Armand Gamache stared at Denis Fortin, trying to decide if he believed him. But there was an easy way to confirm his story. Just ask Clara.
“So you went to the opening to apologize to Clara? Why bother?”
Now Fortin colored slightly and looked to his right, out the window, into the early evening light. Outside, people would be gathering on the terrasses up and down St-Denis for beers and martinis, for wine and pitchers of sangria. Enjoying one of the first really warm, sunny days of spring.
Inside the quiet gallery, though, the atmosphere was neither warm nor sunny.
“I knew she was going to be big. I’d offered her a solo show because her art is like no other out there. Have you seen it?”
Fortin leaned forward, toward Gamache. No longer wrapped up in his own anxiety, no longer defensive. Now he was almost giddy. Excited. Energized talking about great works of art.
Here, Gamache realized, was a man who truly loved art. He might be a businessman, might be opportunistic. Might be a ranting egoist.
But he knew and loved great art. Clara’s art.
Lillian Dyson’s art?
“I have,” said the Chief Inspector. “And I agree. She’s remarkable.”
Fortin launched into a passionate dissection of Clara’s portraits. The nuances, right down to the use of tiny strokes within longer, languid strokes of her brush. It was fascinating for Gamache to hear. And he found himself enjoying this time with Fortin, despite himself.
But he hadn’t come to discuss Clara’s painting.
“As I remember, you called Gabri a ‘fucking queer.’”
The words had the desired effect. They weren’t simply shocking, they were disgusting, disgraceful. Especially in light of what Fortin was just describing. The light and grace and hope Clara had created.
“I did,” Fortin admitted. “It’s something I say often. Said often. I don’t anymore.”
“Why would you say it at all?”
“It’s what you were saying earlier, about different ways to kill. A lot of my artists are gay. When I’m with a new artist I know is gay, I’d often point someone out and say what you just said. It throws them off. Keeps them afraid, off balance. It’s a mind-fuck. And if they don’t fight back I know I have them.”
“And do they?”
“Fight back? Clara was the first. That should’ve also told me she was something special. An artist with a voice, a vision and a backbone. But that backbone can be inconvenient. Much rather have them compliant.”
“So you fired her, and tried to smear her reputation.”
“Didn’t work,” he smiled ruefully. “The Musée scooped her up. I went there to apologize. I knew that pretty soon she’d be the one with all the power, all the influence.”
“Enlightened self-interest on your part?” Gamache asked.
“Better than none at all,” said Fortin.
“What happened when you arrived?”
“I got there early and the first person I saw was that guy, the one I insulted.”
“Gabri.”
“Right. I realized I owed him as well. So I apologized to him first. It was quite a festival of contrition.”
Gamache smiled again. Fortin, finally, seemed sincere. And he could always check out the story. Indeed, it was so easy to check Gamache suspected it was the truth. Denis Fortin had gone to the vernissage, uninvited, to apologize.
“And then you approached Clara. What did she say?”
“Actually, she approached me. I guess she heard me saying sorry to Gabri. We got to talking and I said how sorry I was. And congratulated her on a fabulous show. I told her I wished it was at the Galerie Fortin, but that she was much better off at the Musée. She was very nice about it.”
Gamache could hear the relief, and even surprise, in Fortin’s voice.
“She invited me down to the party that night in Three Pines. I actually had dinner plans but felt I couldn’t really say no. So I ducked out to cancel the plans with my friends and went to the barbeque instead.”
“How long did you stay?”
“Honestly? Not long. It’s a long drive down and back. I spoke to a few colleagues, fended off a few mediocre artists—”
Gamache wondered if those included Normand and Paulette and suspected it did.
“—chatted with Clara and Peter so they’d know I was there. Then I left.”
“Did you speak to André Castonguay or François Marois?”
“I spoke to both of them. Castonguay’s gallery’s just down the road if you’re looking for him.”
“I’ve already talked to him. He’s still in Three Pines, as is Monsieur Marois.”
“Is that right?” said Fortin. “I wonder why.”
Gamache felt in his pocket and brought out the coin. Holding the Baggie up between them he asked, “Have you ever seen one of these before?”
“A silver dollar?”
“Look more closely, please.”
“May I?” Fortin gestured toward it and Gamache handed it to him. “It’s light.” Fortin looked at one side then the other before handing it back. “I’m sorry, I have no idea what it is.”
He looked closely at the Chief Inspector.
“I’ve been patient, I think,” said Fortin. “But perhaps now you’ll tell me what this’s about.”
“Do you know a woman named Lillian Dyson?”
Fortin thought, then shook his head. “Should I? Is she an artist?”
“I have a picture of her, would you mind looking?”
“Not at all.” Fortin reached for it, fixing Gamache with a perplexed glance, then looked down at the photograph. His brows drew together.
“She looks—”
Gamache didn’t finish Fortin’s sentence. Was he going to say “familiar”? “Dead”?
“Asleep. Is she?”
“Do you know her?”
“I think I might have seen her at a few vernissages, but I see so many people.”
“Did you see her at Clara’s show?”
Fortin thought then shook his head. “She wasn’t at the vernissage while I was there. But it was early and there weren’t many people yet.”
“And the barbeque?”
“It was dark by the time I arrived so she might have been there and I just didn’t notice.”
“She was definitely there,” said Gamache, replacing the coin. “She was killed there.”
Fortin gaped at him. “Someone was killed at the party? Where? How?”
“Have you ever seen her art, Monsieur Fortin?”
“That woman’s?” Fortin asked, nodding toward the photo, now on the table between them. “Never. I’ve never seen her and I’ve never seen her art, not as far as I know, anyway.”
Then another question struck Gamache.
“Suppose she’s a great artist. Would she be worth more to a gallery dead or alive?”
“That’s a grisly question, Chief Inspector.” But Fortin considered it. “Alive she would produce more art for the gallery to sell, and presumably for more and more money. But dead?”
“Oui?”
“If she was that good? The fewer paintings the better. A bidding war would ignite and the prices…”
Fortin looked to the ceiling.
Gamache had his answer. But was it the right question?
TWELVE
“What’s this?”
Clara stood beside the phone in the kitchen. The barbeque was on and Peter was outside poking steaks from the Bresee farm.