A Trick of the Light

“What was it they called me?” demanded Clara, sitting on the arm of Myrna’s easy chair. “Here it is.” Clara jabbed a finger and poked the newspaper. “Clara Morrow is an old and tired parrot mimicking actual artists.”

Myrna laughed.

“You find that funny?” Clara asked.

“You’re not actually taking that comment seriously?”

“Why not? If I take the good ones seriously don’t I have to take the bad too?”

“But look at them,” said Myrna, waving to the papers on the coffee table. “The London Times, the New York Times, Le Devoir, all agree your art is new and exciting. Brilliant.”

“I hear the critic from Le Monde was there but he didn’t even bother to write a review.”

Myrna stared at her friend. “I’m sure he will, and he’ll agree with everyone else. The show’s a massive success.”

“Her art, while nice, was neither visionary nor bold,” Clara read over Myrna’s shoulder. “They don’t think it’s a massive success.”

“It’s the Ottawa Star, for God’s sake,” said Myrna. “Someone was bound to dislike it, thank heaven it was them.”

Clara looked at the review then smiled. “You’re right.”

She walked back to her chair in the bookshop. “Did anyone ever tell you that artists are nuts?”

“First I’ve heard of it.”

Out the window Myrna watched as Ruth pelted birds with hunks of bread. At the crest of the hill she saw Dominique Gilbert heading back to her barn, riding what looked like a moose. Outside the bistro, on the terrasse, Gabri was sitting at a customer’s table, eating her dessert.

Not for the first time Three Pines struck Myrna as the equivalent of the Humane Society. Taking in the wounded, the unwanted. The mad, the sore.

This was a shelter. Though, clearly, not a no-kill shelter.

*   *   *

Dominique Gilbert curried Buttercup’s rump. Around and around her hand went. It always reminded her of the scene in The Karate Kid. Wax goes on. Wax goes off. But instead of a shammy, this was a brush, and instead of a car, this was a horse. Sort of.

Buttercup was in the alley of the barn, outside his stall. Chester was watching this, doing his little dance as though he had a mariachi band in his head. Macaroni was in the field, having already been groomed, and was now rolling in the mud.

As she rubbed the caked and dried dirt off the huge horse, Dominique noticed the scabs, the scars, the patches of skin that would never grow horse hair, so deep were the wounds.

And yet, the massive horse let her touch him. Let her groom him. Let her ride him. As did Chester and Macaroni. If any creatures had earned the right to buck it was them. But instead, they chose to be the gentlest of beasts.

Outside now she could hear voices.

“You’ve already shown us the photograph.” It was one of her guests, and Dominique knew which one. André Castonguay. The gallery owner. Most of the guests had left but two remained. Messieurs Castonguay and Marois.

“I’d like you to look again.”

It was Chief Inspector Gamache, come back. She glanced out the square of light at the end of the barn, hiding slightly behind Buttercup’s enormous bottom. She felt a little uneasy and wondered if she should make her presence known. They were standing in the sunshine, leaning against the fence rails. Surely they knew this wasn’t a private place. Besides, she was there first. Besides, she wanted to hear.

So she said nothing, but continued to curry Buttercup, who couldn’t believe his luck. The grooming was going on so much longer than usual. Though what appeared to be undue fondness for his rump was worrisome.

“Perhaps we should look again,” came François Marois’s voice. He sounded reasonable. Friendly even.

There was a pause. Dominique could see Gamache hand a picture each to Marois and Castonguay. The men looked then exchanged photographs.

“You said you didn’t know the dead woman,” said Gamache. He also sounded relaxed. A casual conversation with friends.

But Dominique wasn’t fooled. She wondered if these two men were taken in. Castonguay, perhaps. But she doubted Marois was.

“I thought,” Gamache continued, “you might have been surprised and needed another look.”

“I don’t—” Castonguay began, but Marois laid a hand on his arm and he stopped.

“You’re quite right, Chief Inspector. I don’t know about André but I’m embarrassed to say I do know her. Lillian Dyson, right?”

“Well, I don’t know her,” said Castonguay.

“I think you need to search your memory more thoroughly,” said Gamache. His voice, still friendly, carried a weight. It wasn’t quite as light as a moment ago.

Behind Buttercup, Dominique found herself praying Castonguay would take the rope offered by the Chief Inspector. That he’d see it for what it was. A gift and not a trap.