TWENTY
Clara closed the door and leaned against it. Listening for Peter. Hoping, hoping. Hoping she’d hear nothing. Hoping she was alone.
And she was.
Oh, no no no, she thought. Still the dead one lay moaning.
Lillian wasn’t dead. She was alive in Mr. Dyson’s face.
Clara had raced home, barely able to keep her car on the road, her view obscured by that face. Those faces.
Mr. and Mrs. Dyson. Lillian’s mom and dad. Old, infirm. Almost unrecognizable as the robust, cheery people she’d known.
But their voices had been strong. Their language stronger.
There was no doubt. Clara had made a terrible mistake. And instead of making things better, she’d made them worse.
How could she have been so wrong?
*
“Fucking little asshole.” André Castonguay shoved the table away and got up, unsteadily. “I have a thing or two to say to him.”
Fran?ois Marois also got up. “Not now, my friend.”
They both watched as Denis Fortin walked back down the hill and into the village. He didn’t hesitate, didn’t look in their direction. Didn’t deviate from a course he’d clearly chosen.
Denis Fortin was making for the Morrow house. That much was clear to Castonguay, to Marois, and to Chief Inspector Gamache, who was also watching.
“But we can’t let him speak to them,” said Castonguay, trying to pull himself away from Marois.
“He won’t be successful, André. You know that. Let him have his try. Besides, I saw Peter Morrow leave a few minutes ago. He’s not even there.”
Castonguay turned unsteadily toward Marois. “Vraiment?” There was a slightly stupid smile on his face.
“Vraiment,” Marois confirmed. “Really. Why don’t you go back to the inn and relax.”
“Good idea.”
André Castonguay walked slowly, deliberately across the village green.
Gamache had watched all this, and now his gaze shifted to Fran?ois Marois. There was a look of weary sophistication on the art dealer’s face. He seemed almost bemused.
The Chief Inspector stepped off the terrasse and joined Marois, whose eyes hadn’t left the Morrow cottage, as though he expected it to do something worth witnessing. Then his look shifted to Castonguay, trudging up the dirt road.
“Poor André,” said Marois to Gamache. “That really wasn’t very nice of Fortin.”
“What wasn’t?” asked Gamache, also watching the gallery owner. Castonguay had stopped at the top of the hill, swayed a bit, then carried on. “It seemed to me Monsieur Castonguay was the one being abusive.”
“But he was provoked,” said Marois. “Fortin knew how André would react as soon as he sat at the table. And then—”
“Yes?”
“Well, ordering more drinks. Getting André drunk.”
“Did he know Monsieur Castonguay has a problem?”
“Daddy’s little problem?” Marois smiled, then shook his head. “It’s become an open secret. Most of the time he has it under control. Has to. But sometimes—”
He made an eloquent gesture with his hands.
Yes, thought Gamache. Sometimes—
“And then to actually tell André he was here to try to sign the Morrows. Fortin was just asking for trouble. Smug little man.”
“Aren’t you being a bit disingenuous?” Gamache asked. “After all, that’s the reason you’re here.”
Marois laughed. “Touché. But we were here first.”
“Are you telling me there’s a dibs system? There’s so much about the art world I didn’t know.”
“What I meant is that no one needs to tell me what great art is. I see it, I know it. Clara’s art is brilliant. I don’t need the Times, or Denis Fortin, or André Castonguay to tell me. But some people buy art with their ears and some with their eyes.”
“Does Denis Fortin need to be told?”
“In my opinion, yes.”
“And do you spread your opinion around? Is that why Fortin hates you?”
Fran?ois Marois turned his complete attention to the Chief Inspector. His face was no longer a cipher. His astonishment was obvious.
“Hate me? I’m sure he doesn’t. We’re competitors, yes, often going after the same artists and buyers, and it can get pretty gruesome, but I think there’s a respect, a collegiality. And I keep my opinions to myself.”
“You told me,” said Gamache.
Marois hesitated. “You asked. Otherwise I would never have said anything.”
“Is Clara likely to sign with Fortin?”
“She might. Everyone loves a repentant sinner. And I’m sure he’s doing his mea culpas right now.”
“He already has,” said Gamache. “That’s how he got invited to the vernissage.”
“Ahhh,” nodded Marois. “I was wondering about that.” He looked troubled for the first time. Then, with an effort, his handsome face cleared. “Clara’s no fool. She’ll see through him. He didn’t know what he had with her before, and he still doesn’t understand her paintings. He’s worked hard to build up a reputation as cutting edge, but he isn’t. One false move, one bad show, and the whole thing will come crashing down. A reputation’s a fragile thing, as Fortin knows better than most.”