“Do you know who killed her?” Jerome asked.
“I’m getting closer,” said Gamache, gathering up the photographs. “What can you tell me about Francois Marois and Andre Castonguay?”
Therese raised a finely shaped brow. “The art dealers? Are they involved?”
“Along with Denis Fortin, yes.”
“Well,” said Therese, sipping her white wine. “Castonguay has his own gallery, but most of his income comes from the Kelley contract. He landed it decades ago and has managed to hold on to it.”
“You make it sound tenuous.”
“I’m actually amazed he still has it. He’s lost a lot of his influence in recent years, with new, more contemporary galleries opening.”
“Like Fortin’s?”
“Exactly like Fortin. Very aggressive. Fortin’s taken a real run at the gentlemen’s club. Can’t say I blame him. They shut him out so he had no choice but to pound down the doors.”
“Denis Fortin doesn’t seem content with pounding down just the doors,” said Gamache, taking a thin slice of cured Italian sausage and a black olive. “I get the impression he wants everything to come crashing down around Castonguay’s ears. Fortin wants it all, and means to get it.”
“Van Gogh’s ear,” said Therese, and smiled as Gamache paused before putting the sliced sausage in his mouth. “Not the cold cut, Armand. You’re safe. Though I can’t vouch for the olives.”
She gave him a wicked look.
“Did you just say, ‘Van Gogh’s ear’?” asked the Chief Inspector. “Someone else used the same expression earlier in the investigation. Can’t remember who now. What does it mean?”
“It means scooping up everything for fear of missing something important. Like they missed Van Gogh’s genius in another era. Denis Fortin is doing just that. Grabbing up all the promising artists, in case one of them turns out to be the new Van Gogh, or Damien Hirst or Anish Kapoor.”
“The next big thing. He missed it with Clara Morrow.”
“He sure did,” agreed Superintendent Brunel. “Which must make him desperate not to do it again.”
“So he’d want this artist?” Gamache indicated the now closed dossier on the table.
She nodded. “I think so. As I said, beautiful isn’t in, but then if you’re going to find the next big thing it won’t be among all the people doing what everyone else’s doing. You need to find someone creating their own form. Like her.”
She tapped the dossier with a manicured finger.
“And Francois Marois?” asked Gamache. “How does he fit in?”
“Ah, now there’s a good question. He gives every appearance of urbane disinterest, certainly in the infighting. Seems to live above the fray. Claims to only want to promote great art and the artists. And he certainly knows it. Of all the dealers in Canada, and certainly in this city, I’d say he’s most likely to recognize talent.”
“And then what?”
Therese Brunel looked at Gamache closely. “You’ve obviously spent time with him, Armand. What do you think?”
Gamache thought for a moment. “I think of all the dealers he’s the most likely to get what he wants.”
Brunel nodded slowly. “He’s a predator,” she finally said. “Patient, ruthless. As charming as can be, as you’ve probably noticed, until he spots what he wants. And then? Best to hide somewhere until the slaughter is over.”
“That bad?”
“That bad. I’ve never known Francois Marois not to get his way.”
“Has he ever broken the law?”
She shook her head. “Not the laws of man, anyway.”
The three friends sat quietly for a moment. Until finally Gamache spoke.
“I’ve come across a quote in this case and wonder if you know it.
He sat back and watched their reactions. Therese, so serious a moment before, smiled a bit while her husband guffawed.
“I know that quote. From a critique, I believe. But many years ago,” said Therese.
“It was. A review in
“By her or about her?”
“The review mentions a ‘he,’ Therese,” said her husband with amusement.
“That’s true, but Armand might have misquoted. He’s famous for shoddy work, you know,” she said with a smile, and Gamache laughed.
“Well, this time, by dumb luck, I got it right,” he said. “Do you remember who the line was written about?”
Therese Brunel thought, then shook her head. “I’m sorry, Armand. As I say, it’s become a famous line, but I suspect whoever it was written about didn’t become a famous artist.”
