A Trick of the Light

“No, I know. I’d heard of course about her vernissage at the Musee and decided to go.”

“Why? You’d dropped her as an artist and split under not very good conditions. In fact you quite humiliated her.”

“Did she tell you that?”

Gamache was silent, staring at the other man.

“Of course she did. Where else would you have heard it? I remember now. You two are friends. Is that why you’re here? To threaten me?”

“Am I being threatening? I think you might find it difficult to convince anyone of that.” Gamache tilted his beer glass toward the still astonished gallery owner.

“There are other ways of threatening besides putting a gun in my face,” snapped Fortin.

“Quite so. My point earlier. There’re different forms of violence. Different ways to kill while keeping the body alive. But I’m not here to threaten you.”

Was he really so easily threatened? Gamache wondered. Was Fortin himself so vulnerable that a simple conversation with a police officer would feel like an attack? Perhaps Fortin really was more like the artists he represented than he believed. And perhaps he lived in more fear than he admitted.

“I’m almost finished and then I’ll leave you to what’s left of your Sunday,” said Gamache, his voice pleasant. “Why, if you’d decided Clara Morrow’s art wasn’t worth your while, did you go to her vernissage?”

Fortin took a deep, deep breath, held it for a moment while staring at Gamache, then let it out in a long beer- infused exhale.

“I went because I wanted to apologize to her.”

Now it was Gamache’s turn to be surprised. Fortin didn’t seem the sort to admit fault easily.

Fortin took another deep breath. This was clearly taking a toll.

“When I was in Three Pines last summer to discuss the show, Clara and I had drinks at that bistro and a large man served us. Anyway, I said something stupid about him when he’d left. Clara later called me on it and I’m afraid I was so annoyed at her doing that I lashed out. Canceled her show. It was a stupid thing to do and I almost immediately regretted it. But by then it was too late. I’d already announced it and I couldn’t go back.”

Armand Gamache stared at Denis Fortin, trying to decide if he believed him. But there was an easy way to confirm his story. Just ask Clara.

“So you went to the opening to apologize to Clara? Why bother?”

Now Fortin colored slightly and looked to his right, out the window, into the early evening light. Outside, people would be gathering on the terrasses up and down St-Denis for beers and martinis, for wine and pitchers of sangria. Enjoying one of the first really warm, sunny days of spring.

Inside the quiet gallery, though, the atmosphere was neither warm nor sunny.

“I knew she was going to be big. I’d offered her a solo show because her art is like no other out there. Have you seen it?”

Fortin leaned forward, toward Gamache. No longer wrapped up in his own anxiety, no longer defensive. Now he was almost giddy. Excited. Energized talking about great works of art.

Here, Gamache realized, was a man who truly loved art. He might be a businessman, might be opportunistic. Might be a ranting egoist.

But he knew and loved great art. Clara’s art.

Lillian Dyson’s art?

“I have,” said the Chief Inspector. “And I agree. She’s remarkable.”

Fortin launched into a passionate dissection of Clara’s portraits. The nuances, right down to the use of tiny strokes within longer, languid strokes of her brush. It was fascinating for Gamache to hear. And he found himself enjoying this time with Fortin, despite himself.

But he hadn’t come to discuss Clara’s painting.

“As I remember, you called Gabri a ‘fucking queer.’”

The words had the desired effect. They weren’t simply shocking, they were disgusting, disgraceful. Especially in light of what Fortin was just describing. The light and grace and hope Clara had created.

“I did,” Fortin admitted. “It’s something I say often. Said often. I don’t anymore.”

“Why would you say it at all?”

“It’s what you were saying earlier, about different ways to kill. A lot of my artists are gay. When I’m with a new artist I know is gay, I’d often point someone out and say what you just said. It throws them off. Keeps them afraid, off balance. It’s a mind-fuck. And if they don’t fight back I know I have them.”

“And do they?”

“Fight back? Clara was the first. That should’ve also told me she was something special. An artist with a voice, a vision and a backbone. But that backbone can be inconvenient. Much rather have them compliant.”

“So you fired her, and tried to smear her reputation.”

“Didn’t work,” he smiled ruefully. “The Musee scooped her up. I went there to apologize. I knew that pretty soon she’d be the one with all the power, all the influence.”

“Enlightened self-interest on your part?” Gamache asked.