A Trick of the Light

“The young fellow wasn’t ordering all the drinks. He was. Long before the young guy showed up the other fellow was drunk.”

“Are you sure?”

“I have a nose for booze, and an eye for drunks.”

“And an ear for lies, apparently.”

Ruth cracked a smile that surprised even her.

Gamache got up and cast a look toward Olivier, before bowing slightly to Ruth and whispering so that only she could hear,

“Now here’s a good one:

you’re lying on your deathbed.

You have one hour to live.”

“Enough,” she interrupted him, her bony hand up and in his face. Not quite touching it, but close enough to block the words. “I know how it ends. And I wonder if you really know the answer to the question?” She looked at him hard. “Who is it, exactly, you have needed all these years to forgive, Chief Inspector?”

He straightened up and left her, walking toward the bridge over the Rivere Bella Bella, lost in thought.

“Chief.”

He turned to see Inspector Beauvoir striding toward him from the Incident Room.

He knew that look. Jean Guy had news.

TWENTY-ONE

All Clara Morrow wanted was to be left alone. But instead she found herself in her kitchen, listening to Denis Fortin. Looking more boyish than ever. More contrite.

“Coffee?” she asked, then wondered why she’d offered. All she wanted was for Fortin to leave.

“No, merci,” he smiled. “I really don’t want to disturb you.”

But you already are, thought Clara, and knew it was uncharitable. She was the one who’d opened the door. She was beginning to dislike doors. Closed or open.

If someone had said a year ago that she’d long for this prestigious gallery owner to leave her home, she’d never have believed it. Her whole effort, the efforts of every artist she knew, including Peter, was to get Fortin’s attention.

But all she could think about was getting rid of him.

“I suspect you know why I’m here,” said Fortin, with a grin. “I’d actually hoped to speak with both you and Peter. Is he home?”

“No, he’s not. Do you want to come back when he’s here?”

“I don’t want to waste your time,” he said, getting up. “I realize we got off to a terrible start. All my fault. I wish I could change all that. I was very, very stupid.”

She started to say something and he put up his hand and smiled.

“You don’t have to be nice, I know what an ass I was. But I’ve learned, and I won’t be like that again. To you or to anyone else, I hope. I’d like to just say this once, and leave. Let you and maybe your husband think about it. Is that OK?”

Clara nodded.

“I’d like to represent both you and Peter. I’m young and we can all grow together. I’ll be around a long time to help guide your careers. I think that’s important. My thought is to build toward a solo show for each of you and then a combined exhibition. Take advantage of both your talents. It would be thrilling. The show of the year, of the decade. Please consider it, that’s all I ask.”

Clara nodded and watched Fortin leave.

*   *   *

Inspector Beauvoir joined the Chief Inspector on the bridge.

“Look at this.” Beauvoir gave him a printout.

Gamache noticed the heading then quickly read down the page. Stopping, as though hitting a wall, three quarters of the way down. He lifted his eyes and met Beauvoir’s, who was waiting. Smiling.

The Chief went back to the sheet, reading more slowly this time. Reading right to the end.

He didn’t want to miss anything, the way they almost had.

“Well done,” he said, handing the page back to Inspector Beauvoir. “How did you find that?”

“I was going over the interviews and realized we might not have talked to everyone at the party down here.”

Gamache was nodding. “Good. Excellent.”

He looked toward the B and B, his arm extended. “Shall we?”

A few moments later they stepped from the bright, warm sunshine onto the cooler verandah. Normand and Paulette had watched their progress across the village green. Indeed, Gamache suspected everyone in the village