A Trick of the Light

“Exactly. Huge corporate buyer. They invest heavily in art for their offices worldwide. Makes them seem less money grubbing and more sophisticated. And guess who finds them the art?”

It needed no answer. Andre Castonguay had plunged headlong into the doorway of the inn and spa. And disappeared.

“They’re fairly conservative, of course,” continued the dealer. “But then, so’s Andre.”

“If he’s so conservative why’s he interested in Clara Morrow’s work?”

“He’s not.”

“Peter?”

“I think so. This way he gets two for one. A painter whose work he can sell to Kelley Foods. Safe, conventional, respected. Nothing too daring or suggestive. But he’ll also get all sorts of publicity and legitimacy in picking up someone truly avante-garde. Clara Morrow. Never underestimate the power of greed, Chief Inspector. Or ego.”

“I’ll make a note of that, merci.” Gamache smiled and watched Marois follow Castonguay up the hill.

“Not with a club the heart is broken.”

Gamache turned toward the voice. Ruth was sitting on the bench, her back to him.

“Nor with a stone,” she said, apparently to thin air. “A whip so small you could not see it I have known.”

Gamache sat next to her.

“Emily Dickinson,” said Ruth, staring ahead of her.

“Armand Gamache,” said the Chief Inspector.

“Not me, you idiot. The poem.”

She turned angry eyes on him, only to find the Chief smiling. She gave one large guffaw.

“Not with a club the heart is broken,” repeated Gamache. It was familiar. Reminded him of something someone had recently said.

“A lot of drama today,” said Ruth. “Too much noise. Scares away the birds.”

And sure enough, there wasn’t a bird in sight, though Gamache knew she was thinking of one bird, not many.

Rosa, her duck, who had flown south last fall. And had not returned with the rest. Had not returned to the nest.

But Ruth hadn’t given up hope.

Sitting quietly on the bench, Gamache remembered why that phrase from the Dickinson poem was so familiar. Opening the book still in his hands he looked down at the words highlighted by a dead woman.

Hearts are broken. Sweet relationships are dead.

Then he noticed someone watching them from the bistro. Olivier.

“How’s he doing?” Gamache asked, gesturing slightly toward the bistro.

“Who?”

“Olivier.”

“I don’t know. Who cares?”

Gamache was quiet for a moment. “He’s a good friend of yours, as I remember,” said the Chief Inspector.

Ruth was silent, her face immobile.

“People make mistakes,” said Gamache. “He’s a good man, you know. And I know he loves you.”

Ruth made a rude noise. “Look, all he cares about is money. Not me, not Clara or Peter. Not even Gabri. Not really. He’d sell us all for a few bucks. You should know that better than most.”

“I’ll tell you what I know,” said Gamache. “I know he made a mistake. And I know he’s sorry. And I know he’s trying to make it up.”

“But not to you. He barely looks at you.”

“Would you? If I arrested you for a crime you hadn’t committed, would you forgive?”

“Olivier lied to us. To me.”

“Everyone lies,” said Gamache. “Everyone hides things. His were pretty bad, but I’ve seen worse. Much worse.”

Ruth’s already thin lips all but disappeared.

“I’ll tell you who did lie,” she said. “That man you were just speaking to.”

“Francois Marois?”

“Well, I don’t know his fucking name. How many men were you just talking to? Whatever his name was, he wasn’t telling you the truth.”

“How so?”