“I don’t know and I don’t care,” said Paulette.
“Did you care that she was back?” asked Beauvoir.
“Would you?” Paulette glared at Beauvoir. “I kept my distance. We all knew what she’d done, what she was capable of. You don’t want to be in those sights.”
“He’s a natural, producing art like it’s a bodily function,” said Normand.
“Pardon?” asked Beauvoir.
“It’s a line from one of her critiques,” said Paulette. “She’s famous for it. It got picked up by the wire services and the review went international.”
“Who was she writing about?” Beauvoir asked.
“That’s the funny thing,” said Paulette, “everyone remembers the quote, but no one remembers the artist.”
Both Beauvoir and Gamache knew that wasn’t true.
He’s a natural, producing art like it’s a bodily function.
Clever, almost a compliment. But then it veered into a scathing dismissal.
Someone would remember that review.
The artist himself.
SEVEN
Armand Gamache and Jean Guy Beauvoir stepped down from the wide, sweeping verandah of the B and B onto the path.
It was a warm day and Beauvoir was thirsty.
“Drink?” he suggested to the Chief, knowing it was a pretty safe bet. But Gamache surprised him.
“In a few minutes. There’s something I need to do first.” The two men paused at the dirt road. The day was going from warm to almost hot. Some of the early white irises in the flower beds around the village green had opened fully, and then some. Almost exploding, exposing their black centers.
It seemed to Beauvoir a confirmation. Inside every living thing, no matter how beautiful, if opened fully enough was darkness.
“I find it interesting that Normand and Paulette knew Lillian Dyson,” said Gamache.
“Why’s that interesting?” asked Beauvoir. “Isn’t it what you’d expect? After all they hang around the same crowd. Did twenty-five years ago, and did a few months ago. It would’ve been surprising if they didn’t know each other.”
“True. What I find interesting is that neither François Marois nor André Castonguay admitted to knowing her. How could Normand and Paulette know Lillian, but Marois and Castonguay not?”
“They probably didn’t move in the same circles,” suggested Beauvoir.
They walked away from the B and B and toward the hill out of Three Pines. Beauvoir took off his jacket, but the Chief kept his on. It would take more than a merely warm day to get him to walk around in his shirtsleeves.
“There aren’t that many circles in the Québec art scene,” said Gamache. “And while the dealers might not be personal friends with everyone, they’d be sure to at least be aware of them. If not today, then back twenty years, when Lillian was a critic.”
“So they were lying,” said Beauvoir.
“That’s what I’m going to find out. I’d like you to check on progress at the Incident Room. Why don’t we meet at the bistro,” Gamache looked at his watch, “in about forty-five minutes.”
The two men parted, Beauvoir pausing to watch the Chief walk up the hill. His gait strong.
He himself made his way across the village green toward the Incident Room. As he walked across the grass he slowed, then veered off to his right. And sat on the bench.
“Hello, dick-head.”
“Hello, you old drunk.”
Ruth Zardo and Jean Guy Beauvoir sat side-by-side, a loaf of stale bread between them. Beauvoir took a piece, broke it up and threw it on the grass for the robins gathered there.
“What’re you doing? That’s my lunch.”
“We both know you haven’t chewed lunch in years,” Beauvoir snapped. Ruth chuckled.
“That is true. Still, you owe me a meal now.”
“I’ll buy you a beer later.”
“So what brings you back to Three Pines?” Ruth tossed more bread for the birds, or at the birds.
“The murder.”
“Oh, that.”
“Did you see her last night, at the party?” Beauvoir handed Ruth the photograph of the dead woman. She studied it then handed it back.
“Nope.”
“What was the party like?”
“The barbeque? Too many people. Too much noise.”
“But free booze,” said Beauvoir.
“It was free? Merde. I didn’t have to sneak it after all. Still, more fun to steal it.”
“Nothing strange happened? No arguments, no raised voices? All that drinking and no one got belligerent?”
“Drinking? Lead to belligerence? Where’d you get that idea, numb nuts?”
“Absolutely nothing unusual happened last night?”
“Not that I saw.” Ruth tore off another piece of bread and tossed it at a fat robin. “I’m sorry about your separation. Do you love her?”
“My wife?” Beauvoir wondered what prompted Ruth to ask. Was it caring or simply no sense of personal boundaries? “I think—”
“No, not your wife. The other one. The plain one.”
Beauvoir felt his heart spasm and the blood pour from his face.
“You’re drunk,” he said, getting to his feet.
“And belligerent,” she said. “But I’m also right. I saw how you looked at her. And I think I know who she is. You’re in trouble, young Mr. Beauvoir.”
“You know nothing.”
He walked away. Trying not to break into a run. Willing himself to stay slow, steady. Left, right. Left, right.
Ahead he could see the bridge, and the Incident Room beyond. Where he’d be safe.
But young Mr. Beauvoir was beginning to appreciate something.
There was no such place as “safe.” Not anymore.
“Did you read this?” Clara asked, putting her empty beer glass on the table and handing the Ottawa Star over to Myrna. “The Star hated the show.”
“You’re kidding.” Myrna took the paper and scanned it. It was, she had to admit, not a glowing review.
“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.