A Trick of the Light

“Looking for free booze and food,” mumbled Castonguay.

“You said Madame Dyson asked you to look at her portfolio,” Gamache said to Castonguay, “which you refused. But I was under the impression she was a critic, not an artist.”

“True,” said Castonguay. “She’d written for La Presse, but that was many years ago. Then she vanished and someone else took over.”

He seemed barely polite, bored.

“Was she a good critic?”

“How d’you expect me to remember that?”

“The same way I expected you to remember her from the photo, monsieur.” Gamache eyed the art gallery owner steadily. Castonguay’s already flushed face grew ruddier.

“I remember her reviews, Chief Inspector,” Marois said and turned to Castonguay. “And so do you.”

“I do not.” Castonguay shot him a look of loathing.

“He’s a natural, producing art like it’s a bodily function.”

“No,” laughed Castonguay. “Lillian Dyson wrote that? Merde. With that sort of bile she might’ve been a decent artist after all.”

“But who was the line written about?” Gamache asked both men.

“It can’t have been anyone famous or we’d have remembered,” said Marois. “Probably some poor artist who sank into oblivion.”

Tied to this rock of a review, thought Gamache.

“Does it matter?” asked Castonguay. “It was twenty years ago or more. You think a review from decades ago has anything to do with her murder?”

“I think murder has a long memory.”

“If you’ll excuse me, I have some phone calls to make,” said Andre Castonguay.

Marois and Gamache watched him walk off toward the inn and spa.

“You know what he’s doing, don’t you?” Marois turned back to his companion.

“He’s calling the Morrows, to convince them to meet with him.”

Marois smiled. “Exactement.”

The two men strolled back toward the inn and spa themselves.

“Aren’t you worried?”

“I’m never worried about Andre. He’s no threat to me. If the Morrows are foolish enough to sign with him then he’s welcome to them.”

But Gamache didn’t believe it for a moment. Francois Marois’s eyes were too sharp, too shrewd for that. His relaxed manner too studied.

No, this man cared a great deal. He was wealthy. He was powerful. So it wasn’t about that.

Fear and greed. That was what drove the art world. And Gamache knew it was probably true. So if it wasn’t greed on Marois’s part, then the other must be true.

It was fear.

But what could this elderly, eminent dealer be afraid of?

“Will you join me, monsieur?” Armand Gamache extended his arm, inviting Francois Marois to walk with him. “I’m going into the village.”

Marois, who had had no intention of walking down into Three Pines again, considered the invitation and recognized it for what it was. A polite request. Not quite a command, but close enough.

He took his place beside the Chief Inspector and both walked slowly down the slope and into the village.

“Very pretty,” said Marois. He stopped and surveyed Three Pines, a smile on his lips. “I can see why Clara Morrow chose to live here. It is magical.”

“I sometimes wonder how important place is to an artist.” Gamache also looked out over the quiet village. “So many choose the great cities. Paris, London, Venice. Cold water flats and lofts in Soho and Chelsea. Lillian Dyson moved to New York, for instance. But Clara didn’t. The Morrows chose here. Does where they live affect what they create?”

“Oh, without a doubt. Where they live and who they spend time with. I don’t think Clara’s series of portraits could have been created any place other than here.”

“It’s fascinating to me that some look at her work and see just nice portraits of mostly elderly women. Traditional, staid even. But you don’t.”

“Neither do you, Chief Inspector, any more than when you and I look at Three Pines we see a village.”

“And what do you see, Monsieur Marois?”

“I see a painting.”

“A painting?”

“A beautiful one, to be sure. But all paintings, the most disturbing and the most exquisite, are made up of the