A Trick of the Light

Fortin shook his head. “I mean, honestly. I treat you like crap and you not only forgive me, but invite me down to your home? You’ve got to have more sense than that, Clara. People’ll take advantage of you, if you’re not careful.”

Clara glared at him, but kept her mouth shut.

Another great blast of thunder shook the home, as the storm bounced and magnified, trapped in the valley.

The living room felt intimate. Ancient. As an old sin was revealed. The light from the candles faltered, catching people and furniture. Turning them into something grotesque on the walls, as though there was another range of dark listeners behind them.

“How did you know I killed Lillian?” Fortin asked Gamache.

“It was, finally, quite simple,” said Gamache. “It had to be someone who’d been to the village before. Knew not only how to find Three Pines but which home was Clara’s. It seemed too much of a coincidence that Lillian would be killed just by chance in Clara’s garden. No, it must have been planned. And if it was planned, then what was the purpose? Killing Lillian in the garden hurt two people. Lillian, of course. But also Clara. And the party gave you a village filled with suspects. Other people who have known Lillian. Might have wanted her dead. That also explained the timing. The murderer had to be someone in the artistic community, who knew Clara and Lillian, and Three Pines.”

The Chief Inspector held Fortin’s gleaming eyes.

“You.”

“If you’re expecting remorse you won’t find it. She was a hateful, vindictive bitch.”

Gamache nodded. “I know. But she was trying to get better. She might not have said it as you’d have liked, but I think she really was sorry for what she’d done.”

“You try forgiving someone who ruined your life, you smug bastard, then come and lecture me about forgiveness.”

“If that’s the criteria, then let me lecture you.”

Everyone turned to a dark corner, where there was just the suggestion of an outline. Of an odd woman, with mismatched clothing.

“She’s a natural,” said Suzanne in a whisper, still heard amid the din outside. “Producing art like it’s a bodily function. I managed to forgive that. And you know why?”

No one answered.

“God forgive me, not for Lillian’s sake but my own. I’d held on to that hurt, coddled it, fed it, grew it. Until it had all but consumed me. But finally I wanted something even more than I wanted my pain.”

The storm seemed to have slipped out of the valley and was slowly lumbering away, to another destination.

“A quiet place,” said Chief Inspector Gamache, “in the bright sunshine.”

Suzanne smiled and nodded. “Peace.”

THIRTY

The next morning dawned overcast but fresh, the rain and heavy humidity of the day before had vanished. As the morning progressed breaks appeared in the clouds.

“Chiaroscuro,” said Thierry Pineault, falling into step beside Gamache as he took his morning walk. Leaves and small branches were scattered around the village green and front gardens, but no trees were down from the storm.

“Pardon?”

“The sky.” Pineault pointed. “A contrast of dark and light.”

Gamache smiled.

They strolled together in silence. As they walked they noticed Ruth leaving her home, shutting her little gate and limping along a well-worn path to the bench. Giving a cursory wipe of her hand on the wet wood she sat, staring into the distance.

“Poor Ruth,” said Pineault. “Sitting all day on that bench feeding the birds.”

“Poor birds,” said Gamache and Pineault laughed. As they watched, Brian came out of the B and B. He waved to the Chief Justice, nodded to Gamache, then walked across the green to sit beside Ruth.

“Does he have a death wish?” asked Gamache. “Or is he drawn to wounded things?”

“Neither. He’s drawn to healing things.”

“He’d fit in well here,” said the Chief Inspector, looking around the village.

“You like it here, don’t you,” said Thierry, watching the large man beside him.

“I do.”

The two men stopped and watched Brian and Ruth sitting side-by-side, apparently in their own worlds.

“You must be very proud of him,” said Gamache. “It’s incredible that a boy with such a background could get clean and sober.”

“I’m happy for him,” said Thierry. “But not proud. Not my place to be proud of him.”

“I think you’re being modest, sir. Not every sponsor has such success, I imagine.”

“His sponsor?” said Thierry. “I’m not his sponsor.”

“Then what are you?” Gamache asked, trying not to show his surprise. He looked from the Chief Justice to the pierced young man on the bench.

“I’m his sponsee. He’s my sponsor.”

“I beg your pardon?” said Gamache.

“Brian’s my sponsor. He’s eight years sober, I’m only two.”

Gamache looked from the elegant Thierry Pineault, in gray flannels and light cashmere sweater, to the skinhead.

“I know what you’re thinking, Chief Inspector, and you’re right. Brian is pretty tolerant of me. He gets a lot of grief from his friends when he’s seen with me in public. My suits and ties and all. Very embarrassing,” Thierry smiled.