A Trick of the Light

They all looked at the photocopied article. Something dragged up from a morgue. Buried in the files, but far from dead.

There was a picture of Suzanne, unmistakable even twenty-five years younger. She was grinning and standing in front of one of her paintings. Proud. Excited. Her dream finally coming true. Her art finally noticed. After all, the reviewer for La Presse was there.

Suzanne’s smile in the photograph was permanent, but in person it faded, to be replaced by something else. A look of almost whimsy.

“I remember that moment. The photographer asking me to stand beside one of my works and smile. But smiling wasn’t a problem. Had he asked me to stop, that might’ve been difficult. The vernissage was at a local cafe. Lots of people there. And then Lillian introduced herself. I’d seen her at shows but always avoided her. She seemed so sour. But this time she was really sweet. Asked me some questions and said she was going to do a review of my show in La Presse. That photograph,” she gestured toward the paper on the table, “was taken about thirty seconds after she said that.”

They all looked again.

It showed a young Suzanne with a smile that burst out of the old photograph. It lit up the room even now. A young woman, though, who didn’t yet realize the ground had just fallen out from underneath her. Who didn’t yet appreciate she’d been tossed into mid-air. Into thin air. By the sweet woman beside her, taking notes. Also smiling.

It was a chilling image. Like seeing a person just as the truck enters the frame. Milliseconds before the disaster.

“She’s a natural,” said Suzanne, not needing to read the review, “producing art like it’s a bodily function.” She looked up from the table, and smiled. “Never had another solo show. Too humiliated. Even if gallery owners had forgotten I hadn’t. I didn’t think I could survive another review like that.”

She looked at Chief Inspector Gamache.

“All the King’s horses, and all the King’s men,” he said quietly. And she nodded.

“I’d had a great fall.”

“You lied to us,” said the Chief.

“I did.” She looked directly into his eyes.

“Suzanne.” The Chief Justice placed a hand on her arm.

“It’s OK,” she said. “I was always going to tell them the truth, you know that. It’s just a shame they came for me first, before I had a chance to volunteer it.”

“You had plenty of chances,” said Beauvoir.

Pineault jerked, springing to her defense, but contained himself.

“You’re right,” said Suzanne.

“She’s telling the truth,” said Brian.

Everyone turned to him, surprised by the words, but also the voice. It was shockingly young, reminding them that beneath the ink and torn skin was a boy.

“Suzanne asked Thierry and me to join her for dinner. To talk,” said Brian. “She told us all about that.” He gestured an inked hand casually toward the article. “And said she was going to speak to you first thing in the morning.”

It was also shocking to hear this tattooed, pierced kid call the Chief Justice by his first name. Gamache looked at Pineault and couldn’t decide if he admired him for helping such a damaged young man, or felt he’d lost all sense.

What other mistakes in judgment was the distinguished jurist making?

The Chief Inspector turned experienced eyes on Brian. The young man was relaxed, comfortable even. Was he high? Gamache wondered. He certainly seemed removed from the situation. Not amused, but not upset either. Sort of floating above it.

“And what did you tell her?” asked Beauvoir, keeping his eye on Brian. He’d met punks like this before, and it rarely ended well.

“I was torn,” admitted Pineault. “The jurist in me thought she should get a lawyer, who’d probably tell her to keep quiet. Not volunteer information. The AA member thought she should tell the truth immediately.”

“And who won?” asked Beauvoir.

“Your people arrived before I could say anything.”

“You must have known, though, that this was improper,” said Gamache.

“The Chief Justice giving advice to a murder suspect?” Thierry asked. “Of course I knew it was improper, perhaps even unethical. But if your daughter or son were suspected of murder and came to you, would you send them off to someone else?”

“Of course not. But you’re not saying Suzanne is a blood relative?”

“I’m saying I know Suzanne better than most, and she knows me. Better than any parent, sibling, child. Just as we know Brian, and he us.”

“I appreciate that you understand each other’s addiction to alcohol,” said Gamache. “But you can’t claim to know what’s in each other’s hearts. You can’t be saying that just by virtue of being sober and belonging to AA Suzanne is innocent. You can’t possibly know if she’s even telling the truth now. And you can’t possibly know if she’s guilty of murder.”