He made an eloquent gesture with his hands.
Yes, thought Gamache. Sometimes—
“And then to actually tell André he was here to try to sign the Morrows. Fortin was just asking for trouble. Smug little man.”
“Aren’t you being a bit disingenuous?” Gamache asked. “After all, that’s the reason you’re here.”
Marois laughed. “Touché. But we were here first.”
“Are you telling me there’s a dibs system? There’s so much about the art world I didn’t know.”
“What I meant is that no one needs to tell me what great art is. I see it, I know it. Clara’s art is brilliant. I don’t need the Times, or Denis Fortin, or André Castonguay to tell me. But some people buy art with their ears and some with their eyes.”
“Does Denis Fortin need to be told?”
“In my opinion, yes.”
“And do you spread your opinion around? Is that why Fortin hates you?”
François Marois turned his complete attention to the Chief Inspector. His face was no longer a cipher. His astonishment was obvious.
“Hate me? I’m sure he doesn’t. We’re competitors, yes, often going after the same artists and buyers, and it can get pretty gruesome, but I think there’s a respect, a collegiality. And I keep my opinions to myself.”
“You told me,” said Gamache.
Marois hesitated. “You asked. Otherwise I would never have said anything.”
“Is Clara likely to sign with Fortin?”
“She might. Everyone loves a repentant sinner. And I’m sure he’s doing his mea culpas right now.”
“He already has,” said Gamache. “That’s how he got invited to the vernissage.”
“Ahhh,” nodded Marois. “I was wondering about that.” He looked troubled for the first time. Then, with an effort, his handsome face cleared. “Clara’s no fool. She’ll see through him. He didn’t know what he had with her before, and he still doesn’t understand her paintings. He’s worked hard to build up a reputation as cutting edge, but he isn’t. One false move, one bad show, and the whole thing will come crashing down. A reputation’s a fragile thing, as Fortin knows better than most.”
Marois motioned toward André Castonguay, almost at the inn. “Now, he’s less vulnerable. He has a number of clients and one big corporate account. Kelley Foods.”
“The baby food manufacturer?”
“Exactly. Huge corporate buyer. They invest heavily in art for their offices worldwide. Makes them seem less money grubbing and more sophisticated. And guess who finds them the art?”
It needed no answer. André Castonguay had plunged headlong into the doorway of the inn and spa. And disappeared.
“They’re fairly conservative, of course,” continued the dealer. “But then, so’s André.”
“If he’s so conservative why’s he interested in Clara Morrow’s work?”
“He’s not.”
“Peter?”
“I think so. This way he gets two for one. A painter whose work he can sell to Kelley Foods. Safe, conventional, respected. Nothing too daring or suggestive. But he’ll also get all sorts of publicity and legitimacy in picking up someone truly avante-garde. Clara Morrow. Never underestimate the power of greed, Chief Inspector. Or ego.”
“I’ll make a note of that, merci.” Gamache smiled and watched Marois follow Castonguay up the hill.
“Not with a club the heart is broken.”
Gamache turned toward the voice. Ruth was sitting on the bench, her back to him.
“Nor with a stone,” she said, apparently to thin air. “A whip so small you could not see it I have known.”
Gamache sat next to her.
“Emily Dickinson,” said Ruth, staring ahead of her.
“Armand Gamache,” said the Chief Inspector.
“Not me, you idiot. The poem.”
She turned angry eyes on him, only to find the Chief smiling. She gave one large guffaw.
“Not with a club the heart is broken,” repeated Gamache. It was familiar. Reminded him of something someone had recently said.
“A lot of drama today,” said Ruth. “Too much noise. Scares away the birds.”
And sure enough, there wasn’t a bird in sight, though Gamache knew she was thinking of one bird, not many.
Rosa, her duck, who had flown south last fall. And had not returned with the rest. Had not returned to the nest.
But Ruth hadn’t given up hope.
Sitting quietly on the bench, Gamache remembered why that phrase from the Dickinson poem was so familiar. Opening the book still in his hands he looked down at the words highlighted by a dead woman.
Hearts are broken. Sweet relationships are dead.
Then he noticed someone watching them from the bistro. Olivier.
“How’s he doing?” Gamache asked, gesturing slightly toward the bistro.
“Who?”
“Olivier.”
“I don’t know. Who cares?”
Gamache was quiet for a moment. “He’s a good friend of yours, as I remember,” said the Chief Inspector.
Ruth was silent, her face immobile.
“People make mistakes,” said Gamache. “He’s a good man, you know. And I know he loves you.”
Ruth made a rude noise. “Look, all he cares about is money. Not me, not Clara or Peter. Not even Gabri. Not really. He’d sell us all for a few bucks. You should know that better than most.”
“I’ll tell you what I know,” said Gamache. “I know he made a mistake. And I know he’s sorry. And I know he’s trying to make it up.”
“But not to you. He barely looks at you.”
“Would you? If I arrested you for a crime you hadn’t committed, would you forgive?”
“Olivier lied to us. To me.”
“Everyone lies,” said Gamache. “Everyone hides things. His were pretty bad, but I’ve seen worse. Much worse.”
Ruth’s already thin lips all but disappeared.
“I’ll tell you who did lie,” she said. “That man you were just speaking to.”
“François Marois?”
“Well, I don’t know his fucking name. How many men were you just talking to? Whatever his name was, he wasn’t telling you the truth.”
“How so?”
“The young fellow wasn’t ordering all the drinks. He was. Long before the young guy showed up the other fellow was drunk.”
“Are you sure?”
“I have a nose for booze, and an eye for drunks.”
“And an ear for lies, apparently.”
Ruth cracked a smile that surprised even her.
Gamache got up and cast a look toward Olivier, before bowing slightly to Ruth and whispering so that only she could hear,
“Now here’s a good one:
you’re lying on your deathbed.
You have one hour to live.”
“Enough,” she interrupted him, her bony hand up and in his face. Not quite touching it, but close enough to block the words. “I know how it ends. And I wonder if you really know the answer to the question?” She looked at him hard. “Who is it, exactly, you have needed all these years to forgive, Chief Inspector?”
He straightened up and left her, walking toward the bridge over the Rivère Bella Bella, lost in thought.
“Chief.”
He turned to see Inspector Beauvoir striding toward him from the Incident Room.
He knew that look. Jean Guy had news.
TWENTY-ONE
All Clara Morrow wanted was to be left alone. But instead she found herself in her kitchen, listening to Denis Fortin. Looking more boyish than ever. More contrite.
“Coffee?” she asked, then wondered why she’d offered. All she wanted was for Fortin to leave.