A Trick of the Light

“Is this an interrogation, Chief Inspector? Should I get a lawyer?”

The smile was still in place but neither man was under any illusion. Close questioning the Chief Justice of Québec was a risky thing to do.

Gamache smiled back. “This is a friendly conversation, Mr. Justice. I’m hoping you can help.”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake, Thierry. Just tell the man what he wants to know. Isn’t that why we’re here?”

Gamache regarded Suzanne across the table. Their lunches had arrived and she was shoveling terrine of duck into her mouth. It was a gesture not of greed, but of fear. She all but had her arm around her plate. Suzanne didn’t want someone else’s food. She wanted just her own. And she was willing to defend it, if need be.

But, between mouthfuls, Suzanne had asked an interesting question.

Why, if not to help his investigation, was Thierry Pineault there?

“Oh, I’m here to help,” Pineault said, casually. “It was an instinctive reaction, I’m afraid, Chief Inspector. A lawyer’s reaction. My apologies.”

Gamache noticed something else. While the Chief Justice seemed happy to challenge him, the head of homicide for the Sûreté du Québec, he never challenged Suzanne, the sometime artist and full-time waitress. In fact he took her little mocking jabs, her criticisms, her flamboyant gestures, all with great equilibrium. Was it manners?

The Chief didn’t think so. He had the impression the Chief Justice was somehow cowed by Suzanne. As though she had something on him.

“I asked him to bring me down,” said Suzanne. “I knew he’d want to help.”

“Why? I know Suzanne here cared about Lillian. Did you too, sir?”

The Chief Justice turned clear, cool eyes on Gamache. “Not in the manner you’re imagining.”

“I’m not imagining anything. Just asking.”

“I’m trying to help,” said Pineault. His voice was stern, his eyes hard. Gamache was used to this, from court appearances. From high-level Sûreté conferences.

And he recognized it for what it was. Chief Justice Thierry Pineault was pissing on him. It was delicate, sophisticated, genteel, mannerly. But it was still piss.

The problem with a pissing contest, as Gamache knew, was that what should have remained private became public. Chief Justice Pineault’s privates were on display.

“And how do you think you can help, sir? Do you know something I don’t?”

“I’m here because Suzanne asked me, and because I know where Three Pines is. I drove her down. That’s my help.”

Gamache looked from Thierry to Suzanne, now ripping up a piece of fresh baguette, smearing it with butter and popping it in her mouth. Could she really command the Chief Justice like that? Treat him like a chauffeur?

“I asked Thierry for help because I knew he’d be calm. Sensible.”

“And he’s the Chief Justice?” asked Beauvoir.

“I’m an alcoholic, not an idiot,” said Suzanne with a smile. “It seemed an advantage.”

It was an advantage, thought Gamache. But why did she feel she needed one? And why had Chief Justice Pineault chosen this table, away from the others? The worst table on the terrace, and then quickly taken the seat facing the wall.

Gamache glanced around. Was the Chief Justice hiding? He’d arrived and gone straight into the bookstore, coming out only when Suzanne returned. And now he sat with his back to everyone. Where he couldn’t see anything, but neither could he be seen.

Gamache’s eyes swept around the village, taking in what Chief Justice Pineault was missing.

Ruth on the bench, feeding the birds and every now and then glancing into the sky. Normand and Paulette, the middling artists, on the verandah of the B and B. A few villagers were carrying string bags of groceries home from Monsieur Béliveau’s general store. And then there were the other bistro patrons, including André Castonguay and François Marois.

*   *   *

Clara stood in the hallway, staring at the door, slammed in her face. The sound still echoed off the walls, along the corridors, down the stairwell, and finally out the door. Spilling into the bright sunshine.

Her eyes wide, her heart pounding. Her stomach sour.

Clara thought she might throw up.

*   *   *

“Ah, there you are,” said Denis Fortin, standing in the doorway of the bistro. He had the great pleasure of seeing André Castonguay jump and almost knock over his white wine.

François Marois, however, did not jump. He barely reacted.

Like a lizard, thought Fortin, sunning himself on a rock.

“Tabernac,” exclaimed Castonguay. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“May I?” asked Fortin, and took a seat at their table before either man could deny him.

They’d always denied him a seat at their table. For decades. The cabal of art dealers and gallery owners. Old men now. As soon as Fortin had decided to stop being an artist and had opened his own gallery they’d closed ranks. Against the interloper, the newcomer.

Well, he was there now. More successful than any of them. Except, maybe, these two men. Of all the members of the art establishment in Québec, the only two whose opinion he cared about were Castonguay and Marois.