A Trick of the Light

Well, one day they’d have to acknowledge him. And it might as well be today.

“I’d heard you were here,” he said, signaling to the waiter for another round.

Castonguay, he saw, was well into the white wine. Marois, though, was sipping an iced tea. Austere, cultured, restrained. Cool. Like the man.

He himself had switched to a micro-brewery beer. McAuslan. Young, golden, impertinent.

“What’re you doing here?” Castonguay repeated, the emphasis on “you,” as though Fortin had to explain himself. And he almost did, in an instinctive reaction. A need to appease these men.

But Fortin stopped himself and smiled charmingly.

“I’m here for the same reason you are. To sign the Morrows.”

That brought a reaction from Marois. Slowly, so slowly, the art dealer turned his head and, looking directly at Fortin, he slowly, so slowly lifted his brows. In anyone else it might have been comical. But from Marois, the results were terrifying.

Fortin felt himself grow cold, as though he’d looked at the Gorgon’s Head.

He swallowed hard and continued to stare, hoping if he’d been turned to stone it was at least with a look of casual disdain on his face. He feared, though, his face had a whole other expression.

Castonguay sputtered with laughter.

“You? Sign the Morrows? You had your shot and you blew it.” Castonguay grabbed his glass and took a great draught.

The waiter brought more drinks and Marois put out his hand to stop him. “I think we’ve had enough.” He turned to Castonguay. “Perhaps time for a little walk, don’t you think?”

But Castonguay didn’t think. He took the glass. “You’ll never sign the Morrows, and do you know why?”

Fortin shook his head and could have kicked himself for even reacting.

“Because they know you for what you are.” He was speaking loudly now. So loudly conversation around them died.

At the back table everyone looked around, except Thierry Pineault. He kept his face to the wall.

“That’s enough, André,” said Marois, laying a hand on the other man’s arm.

“No, it’s not enough.” Castonguay turned to François Marois. “You and I worked hard for what we have. Studied art, know technique. We might disagree, but it’s at least an intelligent discussion. But this one,” his arm jerked in Fortin’s direction, “all he wants is a quick buck.”

“And all you want, sir,” said Fortin, getting to his feet, “is a bottle. Who is worse?”

Fortin gave a stiff little bow and walked away. He didn’t know where he was going. Just away. From the table. From the art establishment. From the two men staring at him. And probably laughing.

*   *   *

“People don’t change,” said Beauvoir, squashing his burger and watching the juices ooze out.

Chief Justice Pineault and Suzanne had left, walking over to the B and B. And now, finally, Inspector Beauvoir could discuss murder, in peace.

“You think not?” asked Gamache. On his plate were grilled garlic shrimp and quinoa mango salad. The barbeque was working overtime for the hungry lunch crowd, producing char-grilled steaks and burgers, shrimp and salmon.

“They might seem to,” said Beauvoir, picking his burger up, “but if you were a nasty piece of work growing up, you’ll be an asshole as an adult and you’ll die pissed off.”

He took a bite. Where once this burger, with bacon and mushrooms, caramelized onions and melting blue cheese, would have sent him into raptures, now it left him feeling slightly queasy. Still, he forced himself to eat, to appease Gamache.

Beauvoir noticed the Chief watching him eat and felt a slight annoyance, but that quickly faded. Mostly he didn’t care. After his conversation with Myrna he’d taken himself off to the bathroom and popped a Percocet, staying there, his head in his hands, until he could feel the warmth spread, and the pain ebb and drift away.

Across the table Chief Inspector Gamache took a forkful of grilled garlic shrimp and the quinoa mango salad with genuine enjoyment.

They’d both looked up when André Castonguay had raised his voice.

Beauvoir had even gone to get up, but the Chief had stopped him. Wanting to see how this would play out. Like the rest of the patrons, they watched Denis Fortin walk stiffly away, his back straight, his arms at his side.

Like a little soldier, Gamache had thought, reminded of his son Daniel as a child, marching around the park. Either into or away from a battle. Resolute.

Pretending.

Denis Fortin was retreating, Gamache knew. To nurse his wounds.

“I suspect you don’t agree?” said Beauvoir.

“That people don’t change?” asked Gamache, looking up from his plate. “No, I don’t agree. I believe people can and do.”

“But not as much as the victim appeared to change,” said Beauvoir. “That would be very chiaroscuro.”

“Very what?” Gamache lowered his knife and fork and stared at his second in command.

“It means a bold contrast. The play of light and dark.”

“Is that so? And did you make up that word?”