A Trick of the Light

He’d thought they were joking, but apparently not. And now here they were again.

Normand, in the same slacks, worn tweed jacket and scarf from the night before, and his partner Paulette, also in the same peasant-type skirt, blouse and scarves.

Now they were looking from him to Gamache, and back again.

“I have two pieces of bad news,” said Gamache, steering them inside. “There’s been a murder, and this is not Monsieur Beauvoir, the art critic for Le Monde, but Inspector Beauvoir, a homicide investigator with the Sûreté du Québec.”

The murder they already knew about, so it was the Beauvoir news they found most upsetting. Gamache watched with some amusement as they lit into the Inspector.

Beauvoir, noticing the Chief’s grin, whispered, “Just so you know, I also said you were Monsieur Gamache, the head curator at the Louvre. Enjoy.”

That, thought Gamache, would explain the unexpectedly large number of invitations to art shows he’d received at the vernissage. He made a note not to show up to any of them.

“When did you decide to stay overnight?” asked the Chief, once the vitriol had been exhausted.

“Well, we’d planned to head home after the party, but it was late and…” Paulette gave a shove of her head toward Normand, as though to indicate he’d had too many.

“The B and B owner gave us toiletries and bathrobes,” Normand explained. “We’re heading off to Cowansville in a few minutes to buy some clothes.”

“Not going back to Montréal?” asked Gamache.

“Not right away. We thought we’d stay for a day or so. Make a holiday of it.”

At Gamache’s invitation they took seats in the comfortable living room, the artists sitting side-by-side on one sofa, Beauvoir and the Chief Inspector sitting opposite them on the other.

“So who was killed?” Paulette asked. “It wasn’t Clara, was it?”

She almost managed to hide her optimism.

“No,” said Beauvoir. “Are you friends?” Though the answer seemed obvious.

This brought a snort of amusement from Normand.

“You clearly don’t know artists, Inspector. We can be civil, friendly even. But friends? Better to make friends with a wolverine.”

“What brought you here then, if not friendship with Clara?” Beauvoir asked.

“Free food and drink. Lots of drink,” said Normand, smoothing the hair from his eyes. There was a sort of world-weary style about the man. As though he’d seen it all and was slightly amused and saddened by it.

“So it wasn’t to celebrate her art?” Beauvoir asked.

“Her art isn’t bad,” said Paulette. “I like it better than what she was producing a decade ago.”

“Too much chiaroscuro,” said Normand, apparently forgetting who’d mentioned the word to begin with. “Her show last night was an improvement,” Normand continued, “though that wouldn’t be hard. Who could forget her exhibition of massive feet?”

“But really, Normand,” said Paulette. “Portraits? What self-respecting artist does portraits anymore?”

Normand nodded. “Her art’s derivative. Facile. Yes the subjects had character in their faces, and they were well executed, but not exactly breaking new ground. Nothing original or bold. There was nothing there we couldn’t see in a second-rate provincial gallery in Slovenia.”

“Why would the Musée d’Art Contemporain give her a solo show if her art was so bad?” asked Beauvoir.

“Who knows,” said Normand. “A favor. Politics. These big institutions aren’t about real art, not about taking chances. They play it safe.”

Paulette was nodding vigorously.

“So if Clara Morrow wasn’t a friend and if you thought her art was so crappy, why’re you here?” Beauvoir asked Normand. “I can see going to the vernissage for the free food and drink, but to come all the way here?”

He had the man, and they both knew it.

After a moment Normand answered. “Because this was where the critics were. Where the gallery owners and dealers were. Destin-Browne from the Tate Modern. Castonguay, Fortin, Bishop from the Musée. Vernissages and art shows aren’t about what’s on the walls, they’re about who’s in the room. That’s the real work. I came to network. I don’t know how the Morrows did it, but it was an amazing group of critics and curators in one place.”

“Fortin?” asked Gamache, clearly surprised. “Would that be Denis Fortin?”

Now it was Normand’s turn to be surprised, that this rustic cop should know who Denis Fortin was.

“That’s right,” he said. “Of the Galerie Fortin.”

“Denis Fortin was at the vernissage in Montréal,” pressed Gamache, “or here?”

“Both. I tried to speak to him but he was busy with others.”

There was a pause, and the world-weary artist seemed to sag. Dragged down by the great weight of irrelevance.

“Very surprising Fortin was here,” said Paulette, “considering what he did to Clara.”

It was left hanging, begging a question. Paulette and Normand looked eagerly at the two investigators, like hungry children staring at a cake.