“Wearing red. Flamboyant. Artists are either complete bums, hardly wash, drunk and filthy most of the time, or they’re well, that.” He waved toward the pictures in Beauvoir’s hand. “Over-the-top. Loud. ‘Look at me’ types. Both are very tiring.”
“You don’t seem to like artists,” said Gamache.
“I don’t. I like the product, not the person. Artists are needy, crazy people who take up a lot of space and time. Exhausting. Like babies.”
“And yet, you were an artist once, I believe,” said François Marois.
The Sûreté agents looked over at the quiet man by the fireplace. Was there a satisfied look on his face?
“I was. Too sane to be a success.”
Marois laughed, and Castonguay looked annoyed. It wasn’t meant as a joke.
“You were at the vernissage at the Musée yesterday, Monsieur Castonguay?” Gamache asked.
“Yes. The chief curator invited me. And of course Vanessa is a close friend. We dine together when I’m in London.”
“Vanessa Destin-Brown? The head of the Tate Modern?” asked Gamache, apparently impressed. “She was there last night?”
“Oh yes, there and here. We had a long discussion on the future of figurative—”
“But she didn’t stay? Or is she one of the guests at the inn?”
“No, she left early. I don’t think burgers and fiddle music’s her style.”
“But it is yours?”
Beauvoir wondered if André Castonguay had noticed the tide shifting?
“Not normally, but there were some people here I wanted to speak with.”
“Who?”
“Pardon?”
Chief Inspector Gamache was still cordial, still gracious. But he was also clearly in command. And always had been.
Once again Beauvoir shot a look over to François Marois. He suspected the shift came as no surprise to him.
“Who did you particularly want to speak to at the party here?” Gamache asked, patient, clear.
“Well, Clara Morrow for one. I wanted to thank her for her works.”
“Who else?”
“That’s a private matter,” said Castonguay.
So he had noticed, thought Beauvoir. But too late. Chief Inspector Gamache was the tide and André Castonguay a twig. The best he could hope was to stay afloat.
“It might matter, monsieur. And if it doesn’t I promise to keep it between us.”
“Well, I’d hoped to approach Peter Morrow. He’s a fine artist.”
“But not as good as his wife.”
François Marois spoke quietly. Not much more than a whisper. But everyone turned to look at him.
“Is her work that good?” Chief Inspector Gamache asked.
Marois looked at Gamache for a moment. “I’ll be happy to answer that, but I’m curious to hear what you think. You were at the vernissage. You were the one who pointed out that remarkable portrait of the Virgin Mary.”
“The what?” asked Castonguay. “There was no Virgin Mary painting.”
“There was if you looked,” Marois assured him before turning back to the Chief Inspector. “You were one of the few people actually paying attention to her art.”
“As I may have mentioned last night, Clara and Peter Morrow are personal friends,” said Gamache.
This brought a look of surprise and suspicion from Castonguay.
“Is that allowed? That means you’re investigating friends for murder, n’est-ce pas?”
Beauvoir stepped forward. “In case you didn’t know it, Chief Inspector Gamache—”
But the Chief put his hand up and Beauvoir managed to stop himself.
“It’s a fair question.” Gamache turned back to André Castonguay. “They are friends and yes, they’re also suspects. In fact, I have a lot of friends in this village, and all of them are suspects as well. And I realize this could be interpreted as a disadvantage, but the fact is, I know these people. Well. Who better to find the murderer among them than someone who knows their weaknesses, their blind spots, their fears? Now,” Gamache leaned slowly forward, toward Castonguay, “if you’re thinking I might find the murderer and let him go…”
The words were friendly, there was even a mild smile on the Chief Inspector’s face. But even André Castonguay couldn’t miss the gravity in the voice and eyes.
“No. I don’t believe you’d do that.”
“I’m glad to hear it.” Gamache leaned back in his seat once again.
Beauvoir stared at Castonguay a moment longer, making certain he wasn’t about to challenge the Chief again. Gamache might think it was natural and even healthy to challenge him, but Beauvoir didn’t.
“You’re wrong about the Morrow woman’s art, you know,” said Castonguay, sullen. “It’s just a bunch of portraits of old women. There was nothing new there.”
“There’s everything new, if you look below the surface,” said Marois, taking the easy chair beside Castonguay. “Look again, mon ami.”
But it was clear they were not friends. Not, perhaps, enemies, but would they seek each other out for a friendly lunch at Leméac café bistro or a drink at the bar at L’Express in Montréal?
No. Castonguay might, but not Marois.
“And why are you here, monsieur?” Gamache asked Marois. There seemed no power struggle between the two men. There was no need. Each was confident in himself.
“I’m an art dealer, but not a gallery owner. As I told you last night, the curator gave me a catalog and I was taken with Madame Morrow’s works. I wanted to see them myself. And,” he smiled ruefully, “I’m afraid even at my age I’m a romantic.”
“Are you going to admit to a crush on Clara Morrow?” asked Gamache.
François Marois laughed. “Not exactly, though after seeing her work it’s hard not to like her. But it’s more of a philosophical state, my romanticism.”
“How so?”
“I love that an artist could be plucked out of obscurity and discovered at the age of almost fifty. What artist doesn’t dream of it? What artist doesn’t believe, every morning, it will happen before bedtime? Remember Magritte? Belgian painter?”
“Ceci n’est pas une pipe?” asked Gamache, losing Beauvoir completely. He hoped the Chief hadn’t just had a seizure and started spouting nonsense.
“That’s the one. He worked away for years, decades. Living in squalor. Supported himself by painting fake Picassos and forging banknotes. When he did his own work Magritte was not only ignored by the galleries and collectors, he was mocked by other artists, who thought he was nuts. I have to say, it gets pretty bad when even other artists think you’re nuts.”
Gamache laughed. “And was he?”
“Well, perhaps. You’ve seen his works?”
“I have. I like them, but I’m not sure how I would have felt had someone not told me they were genius.”
“Exactly,” said Marois, suddenly sitting forward, more animated than Beauvoir had seen him. Excited even. “That’s what makes my job like Christmas every day. While every artist wakes up believing this is the day his genius will be discovered, every dealer wakes up believing this is the day he’ll discover genius.”
“But who’s to say?”
“That’s what makes this all so thrilling.”
Beauvoir could see the man wasn’t putting on an act. His eyes were gleaming, his hands were gesturing, not wildly, but with excitement.
“The portfolio I believe is brilliant someone else can look at and think is dull, derivative. Witness our reactions to Clara Morrow’s paintings.”
“I still say they’re just not interesting,” said Castonguay.
“And I say they are, and who’s to say who’s right? That’s what drives artists and dealers crazy. It’s so subjective.”
“I think they’re born crazy,” mumbled Castonguay, and Beauvoir had to agree.