Francois Marois opened his mouth to speak but Gamache silenced him with a movement.
No one would rescue Castonguay but himself.
“It’s true,” the gallery owner said at last. “I guess I do know her.”
“You guess, or you do?”
“I do, OK?”
Gamache gave him a stern look and replaced the photographs.
“Why did you lie?”
Castonguay sighed and shook his head. “I didn’t. I was tired, maybe a little hung-over. I didn’t take a good enough look at the picture the first time, that’s all. It wasn’t deliberate.”
Gamache doubted that was true but decided not to press it. It would be a waste of time and only make the man more defensive. “Did you know Lillian Dyson well?” he asked instead.
“Not well. I’d seen her at a few openings recently. She’d even approached me.” Castonguay said this as though she’d done something unsavory. “Said she had a portfolio of work and could she show me.”
“And what did you say?”
Castonguay looked at Gamache with astonishment. “I said no, of course. Do you have any idea how many artists send me their portfolios?”
Gamache remained silent, waiting for the haughty response.
“I get hundreds a month, from all over the world.”
“So you turned her down? But maybe her work was good,” suggested the Chief Inspector and was treated to another withering look.
“If she was any good I’d have heard of her by now. She wasn’t exactly a bright young thing. Most artists, if they’re going to do anything good, have done it by the time they’re in their thirties.”
“But not always,” persisted Gamache. “Clara Morrow’s the same age as Madame Dyson, and she’s only now being discovered.”
“Not by me. I still say her work stinks,” said Castonguay.
Gamache turned to Francois Marois. “And you, monsieur? How well did you know Lillian Dyson?”
“Not well. I’d seen her at
“How did you know?”
“It’s a fairly small artistic community in Montreal. A lot of low-level, leisure artists. Quite a few of medium talent. Those who have the odd show. Who haven’t made a splash but are good, journeymen artists. Like Peter Morrow. Then there are a very few great artists. Like Clara Morrow.”
“And where did Lillian Dyson fit in there?”
“I don’t know,” admitted Marois. “Like Andre, she asked me to look at her portfolio but I just couldn’t agree. Too many other calls on my time.”
“Why did you decide to stay in Three Pines last night?” Gamache asked.
“As I told you before, it was a last-minute decision. I wanted to see where Clara creates her works.”
“Yes, you did,” said Gamache. “But you didn’t tell me to what end.”
“Does there have to be an end?” asked Marois. “Isn’t just seeing enough?”
“For most people, perhaps, but not for you, I suspect.”
Marois’s sharp eyes held Gamache. None too pleased.
“Look, Clara Morrow’s standing at a cross-roads,” said the art dealer. “She has to make a decision. She was just handed a phenomenal opportunity, so far the critics adore her, but tomorrow they’ll adore someone else. She needs someone to guide her. A mentor.”
Gamache looked bemused. “A mentor?”
He left it hanging there.
There was a long, charged, silence.
“Yes,” said Marois, his gracious manner enveloping him again. “I’m near the end of my career, I know that. I can guide one, perhaps two more remarkable artists. I need to choose carefully. I have no time to waste. I’ve spent the past year looking for that one artist, perhaps my last. Gone to hundreds of
The distinguished art dealer looked around. At the broken-down horse in the field, saved from slaughter. At the trees and at the forest.
“In my own backyard.”
“In the middle of nowhere, you mean,” said Castonguay, and went back to staring with displeasure at the scene.
“It’s clear Clara’s a remarkable artist,” said Marois, ignoring the gallery owner. “But the very gifts that make her that also make her unable to navigate the art world.”
“You might be underestimating Clara Morrow,” said Gamache.
