifesaving courses and passed their swim exams together. Helping each other. Sneaking out behind the life preserver shed for smokes, and tokes.

They’d been on the school volleyball and track teams together. They’d spotted each other at gymnastics.

There was barely a good memory from Clara’s childhood that didn’t include Lillian.

And Mr. and Mrs. Dyson were always there too. As kindly supporting characters. In the background, like the
Peanuts
parents. Rarely seen, but somehow there were always egg salad sandwiches, and fruit salad and warm chocolate chip cookies. There was always a pitcher of bright pink lemonade.

Mrs. Dyson had been short, rotund, with thinning hair always in place. She’d seemed old but Clara realized she was younger than Clara was now. And Mr. Dyson had been tall, wiry, with curly red hair. That looked, in the bright sunshine, like rust on his head.

No. There was no doubt, and Clara was appalled at herself for ever questioning it. This was the right thing to do.

After giving up on an elevator she climbed the three flights, trying not to notice the stale smells of tobacco and dope and urine.

She stood in front of their closed door. Staring. Catching her breath from an exertion not wholly physical.

Clara closed her eyes and conjured up little Lillian, standing in green shorts and a T-shirt, framed by her door. Smiling. Inviting little Clara in.

Then Clara Morrow knocked on the door.

*   *   *

“Chief Justice,” said Gamache, offering his hand.

“Chief Inspector,” said Thierry Pineault, taking it and shaking.

“There can be too many chiefs after all,” said Suzanne. “Let’s grab a table.”

“We can join Inspector Beauvoir,” said Gamache, ushering them toward his Inspector, who’d gotten up and was indicating his table.

“I’d rather we sat over here,” said Chief Justice Pineault. Suzanne and Gamache paused. Pineault was indicating a table shoved up against the brick building, in the least attractive area.

“More discreet,” Pineault explained, seeing their puzzled expressions. Gamache raised a brow but agreed, waving Beauvoir over. Chief Justice Pineault sat first, his back to the village. Gabri took their orders.

“Will this bother you?” Gamache asked, pointing to the beers Beauvoir had brought over.

“Not at all,” said Suzanne.

“I tried to call you this morning,” said Gamache.

Gabri put their drinks on the table and whispered to Beauvoir, “Who’s this other guy?”

“The Chief Justice of Québec.”

“Of course he is.” Gabri shot Beauvoir an annoyed look and left.

“And what did my secretary say?” asked Pineault, taking a sip of his Perrier and lime.

“Only that you were working from home,” said Gamache.

Pineault smiled. “I am, sort of. I’m afraid I didn’t specify which home.”

“You’ve decided to come down to the one in Knowlton?”

“Is this an interrogation, Chief Inspector? Should I get a lawyer?”

The smile was still in place but neither man was under any illusion. Close questioning the Chief Justice of Québec was a risky thing to do.

Gamache smiled back. “This is a friendly conversation, Mr. Justice. I’m hoping you can help.”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake, Thierry. Just tell the man what he wants to know. Isn’t that why we’re here?”

Gamache regarded Suzanne across the table. Their lunches had arrived and she was shoveling terrine of duck into her mouth. It was a gesture not of greed, but of fear. She all but had her arm around her plate. Suzanne didn’t want someone else’s food. She wanted just her own. And she was willing to defend it, if need be.

But, between mouthfuls, Suzanne had asked an interesting question.

Why, if not to help his investigation, was Thierry Pineault there?

“Oh, I’m here to help,” Pineault said, casually. “It was an instinctive reaction, I’m afraid, Chief Inspector. A lawyer’s reaction. My apologies.”

Gamache noticed something else. While the Chief Justice seemed happy to challenge him, the head of homicide for the Sûreté du Québec, he never challenged Suzanne, the sometime artist and full-time waitress. In fact he took her little mocking jabs, her criticisms, her flamboyant gestures, all with great equilibrium. Was it manners?

The Chief didn’t think so. He had the impression the Chief Justice was somehow cowed by Suzanne. As though she had something on him.

“I asked him to bring me down,” said Suzanne. “I knew he’d want to help.”

“Why? I know Suzanne here cared about Lillian. Did you too, sir?”

The Chief Justice turned clear, cool eyes on Gamache. “Not in the manner you’re imagining.”

“I’m not imagining anything. Just asking.”

“I’m trying to help,” said Pineault. His voice was stern, his eyes hard. Gamache was used to this, from court appearances. From high-level Sûreté conferences.

And he recognized it for what it was. Chief Justice Thierry Pineault was pissing on him. It was delicate, sophisticated, genteel, mannerly. But it was still piss.

The problem with a pissing contest, as Gamache knew, was that what should have remained private became public. Chief Justice Pineault’s privates were on display.

“And how do you think you can help, sir? Do you know something I don’t?”

“I’m here because Suzanne asked me, and because I know where Three Pines is. I drove her down. That’s my help.”

Gamache looked from Thierry to Suzanne, now ripping up a piece of fresh baguette, smearing it with butter and popping it in her mouth. Could she really command the Chief Justice like that? Treat him like a chauffeur?

“I asked Thierry for help because I knew he’d be calm. Sensible.”

“And he’s the Chief Justice?” asked Beauvoir.

“I’m an alcoholic, not an idiot,” said Suzanne with a smile. “It seemed an advantage.”

It was an advantage, thought Gamache. But why did she feel she needed one? And why had Chief Justice Pineault chosen this table, away from the others? The worst table on the terrace, and then quickly taken the seat facing the wall.

Gamache glanced around. Was the Chief Justice hiding? He’d arrived and gone straight into the bookstore, coming out only when Suzanne returned. And now he sat with his back to everyone. Where he couldn’t see anything, but neither could he be seen.

Gamache’s eyes swept around the village, taking in what Chief Justice Pineault was missing.

Ruth on the bench, feeding the birds and every now and then glancing into the sky. Normand and Paulette, the middling artists, on the verandah of the B and B. A few villagers were carrying string bags of groceries home from Monsieur Béliveau’s general store. And then there were the other bistro patrons, including André Castonguay and François Marois.

*   *   *

Clara stood in the hallway, staring at the door, slammed in her face. The sound still echoed off the walls, along the corridors, down the stairwell, and finally out the door. Spilling into the bright sunshine.

Her eyes wide, her heart pounding. Her stomach sour.

Clara thought she might throw up.

*   *   *

“Ah, there you are,” said Denis Fortin, standing in the doorway of the bistro. He had the great pleasure of seeing André Castonguay jump and almost knock over his white wine.

François Marois, however, did not jump. He barely reacted.

Like a lizard, thought Fortin, sunning himself on a rock.

“Tabernac,”
exclaimed Castonguay. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“May I?” asked Fortin, and took a seat at their table before either man could deny him.

They’d always denied him a seat at their table. For decades. The cabal of art dealers and gallery owners. Old men now. As soon as Fortin had decided to stop being an artist and had opened his own gallery they’d closed ranks. Against the interloper, the newcomer.

Well, he was there now. More successful than any of them. Except, maybe, these two men. Of all the members of the art establishment in Québec, the only two whose opinion he cared about were Castonguay and Marois.

Well, one day they’d have to acknowledge him. And it might as well be today.

“I’d heard you were here,” he said, signaling to the waiter for another round.

Castonguay, he saw, was well into the white wine. Marois, though, was sipping an iced tea. Austere, cultured, restrained. Cool. Like the man.

He himself had switched to a micro-brewery beer. McAuslan. Young, golden, impertinent.

“What’re you doing here?” Castonguay repeated, the emphasis on “you,” as though Fortin had to explain himself. And he almost did, in an instinctive reaction. A need to appease these men.

But Fortin stopped himself and smiled charmingly.

“I’m here for the same reason you are. To sign the Morrows.”

That brought a reaction from Marois. Slowly, so slowly, the art dealer turned his head and, looking directly at Fortin, he slowly, so slowly lifted his brows. In anyone else it might have been comical. But from Marois, the results were terrifying.

Fortin felt himself grow cold, as though he’d looked at the Gorgon’s Head.

He swallowed hard and continued to stare, hoping if he’d been turned to stone it was at least with a look of casual disdain on his face. He feared, though, his face had a whole other expression.

Castonguay sputtered with laughter.

“You? Sign the Morrows? You had your shot and you blew it.” Castonguay grabbed his glass and took a great draught.

The waiter brought more drinks and Marois put out his hand to stop him. “I think we’ve had enough.” He turned to Castonguay. “Perhaps time for a little walk, don’t you think?”

But Castonguay didn’t think. He took the glass. “You’ll never sign the Morrows, and do you know why?”

Fortin shook his head and could have kicked himself for even reacting.

“Because they know you for what you are.” He was speaking loudly now. So loudly conversation around them died.

At the back table everyone looked around, except Thierry Pineault. He kept his face to the wall.

“That’s enough, André,” said Marois, laying a hand on the other man’s arm.

“No, it’s not enough.” Castonguay turned to François Marois. “You and I worked hard for what we have. Studied art, know technique. We might disagree, but it’s at least an intelligent discussion. But this one,” his arm jerked in Fortin’s direction, “all he wants is a quick buck.”

“And all you want, sir,” said Fortin, getting to his feet, “is a bottle. Who is worse?”

Fortin gave a stiff little bow and walked away. He didn’t know where he was going. Just away. From the table. From the art establishment. From the two men staring at him. And probably laughing.

*   *   *

“People don’t change,” said Beauvoir, squashing his burger and watching the juices ooze out.

Chief Justice Pineault and Suzanne had left, walking over to the B and B. And now, finally, Inspector Beauvoir could discuss murder, in peace.

“You think not?” asked Gamache. On his plate were grilled garlic shrimp and quinoa mango salad. The barbeque was working overtime for the hungry lunch crowd, producing char-grilled steaks and burgers, shrimp and salmon.

“They might seem to,” said Beauvoir, picking his burger up, “but if you were a nasty piece of work growing up, you’ll be an asshole as an adult and you’ll die pissed off.”

He took a bite. Where once this burger, with bacon and mushrooms, caramelized onions and melting blue cheese, would have sent him into raptures, now it left him feeling slightly queasy. Still, he forced himself to eat, to appease Gamache.

Beauvoir noticed the Chief watching him eat and felt a slight annoyance, but that quickly faded. Mostly he didn’t care. After his conversation with Myrna he’d taken himself off to the bathroom and popped a Percocet, staying there, his head in his hands, until he could feel the warmth spread, and the pain ebb and drift away.