*
“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.
Fran?ois 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 Fran?ois 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.
Across the table Chief Inspector Gamache took a forkful of grilled garlic shrimp and the quinoa mango salad with genuine enjoyment.
They’d both looked up when André Castonguay had raised his voice.
Beauvoir had even gone to get up, but the Chief had stopped him. Wanting to see how this would play out. Like the rest of the patrons, they watched Denis Fortin walk stiffly away, his back straight, his arms at his side.
Like a little soldier, Gamache had thought, reminded of his son Daniel as a child, marching around the park. Either into or away from a battle. Resolute.
Pretending.
Denis Fortin was retreating, Gamache knew. To nurse his wounds.
“I suspect you don’t agree?” said Beauvoir.
“That people don’t change?” asked Gamache, looking up from his plate. “No, I don’t agree. I believe people can and do.”
“But not as much as the victim appeared to change,” said Beauvoir. “That would be very chiaroscuro.”
“Very what?” Gamache lowered his knife and fork and stared at his second in command.
“It means a bold contrast. The play of light and dark.”
“Is that so? And did you make up that word?”
“I did not. Heard it at Clara’s vernissage and even used it a few times. Such a snooty crowd. All I had to do was say ‘chiaroscuro’ a few times and they were convinced I was the critic for Le Monde.”
Gamache picked his knife and fork back up and shook his head. “So it could’ve meant anything and you still used it?”
“Didn’t you notice? The more ridiculous the statement the more it was accepted. Did you see their faces when they realized I wasn’t with Le Monde?”
“Very schadenfreude of you,” said Gamache and wasn’t surprised to see the suspicious look on Beauvoir’s face. “So you looked up ‘chiaroscuro’ this morning. Is that what you do when I’m not around?”
“That and Free Cell. And porn, of course, but we only do that on your computer.”
Beauvoir grinned and took a bite of his burger.
“You think the victim was very chiaroscuro?” asked Gamache.
“I don’t actually. Just said that to show off. I think it’s all bullshit. One moment she’s a bitch, the next she’s this wonderful person? Come on. That’s crap.”
“I can see how they’d mistake you for a formidable critic,” said Gamache.
“Fucking right. Listen, people don’t change. You think the trout in the Bella Bella are there because they love Three Pines? But maybe next year they’ll go somewhere else?” Beauvoir jerked his head toward the river.
Gamache looked at his Inspector. “What do you think?”
“I think the trout have no choice. They return because they’re trout. That’s what trout do. Life is that simple. Ducks return to the same place every year. Geese do it. Salmon and butterflies and deer. Jeez, deer are such creatures of habit they wear a trail through the woods and never deviate. That’s why so many are shot, as we know. They never change. People are the same. We are what we are. We are who we are.”
“We don’t change?” Gamache took a piece of fresh asparagus.
“Exactly. You taught me that people, that cases, are basically very simple. We’re the ones who complicate it.”
“And the Dyson case? Are we complicating it?”
“I think so. I think she was killed by someone she screwed. End of story. A sad story, but a simple one.”
“Someone from her past?” Gamache asked.
“No, that’s where I think you’re wrong. The people who knew the new Lillian after she stopped drinking say she’d become a decent person. And the people who knew the old one, before she stopped drinking, say she was a bitch.”