A Trick of the Light

harder it was to stop himself. And he could see that the more ridiculous his statements the more these two paid attention.

Until he’d finally delivered his coup de grace.

He trotted out a word he’d heard someone use that evening, a word he’d never heard before and had no idea what it meant. He’d turned to the painting of the Three Graces, the elderly and joyous old women, and said—

“The only word that comes to mind is, of course, ‘chiaroscuro.’”

Not surprisingly, the artists had looked at him as though he was mad.

Which made him mad. So mad he said something he instantly regretted.

“I haven’t introduced myself,” he said in his most refined French. “I am Monsieur Beauvoir, the art critic for Le Monde.”

“Monsieur Beauvoir?” the man had asked, his eyes widening nicely.

“But of course. Just Monsieur Beauvoir. I find no need for a first name. Too bourgeois. Clutters up the page. You read my reviews, bien sur?”

The rest of the evening had been quite pleasant, as word spread that the famous Parisian critic “Monsieur Beauvoir” was there. And all agreed that Clara’s works were a marvelous example of chiaroscuro.

He’d have to look it up, one of these days.

The two artists had in turn introduced themselves as simply “Normand” and “Paulette.”

“We use only our first names.”

He’d thought they were joking, but apparently not. And now here they were again.

Normand, in the same slacks, worn tweed jacket and scarf from the night before, and his partner Paulette, also in the same peasant-type skirt, blouse and scarves.

Now they were looking from him to Gamache, and back again.

“I have two pieces of bad news,” said Gamache, steering them inside. “There’s been a murder, and this is not Monsieur Beauvoir, the art critic for Le Monde, but Inspector Beauvoir, a homicide investigator with the Surete du Quebec.”

The murder they already knew about, so it was the Beauvoir news they found most upsetting. Gamache watched with some amusement as they lit into the Inspector.

Beauvoir, noticing the Chief’s grin, whispered, “Just so you know, I also said you were Monsieur Gamache, the head curator at the Louvre. Enjoy.”

That, thought Gamache, would explain the unexpectedly large number of invitations to art shows he’d received at the vernissage. He made a note not to show up to any of them.

“When did you decide to stay overnight?” asked the Chief, once the vitriol had been exhausted.

“Well, we’d planned to head home after the party, but it was late and…” Paulette gave a shove of her head toward Normand, as though to indicate he’d had too many.

“The B and B owner gave us toiletries and bathrobes,” Normand explained. “We’re heading off to Cowansville in a few minutes to buy some clothes.”

“Not going back to Montreal?” asked Gamache.

“Not right away. We thought we’d stay for a day or so. Make a holiday of it.”

At Gamache’s invitation they took seats in the comfortable living room, the artists sitting side-by-side on one sofa, Beauvoir and the Chief Inspector sitting opposite them on the other.

“So who was killed?” Paulette asked. “It wasn’t Clara, was it?”

She almost managed to hide her optimism.

“No,” said Beauvoir. “Are you friends?” Though the answer seemed obvious.

This brought a snort of amusement from Normand.

“You clearly don’t know artists, Inspector. We can be civil, friendly even. But friends? Better to make friends with a wolverine.”

“What brought you here then, if not friendship with Clara?” Beauvoir asked.

“Free food and drink. Lots of drink,” said Normand, smoothing the hair from his eyes. There was a sort of world-weary style about the man. As though he’d seen it all and was slightly amused and saddened by it.

“So it wasn’t to celebrate her art?” Beauvoir asked.

“Her art isn’t bad,” said Paulette. “I like it better than what she was producing a decade ago.”

“Too much chiaroscuro,” said Normand, apparently forgetting who’d mentioned the word to begin with. “Her show last night was an improvement,” Normand continued, “though that wouldn’t be hard. Who could forget her exhibition of massive feet?”

“But really, Normand,” said Paulette. “Portraits? What self-respecting artist does portraits anymore?”

Normand nodded. “Her art’s derivative. Facile. Yes the subjects had character in their faces, and they were well executed, but not exactly breaking new ground. Nothing original or bold. There was nothing there we couldn’t see in a second-rate provincial gallery in Slovenia.”

“Why would the Musee d’Art Contemporain give her a solo show if her art was so bad?” asked Beauvoir.

“Who knows,” said Normand. “A favor. Politics. These big institutions aren’t about real art, not about taking