A Trick of the Light

Denis Fortin stopped trembling. He stopped moving. He seemed to stop breathing. He just ground to a halt. Staring blankly ahead.

A giant flash lit up the village green followed immediately by a bang so loud it shook the little house. Everyone leapt, including Gamache. The rain now pounded against the windows, demanding to be let in. Outside they could hear the wild wind in the trees. Twisting them, shaking them. In the next flash of lightning they could see young leaves torn from maples and poplars and whipping across the village green. They could hear the aspens, quaking.

And in the center of the village they could see the three great pines, twirling at their tops. Catching the whirlwind.

The guests looked at each other, wide eyed. Waiting. Listening. Expecting a rending, a tearing, a crashing.

“I stopped painting,” said Fortin, raising his voice above the din. The only one who seemed not to care or notice the storm.

“But you made a career for yourself as a gallery owner,” said Clara, trying to ignore what was happening outside. “You were a huge success.”

“And you ruined that,” said Fortin.

The storm was now directly overhead. Peter lit the candles and the oil lamps as the lights flickered on and off. On and off.

Clara, though, was frozen in her chair. Staring at Denis Fortin.

“I’d told everyone I’d dropped you because you were crap, and they believed me. Until the Musee decided to give you a solo show. A solo show, for chrissake. It made me look like a fool. I lost all credibility. I have nothing except my reputation, and you took that away.”

“Is that why you killed Lillian here?” asked Clara. “In our garden?”

“When people remember your show,” he said, staring at her, “I want them to remember a corpse in your garden. I want you to remember that. To think of your solo show, and to see Lillian, dead.”

He glared at the semi-circle of faces. They looked as though he was something fetid, something fecal.

The lights flickered, then dimmed. A brown-out. They could feel the strain as the light fought to stay on.

And then it left.

And they were left with the wavering candle-light.

No one spoke. Instead they waited, to see if something else would happen. Something worse. They could hear the furious lashing of the wind in the trees, and the rain against the windows and the roof.

Gamache, though, never took his eyes off Denis Fortin.

“If you hated me that much, why’d you come to my vernissage at the Musee?” Clara asked.

Fortin turned back to Gamache. “Can you guess?”

“To apologize,” said Gamache.

Fortin smiled. “Once Lillian left and the howl in my head settled down, I got to thinking.”

“How to kill twice,” said Gamache.

“A coup de grace,” said Fortin.

“Grace had nothing to do with it,” said Gamache. “It was a plan filled with hatred.”

“If it was, it was put there by Lillian,” said Fortin. “She made the monster. She shouldn’t have been surprised when it turned on her. And yet, you know, she was.”

“How did you know Lillian even knew me?” asked Clara.

“She told me. Told me what she was doing. Going around and apologizing to people. She said she’d tried to find you in the Montreal phone book, but you weren’t there. She wondered if I’d ever heard of you.”

“And what did you tell her?”

He smiled then. Slowly.

“At first I said no, but after she left I got to thinking. I called and told her about your show. Her reaction to the news was almost payback enough. She wasn’t altogether happy to hear it.”

His vile smile spread to his eyes.

“The Quebec art world is a small place, and I’d heard about the after-party down here, though I hadn’t, of course, been invited. I told Lillian and suggested it would be a good place for her to talk to you. Took her a few days, but she called back. Wanted the details.”

“But you had a problem,” said the Chief Inspector. “You’d been to Three Pines before, so giving Lillian directions was no problem. And you knew she was happy to crash the party. But you needed to be here too. And for that you needed a legitimate invitation. But you and Clara weren’t exactly on good terms.”

“True, but Lillian had given me an idea.” Fortin looked at Clara. “I knew if I apologized you’d accept. Which is why you’ll never make it in the art world. No guts. No backbone. I knew if I asked to come to the party here, begged, you’d agree. But I didn’t have to. You invited me.”

Fortin shook his head. “I mean, honestly. I treat you like crap and you not only forgive me, but invite me down to your home? You’ve got to have more sense than that, Clara. People’ll take advantage of you, if you’re not careful.”

Clara glared at him, but kept her mouth shut.