“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.”
“But who was the line written about?” Gamache asked both men.
“It can’t have been anyone famous or we’d have remembered,” said Marois. “Probably some poor artist who sank into oblivion.”
Tied to this rock of a review, thought Gamache.
“Does it matter?” asked Castonguay. “It was twenty years ago or more. You think a review from decades ago has anything to do with her murder?”
“I think murder has a long memory.”
“If you’ll excuse me, I have some phone calls to make,” said André Castonguay.
Marois and Gamache watched him walk off toward the inn and spa.
“You know what he’s doing, don’t you?” Marois turned back to his companion.
“He’s calling the Morrows, to convince them to meet with him.”
Marois smiled. “Exactement.”
The two men strolled back toward the inn and spa themselves.
“Aren’t you worried?”
“I’m never worried about André. He’s no threat to me. If the Morrows are foolish enough to sign with him then he’s welcome to them.”
But Gamache didn’t believe it for a moment. Fran?ois Marois’s eyes were too sharp, too shrewd for that. His relaxed manner too studied.
No, this man cared a great deal. He was wealthy. He was powerful. So it wasn’t about that.
Fear and greed. That was what drove the art world. And Gamache knew it was probably true. So if it wasn’t greed on Marois’s part, then the other must be true.
It was fear.
But what could this elderly, eminent dealer be afraid of?
“Will you join me, monsieur?” Armand Gamache extended his arm, inviting Fran?ois Marois to walk with him. “I’m going into the village.”
Marois, who had had no intention of walking down into Three Pines again, considered the invitation and recognized it for what it was. A polite request. Not quite a command, but close enough.
He took his place beside the Chief Inspector and both walked slowly down the slope and into the village.
“Very pretty,” said Marois. He stopped and surveyed Three Pines, a smile on his lips. “I can see why Clara Morrow chose to live here. It is magical.”
“I sometimes wonder how important place is to an artist.” Gamache also looked out over the quiet village. “So many choose the great cities. Paris, London, Venice. Cold water flats and lofts in Soho and Chelsea. Lillian Dyson moved to New York, for instance. But Clara didn’t. The Morrows chose here. Does where they live affect what they create?”
“Oh, without a doubt. Where they live and who they spend time with. I don’t think Clara’s series of portraits could have been created any place other than here.”
“It’s fascinating to me that some look at her work and see just nice portraits of mostly elderly women. Traditional, staid even. But you don’t.”
“Neither do you, Chief Inspector, any more than when you and I look at Three Pines we see a village.”
“And what do you see, Monsieur Marois?”
“I see a painting.”
“A painting?”
“A beautiful one, to be sure. But all paintings, the most disturbing and the most exquisite, are made up of the same thing. The play of light and dark. That’s what I see. A whole lot of light, but a whole lot of dark too. That’s what people miss in Clara’s works. The light is so obvious they get fooled by it. It takes some people a while to appreciate the shading. I think that’s one of the things that makes her brilliant. She’s very subtle, but very subversive. She has a lot to say, and takes her time revealing it.”
“C’est intéressant, ?a,” Gamache nodded. It wasn’t unlike what he’d been thinking about Three Pines. It too took a while to reveal itself. But Marois’s analogy had its limits. A painting, no matter how spectacular, would only ever be two dimensional. Is that how Marois saw the world? Was there an entire dimension he missed?
They started walking again. On the village green they noticed Clara plunking down beside Ruth. They watched as Ruth fired chunks of stale bread at the birds. It was unclear if she was trying to feed them or kill them.
Fran?ois Marois’s eyes narrowed. “That’s the woman in Clara’s portrait,” he said.
“It is. Ruth Zardo.”
“The poet? I thought she was dead.”
“It’s a natural mistake,” said Gamache, waving at Ruth, who gave him the finger. “Her brain seems fine, it’s only her heart that’s stopped.”
The afternoon sun was directly on Fran?ois Marois, forcing the dealer to squint. But behind him there extended a long and definite shadow.
“Why do you want both Morrows,” Gamache asked, “when you obviously prefer Clara’s works? Do you even like Peter Morrow’s paintings?”
“No, I don’t. I find them very superficial. Calculated. He’s a good artist, but I think he could be a great one, if he could use more instinct and less technique. He’s a very good draftsman.”
It was said without malice, making the cold analysis all the more damning. And perhaps true.
“You said you had only so much time and energy left,” persisted Gamache. “I can see why you’d choose Clara. But why Peter, an artist you don’t even like?”
Marois hesitated. “It’s just easier to manage. We can make career decisions for both of them. I want Clara to be happy, and I think she’s happiest if Peter is also looked after.”
Gamache looked at the art dealer. It was an astute observation. But it didn’t go far enough. Marois had made it about Clara and Peter’s happiness. Deflecting the question.
Then the Chief Inspector remembered the story Marois told, of his first client. The elderly artist whose wife overtook him. And, to protect her husband’s fragile ego the woman had never painted again.
Was that what Marois was afraid of? Losing his final client, his final find, because Clara’s love for Peter was greater than her love for art?
Or was it, again, even more personal? Did it have nothing to do with Clara, with Peter, with art? Was Fran?ois Marois simply afraid of losing?
André Castonguay owned art. But Fran?ois Marois owned the artists. Who was the more powerful? But also the more vulnerable?
Framed paintings couldn’t get up and leave. But the artists could.
What was Fran?ois Marois afraid of? Gamache asked himself again.
“Why are you here?”
Marois looked surprised. “I’ve already told you, Chief Inspector. Twice. I’m here to try to sign Peter and Clara Morrow.”
“And yet you claim not to care if Monsieur Castonguay gets there first.”
“I can’t control other people’s stupidity,” smiled Marois.
Gamache considered the man, and as he did the art dealer’s smile wavered.
“I’m late for drinks, monsieur,” said Gamache pleasantly. “If we have nothing more to talk about I’ll be going.”
He turned and walked toward the bistro.