Castonguay fixed a belligerent look on Denis Fortin. “What’s he been promising you? Solo shows? A joint show? Or maybe just a joint? He could be selling lawn furniture, for all he knows about art. Stank at it himself, and now he stinks as a gallery owner. The only thing he’s good at is mind-fucks.”
Gamache caught Beauvoir’s eye, who signaled subtly to Lacoste. The three officers positioned themselves around Castonguay, but let him continue.
Francois Marois appeared at Gamache’s elbow.
“Stop this,” he whispered.
“He’s done nothing wrong,” said the Chief.
“He’s humiliating himself,” said Marois, looking agitated. “He doesn’t deserve this. He’s sick.”
“Now, you two.” Castonguay swirled and lost his balance, stumbling against the sofa.
“Jeez,” said Ruth, “don’t you just hate a drunk?”
Castonguay righted himself and turned to, and on, Normand and Paulette. “Don’t think we don’t know why you’re here.”
“We came down for Clara’s party,” said Paulette.
“Shhh,” hissed Normand. “Don’t encourage him.” But it was too late. Castonguay had her in his sights.
“But why’d you stay? Not to support Clara,” he sputtered with laughter. “The only thing worse than poets for hating each other is artists.” He turned to Ruth and bowed exaggeratedly. “Madame.”
“Fucking idiot,” said Ruth, then she turned to Gabri. “Can’t say he isn’t right, though.”
“You hate Clara, you hate her art, you hate all artists,” Castonguay closed in on Normand and Paulette. “Probably even hate each other. And yourselves. And you sure hated the dead woman, and with good reason.”
“All right,” said Marois, breaking into the void and approaching Castonguay. “Time to say good night to these nice people and go to bed.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” shouted Castonguay, twisting away from Marois.
Gamache, Beauvoir and Lacoste moved a step closer as everyone else took a step back.
“You’d like that. You’d like me to just go away. But I found her first. She was going to sign with me. And then you stole her.”
His voice rose, and with a jerk Castonguay pitched his glass at Marois. It whizzed by him, shattering against the wall.
And then Castonguay launched himself at the elderly dealer, clasping his strong hands around Marois’s throat, propelling the two of them backward.
The Surete officers leapt after them, Gamache and Beauvoir grabbing Castonguay, and Lacoste trying to get her body between the struggling art dealers. Finally Castonguay was pried off Marois.
Francois Marois held his throat and stared, shocked, at his colleague. And he wasn’t alone. Everyone in the room stared at Castonguay, as he was arrested and led away.
* * *
Armand Gamache and Jean Guy Beauvoir returned to Peter and Clara’s home an hour later. This time Gamache did accept a drink, and subsided into the large armchair Gabri offered.
Everyone was still there, as he expected they would be. Too wired from the events, and with too many questions still to be answered to be able to go to bed. They couldn’t rest yet.
And neither could he.
“Ahh,” he said, taking a sip of cognac. “This tastes good.”
“What a day,” said Peter.
“And it’s not over yet. Agent Lacoste is looking after Monsieur Castonguay and the paperwork.”
“By herself?” asked Myrna, looking from Gamache to Beauvoir.
“She knows what she’s doing,” said the Chief Inspector. Myrna’s look said she sure hoped he knew what he was doing.
“So what happened?” asked Clara. “I’m all confused.”
Gamache sat forward in the chair. Everyone took seats or perched on the arms of the easy chairs. Only Beauvoir and Peter remained standing. Peter as a good host, and Beauvoir as a good officer.
Outside the rain had picked up and they could hear it tapping against the windowpanes. The door to the porch was still open, to let in fresh air, and they could hear rain hitting the leaves outside.
“This murder is about contrasts,” said Gamache, his voice low, soft. “About sober and drunk. About appearance and reality. About change for the better, or for the worse. The play of light and dark.”
He looked at their attentive faces.
“A word was used at your
“I’m almost afraid to ask,” she said, with a weary smile.
“Chiaroscuro. It means the contrast between light and dark. Their juxtaposition. You do it in your portraits, Clara. In the colors you use, the shading, but also in the emotions your works evoke. Especially in the portrait of Ruth—”
