A Trick of the Light

“Better than none at all,” said Fortin.

“What happened when you arrived?”

“I got there early and the first person I saw was that guy, the one I insulted.”

“Gabri.”

“Right. I realized I owed him as well. So I apologized to him first. It was quite a festival of contrition.”

Gamache smiled again. Fortin, finally, seemed sincere. And he could always check out the story. Indeed, it was so easy to check Gamache suspected it was the truth. Denis Fortin had gone to the vernissage, uninvited, to apologize.

“And then you approached Clara. What did she say?”

“Actually, she approached me. I guess she heard me saying sorry to Gabri. We got to talking and I said how sorry I was. And congratulated her on a fabulous show. I told her I wished it was at the Galerie Fortin, but that she was much better off at the Musee. She was very nice about it.”

Gamache could hear the relief, and even surprise, in Fortin’s voice.

“She invited me down to the party that night in Three Pines. I actually had dinner plans but felt I couldn’t really say no. So I ducked out to cancel the plans with my friends and went to the barbeque instead.”

“How long did you stay?”

“Honestly? Not long. It’s a long drive down and back. I spoke to a few colleagues, fended off a few mediocre artists—”

Gamache wondered if those included Normand and Paulette and suspected it did.

“—chatted with Clara and Peter so they’d know I was there. Then I left.”

“Did you speak to Andre Castonguay or Francois Marois?”

“I spoke to both of them. Castonguay’s gallery’s just down the road if you’re looking for him.”

“I’ve already talked to him. He’s still in Three Pines, as is Monsieur Marois.”

“Is that right?” said Fortin. “I wonder why.”

Gamache felt in his pocket and brought out the coin. Holding the Baggie up between them he asked, “Have you ever seen one of these before?”

“A silver dollar?”

“Look more closely, please.”

“May I?” Fortin gestured toward it and Gamache handed it to him. “It’s light.” Fortin looked at one side then the other before handing it back. “I’m sorry, I have no idea what it is.”

He looked closely at the Chief Inspector.

“I’ve been patient, I think,” said Fortin. “But perhaps now you’ll tell me what this’s about.”

“Do you know a woman named Lillian Dyson?”

Fortin thought, then shook his head. “Should I? Is she an artist?”

“I have a picture of her, would you mind looking?”

“Not at all.” Fortin reached for it, fixing Gamache with a perplexed glance, then looked down at the photograph. His brows drew together.

“She looks—”

Gamache didn’t finish Fortin’s sentence. Was he going to say “familiar”? “Dead”?

“Asleep. Is she?”

“Do you know her?”

“I think I might have seen her at a few vernissages, but I see so many people.”

“Did you see her at Clara’s show?”

Fortin thought then shook his head. “She wasn’t at the vernissage while I was there. But it was early and there weren’t many people yet.”

“And the barbeque?”

“It was dark by the time I arrived so she might have been there and I just didn’t notice.”

“She was definitely there,” said Gamache, replacing the coin. “She was killed there.”

Fortin gaped at him. “Someone was killed at the party? Where? How?”

“Have you ever seen her art, Monsieur Fortin?”

“That woman’s?” Fortin asked, nodding toward the photo, now on the table between them. “Never. I’ve never seen her and I’ve never seen her art, not as far as I know, anyway.”

Then another question struck Gamache.

“Suppose she’s a great artist. Would she be worth more to a gallery dead or alive?”

“That’s a grisly question, Chief Inspector.” But Fortin considered it. “Alive she would produce more art for the