“Did she say why not?” asked Gamache.
“Wasn’t feeling well.”
Gamache thanked her and hung up. Then he tried Suzanne’s cell phone. It had been disconnected. Hanging up, he tapped his glasses on his hand, softly.
It seemed the Sunday night meeting of Alcoholics Anonymous had gone missing.
No Suzanne Coates, no Thierry Pineault.
Was this cause for concern? Armand Gamache knew anyone missing in a murder investigation was cause for concern. But not panic.
He got up and walked over to the window. From there he could see across the Rivière Bella Bella and into Three Pines. As he watched a car drove up and stopped. It was a two-seater, sleek and new and expensive. A contrast to the older cars in front of the homes.
A man got out and looked around. He seemed uncertain, but not lost.
Then he walked confidently into the bistro.
Gamache’s eyes narrowed as he watched.
“Huh,” he grunted. Turning around he looked at the clock. Almost noon.
The Chief picked up the big book on his desk.
“I’ll be in the bistro,” he said and saw knowing smiles on Lacoste’s and Beauvoir’s faces.
Couldn’t say he blamed them.
*
Gamache’s eyes adjusted to the dim interior of the bistro. It was warming up outside but still a fire burned in both stone hearths.
It was like walking into another world, with its own atmosphere and season. It was never too hot or cold in the bistro. It was the middle bear.
“Salut, patron,” said Gabri, waving from behind the long, polished wooden bar. “Back so soon? Did you miss me?”
“We must never speak of our feelings, Gabri,” said Gamache. “It would crush Olivier and Reine-Marie.”
“Too true,” laughed Gabri and coming around from the bar he offered the Chief Inspector a licorice pipe. “And I hear it’s always best to suppress emotions.”
Gamache put the licorice pipe in his mouth as though he was smoking it.
“Very continental,” said Gabri, nodding approval. “Very Maigret.”
“Merci. The look I was going for.”
“Not sitting outside?” asked Gabri, gesturing toward the terrasse, with its round tables and cheery umbrellas. A few villagers were sipping coffees, a few had apéritifs.
“No, I’m looking for someone.”
Armand Gamache pointed deeper into the bistro, to the table beside the fireplace. Sitting comfortably, looking perfectly at ease and at home was Denis Fortin, the gallery owner.
“I have a question for you first, though,” said Gamache. “Did Monsieur Fortin speak to you at Clara’s vernissage?”
“In Montréal? Yes,” laughed Gabri. “He sure did. He apologized.”
“What did he say?”
“He said, and I quote, ‘I’m very sorry for calling you a fucking queer.’ End quote.” Gabri gave Gamache a searching look. “I am one, you know.”
“I’d heard the rumors. But not nice to be called one.”
Gabri shook his head. “Not the first time, and probably not the last. But you’re right. It never gets old. Always feels like a fresh wound.”
The two men were looking at the casual art dealer. Languid, relaxed.
“How do you feel about him now?” asked Gamache. “Should I have his drink tested?”
Gabri smiled. “Actually, I like him. Not many people who call me a fucking queer actually apologize. He gets marks for that. He also apologized to Clara for treating her so badly.”
So the gallery owner had been telling the truth, thought Gamache.
“He was at the party Saturday night down here too. Clara invited him,” said Gabri, following the Chief’s gaze. “I didn’t realize he stayed.”
“He didn’t.”
“So what’s he doing back?”
Gamache was wondering the same thing. He’d watched Denis Fortin arrive a few minutes earlier, and had come over to ask just that.
“I didn’t expect to see you here,” said Gamache, approaching Fortin, who’d risen from his seat.
They shook hands.
“I didn’t expect to come down, but Monday the gallery’s closed and I got to thinking.”
“About what?”
The two men sat in the armchairs. Gabri brought Gamache a lemonade.
“You were saying that you got to thinking?” said Gamache.
“About what you’d said when you came to visit me yesterday.”
“About the murder?”
Denis Fortin actually reddened. “Well, no. About Fran?ois Marois and André Castonguay still being here.”
Gamache knew what the gallery owner meant, but needed him to say it out loud. “Go on.”
Fortin grinned. It was boyish and disarming. “We in the art world like to think we’re rebels, non-conformists. Free spirits. An intellectual and intuitive cut above the rest. But they don’t call it the ‘art establishment’ for nothing. Fact is, most are followers. If one dealer is sniffing around an artist it won’t be long before others join him. We follow the buzz. That’s how phenomenons are created. Not because the artist is better than anyone else, but because the dealers have a pack mentality. Suddenly they all decide they want one particular artist.”
“They?”
“We,” he said, reluctantly, and Gamache noticed again that flush of annoyance never far from Fortin’s skin.
“And that artist becomes the next big thing?”
“Can do. If it was just Castonguay I wouldn’t worry. Or even just Marois. But both of them?”
“And why do you think they’re still here?” Gamache asked. He knew why. Marois had told him. But again, he wanted to hear Fortin’s interpretation.
“The Morrows, of course.”
“Is that why you’re here?”
“Why else?”
Fear and greed, Monsieur Marois had said. That was what roiled behind the glittery exterior of the art world. And that was what had taken a seat in the calm bistro.