A Trick of the Light

Marois hesitated. Trying to decide how much to say, and not even trying to hide his indecision.

Gamache waited. Beauvoir, notebook and pen out, started to doodle. A stick figure and a horse. Or perhaps it was a moose. From the easy chair came the heavy sound of Castonguay breathing.

“I had a client once. Dead now, years ago. Lovely man. A commercial artist, but also a very fine creative artist. His home was full of these marvelous paintings. I discovered him when he was already quite old, though now that I think of it, he was younger than I am now.”

Marois smiled, as did Gamache. He knew that feeling.

“He was one of my first clients and he did quite well. He was thrilled, as was his wife. One day he asked a favor. Could his wife put in a few of her works into his next show. I was polite, but declined. But he was quite uncharacteristically insistent. I didn’t know her well, and didn’t know her art at all. I suspected she was putting pressure on the old man. But I could see how important it was to him, so I relented. Gave her a corner, and a hammer.”

He paused and his eyes flickered.

“I’m not very proud of it now. I should have either treated her with respect, or declined the show totally. But I was young, and had a lot to learn.”

He sighed. “The evening of the vernissage was the first time I saw her works. I walked into the room and everyone was crowded into that corner. You can guess what happened.”

“All her paintings sold,” said Gamache.

Marois nodded. “Every one, with people buying others she’d left in her home, sight unseen. There was even a bidding war for several of them. My client was a gifted artist. But she was better. Far better. A stunning find. A genuine Van Gogh’s ear.”

“Pardon?” asked Gamache. “A what?”

“What did the old man do?” Castonguay interrupted, now paying attention. “He must’ve been furious.”

“No. He was a lovely man. Taught me how to be gracious. And he was. But it was her reaction I’ll never forget.” He was quiet for a moment, clearly seeing the two elderly artists. “She gave up painting. Not only never showed again, she never painted again. She saw the pain it had caused him, though he’d hidden it well. His happiness was more important to her than her own. Than her art.”

Chief Inspector Gamache knew this should have sounded like a love story. Of sacrifice, of selfless choices. But it only sounded like a tragedy to him.

“Is that why you’re here?” Gamache asked the art dealer.

Marois nodded. “I’m afraid.”

“Of what?” Castonguay demanded, losing the thread yet again.

“Did you not see how Clara Morrow looked at her husband yesterday?” asked Marois.

“And how he looked at her,” said Gamache.

The two men locked eyes.

“But Clara isn’t that woman you’re remembering,” said the Chief Inspector.

“True,” admitted François Marois. “But Peter Morrow isn’t my elderly client either.”

“Do you really think Clara might give up painting?” asked Gamache.

“To save her marriage? To save her husband?” asked Marois. “Most wouldn’t, but the woman who created those paintings just might.”

Armand Gamache had never thought that was a possibility, but now he considered it and realized François Marois might be right.

“Still,” he said. “What could you hope to do about it?”

“Well,” said Marois, “not much. But I at least wanted to see where she’d been hiding all these years. I was curious.”

“Is that all?”

“Have you never wanted to visit Giverny to see where Monet painted, or go to Winslow Homer’s studio in Prouts Neck? Or see where Shakespeare and Victor Hugo wrote?”

“You’re quite right,” admitted Gamache. “Madame Gamache and I have visited the homes of many of our favorite artists and writers and poets.”

“Why?”

Gamache paused for a few moments, considering. “Because they seem magical.”

André Castonguay snorted. Beauvoir bristled, embarrassed for the Chief Inspector. It was a ridiculous answer. Perhaps even weak. To admit to a murder suspect he might believe in magic.

But Marois sat still, staring at the Chief Inspector. Finally he nodded, slightly and slowly. It might have even been, Beauvoir thought, a slight tremble.

“C’est ça,” said Marois at last. “Magic. I hadn’t planned to come, but when I saw her works at the vernissage I wanted to see the village that had produced such magic.”

They talked for a few more minutes, about their movements. Who they saw, who they spoke to. But like everyone else, it was unremarkable.

Chief Inspector Gamache and Inspector Beauvoir left the two men sitting in the bright living room of the inn and spa and went looking for the other guests. Within an hour they’d interviewed them all.

None knew the dead woman. None saw anything suspicious or helpful.

As they walked back down the hill into Three Pines, Gamache thought of their interviews and what François Marois had said.

But there was more to Three Pines than magic. Something monstrous had roamed the village green, had eaten the food and danced among them. Something dark had joined the party that night.

And produced not magic but murder.

SIX