humiliation.”
“She had a lot to apologize for,” said Fortin.
Gamache turned to the gallery owner. “She did. And she got an early start. But she hadn’t taken in the second part of that step. About the possibility of doing damage. Or, perhaps she had.”
“What d’you mean?” Suzanne asked.
“I think some of her amends, while early, were sincere. But I think some weren’t. I think while she was healing she wasn’t yet healthy. Old habits slipped in, disguised as noble deeds. After all, as many of you just asked, how could an apology ever be wrong? But sometimes it is. One amend gave the murderer a motive. Another gave that murderer an opportunity.”
They glanced at each other again. In the shadows Gamache noticed Beauvoir ease himself around until he was standing in front of the door to the kitchen. The only way out of the room.
They were close. Gamache knew it. Beauvoir knew it. And someone else in the dim room knew it too. The murderer must have felt their hot breaths.
Gamache turned to Clara.
“Lillian came down here to apologize to you. I honestly believe a big part of her was sincere. But a part wasn’t. She didn’t need to come on the night of your big celebration. She didn’t need to wear a dress designed to get attention. Lillian knew she was probably the last person you’d want to see as you celebrated your success.”
“So why did she come?” asked Clara.
“Because the part of her that was still sick wanted to hurt you. Wanted to ruin your big night.”
Clara closed her hand tighter around the coin, feeling it a hard circle in her palm.
“But how’d she know about the party?” asked Myrna. “It was private. And how’d she find the place? Three Pines isn’t exactly a destination.”
“Someone told her,” said Gamache. “The murderer told her. About the party and how to find it.”
“Why?” asked Peter.
“Because the murderer wanted to hurt Lillian. Kill Lillian. But he also wanted to hurt Clara.”
“Me?” asked Clara, dumbfounded. “Why? Who?”
She looked around the room, searching for someone who could hate her so much. And her eyes came to rest on one person.
TWENTY-NINE
All eyes turned to look.
The murderer smiled tentatively, then his eyes darted around the room, resting finally on Jean Guy Beauvoir, standing in the doorway to the kitchen. The only way out. Blocked.
“You?” said Clara, barely above a whisper. “You killed Lillian?”
Denis Fortin turned to face Clara.
“Lillian Dyson deserved what she got. The only surprise is that someone hadn’t wrung her neck sooner.”
Olivier, Gabri and Suzanne moved away from him, getting over to the other side of the room. The gallery owner stood up, and looked at them, across a great divide.
Only Gamache seemed at ease. Unlike the rest, he hadn’t scrambled to safety, but remained seated across from Fortin.
“Lillian had gone to apologize to you, hadn’t she,” said the Chief Inspector, as though having a friendly chat with an excitable guest.
Fortin stared at him and finally nodded, then sat back down.
“She didn’t even make an appointment. Just showed up at the gallery. Said she was sorry she’d been so horrible in her review.”
Fortin had to pause, to gather himself.
“‘I’m sorry,’” he said, lifting a finger for each word, “‘I was cruel in my review of your art.’”
He looked at his fingers. “Eleven words, and she thinks that makes us even. Have you seen the review?”
Gamache nodded. “I have it here. But I won’t read it.”
Fortin met his eyes. “Well, thank you for that, at least. I can’t even remember the exact wording, but I know it was as though she’d strapped a bomb to my chest and set it off. All the worse because at my show she was gushing. Couldn’t have been friendlier. Said how much she loved the works. Convinced me I could expect a glowing review in
Fortin stopped to gather himself again. The lights flickered, staying off longer. Peter and Clara got candles from the sideboard and placed them around the room, ready in case they lost power.
Outside lightning flashed and forked behind the mountains. Closing in on Three Pines.
Rain pelted against the windowpanes.
“And then the review appeared. It wasn’t just bad, it was a catastrophe. Malicious. Mocking. She made fun of what I’d created. My paintings may not have been brilliant, but I was just starting, doing my best. And she dug her heels into them and ground. It was more than just humiliating. I might’ve recovered from that, it was that she convinced even me that I had no talent. She killed the best part of me.”
