ELEVEN
“Honestly, you’re the worst investigator in history,” said Dominique.
“At least I was asking questions,” snapped Ruth.
“Only because I couldn’t get a word in.”
Myrna and Clara had joined the other two women in the bistro and were now sitting in front of a fire, lit more for effect than necessity.
“She asked André Castonguay how big his dick was.”
“I did not. I asked how big a dick he was. There’s a difference.”
Ruth brought up her thumb and forefinger to indicate about two inches.
Despite herself, Clara smirked. She’d often wanted to ask gallery owners the same question.
Dominique shook her head. “Then she asked the other one—”
“Fran?ois Marois?” asked Clara. She’d been tempted to give the artists to Dominique and Ruth and take the dealers for herself, but she didn’t feel like seeing Castonguay just yet. Not after his phone call, and her conversation with Peter.
“Yes, Fran?ois Marois. She asked what his favorite color was.”
“I thought it might be helpful,” said Ruth.
“And was it?” Dominique demanded.
“Not as much as you’d think,” admitted Ruth.
“So despite this grilling neither confessed to killing Lillian Dyson?” asked Myrna.
“They held up surprisingly well,” said Dominique. “Though Castonguay did let it slip that his first car was a Gremlin.”
“Tell me that’s not psychotic,” said Ruth.
“How’d you two do?” asked Dominique, reaching for her lemonade.
“I’m not sure how we did,” said Myrna, almost emptying the bowl of cashews with one handful. “I liked the way you disarmed that Normand fellow when he brought up Denis Fortin.”
“What do you mean?” Clara asked.
“Well, when you told him you’d invited Fortin yourself. Actually, that’s another mystery, now that I think of it. What was Denis Fortin doing here?”
“I hate to break it to you,” said Clara, “but I really did invite him.”
“Why in the world would you do that, child?” asked Myrna. “After what he did?”
“Well, if I kept out every gallery owner and dealer who turned me down, the place would’ve been empty.”
Not for the first time Myrna marveled at her friend, who could forgive so much. And who had so much to forgive. She considered herself fairly stable, but Myrna doubted she’d last long in the wine and cheese and cutthroat world of art.
She also wondered who else had been forgiven and invited who shouldn’t have been.
*
Gamache had called ahead and now he pulled into the parking spot at the back of the gallery on rue St-Denis in Montréal. The lot was reserved for staff, but it was five thirty on a Sunday and most had gone home.
Getting out of his car he looked around. St-Denis was a cosmopolitan Montréal street. But the alley that ran behind it was squalid, with used condoms and empty needles littering the ground.
The glorious front hid what was foul.
And which was the real St-Denis? he wondered as he locked the car and walked toward the vibrant street.
The glass front door of the Galerie Fortin was locked. Gamache looked for a doorbell, but Denis Fortin appeared, all smiles, and unlocked it for him.
“Monsieur Gamache,” he said, holding out his hand and shaking the Chief Inspector’s. “A pleasure to see you again.”
“Mais, non,” said the Chief, bowing slightly. “The pleasure is mine. Thank you for seeing me so late.”
“Gave me a chance to catch up on some work. You know what it’s like.” Fortin carefully locked the door and waved the Chief deeper into the gallery. “My office is upstairs.”
Gamache followed the younger man. They’d met a few times before, when Fortin had been in Three Pines considering Clara for a show. Fortin was perhaps forty, with a bright and attractive manner. He wore a finely tailored coat, open-collar ironed shirt and black jeans. Smart and stylish.
Up the stairs they walked and Gamache listened while Fortin described with great animation some of the works on his walls. The Chief, while listening closely, also scanned the gallery for a painting by Lillian Dyson. Her style was so singular it would declare itself. But the walls, while containing some clearly brilliant works, didn’t proclaim a Dyson.
“Café?” Fortin indicated a cappuccino maker just outside his office.
“Non, merci.”
“A beer, perhaps? It’s turned into a warm day.”
“That would be nice,” said the Chief, and made himself comfortable in Fortin’s office. Once Fortin was out of sight, Gamache leaned over his desk and scanned the papers. Contracts for artists. Some publicity mock-ups for upcoming shows. One for a famous Québec artist, one for someone Gamache had not heard of. An up-and-comer, presumably.
But no mention, in his quick scan, of Lillian Dyson. Or Clara Morrow.
Gamache heard the soft tread and took his seat just as Fortin walked through his office door.
“Here we go.” The gallery owner was carrying a tray with two beers and some cheese. “We always have a stock of wine and beer and cheese. The tools of the trade.”
“Not canvas and brushes?” asked the Chief Inspector, taking the cold beer in the frosted glass.
“Those are for the creative ones. I’m just a lowly businessman. A bridge between talent and money.”
“à votre santé.” The Chief raised his glass, as did Fortin, then both men took a satisfying sip.
“Creative,” said Gamache, lowering his glass and accepting a piece of fragrant Stilton. “But artists are also emotional, unstable at times, I imagine.”
“Artists?” asked Fortin. “What could you possibly mean?”
He laughed. It was easy and light. Gamache couldn’t help but smile back. It was hard not to like him.
Charm was also a tool, he knew, of the art gallery trade. Fortin offered cheese and charm. When he chose.
“I suppose,” Fortin continued, “it depends what you compare them to. Now, compared to a rabid hyena or, say, a hungry cobra an artist comes off pretty well.”
“Doesn’t sound like you much like artists.”
“Actually, I do. I like them, but more importantly, I understand them. Their egos, their fears, their insecurities. There’re very few artists who are comfortable among other people. Most prefer to work away quietly in their studios. Whoever said, ‘Hell is other people’ must have been an artist.”
“It was Sartre,” said Gamache. “A writer.”
“I suspect if you speak with a publisher their experiences with writers would be the same. Here you have, in my case, artists who manage to capture on a small flat canvas not just the reality of life, but the mysteries, the spirit, the deep and conflicting emotions of being human. And yet most of them hate and fear other people. I understand that.”
“Do you? How?”