Finally she leaned away from the table and looked up, first as always at Jérôme, then to Gamache.
“Well, Superintendent?”
“Well, Chief Inspector, I can tell you I’ve never seen these works or this artist before. The style is singular. Like nothing else out there. Deceptively simple. Not primitive, but not self-conscious either. They’re beautiful.”
“Would they be valuable?”
“Now there’s a question.” She considered the images again. “Beautiful isn’t in fashion. Edgy, dark, stark, cynical, that’s what galleries and curators want. They seem to think they’re more complex, more challenging, but I can tell you, they’re not. Light is every bit as challenging as dark. We can discover a great deal about ourselves by looking at beauty.”
“And what do these,” Gamache indicated the paintings on the table, “tell you?”
“About myself?” she asked with a smile.
“If you’d like, but I was thinking more about the artist.”
“Who is he, Armand?”
He hesitated. “I’ll tell you in a moment, but I’d like to hear what you think.”
“Whoever painted these is a wonderful artist. Not, I think, a young artist. There’s too much nuance. As I said, they’re deceptively simple, but if you look closely they’re made up of grace notes. Like here.” She pointed to where a road swept around a building, like a river around a rock. “That slight play of light. And over here, in the distance, where sky and building and road all meet and become difficult to distinguish.”
Thérèse looked at the paintings, almost wistfully. “They’re magnificent. I’d like to meet the artist.” She looked into Gamache’s eyes and held them for a moment longer than necessary. “But I suspect I won’t. He’s dead, isn’t he? He’s the victim?”
“Why do you say that?”
“Besides the fact you’re the head of homicide?” She smiled and beside her Jérôme gave a harrumph of amusement. “Because for you to bring these to me the artist would have to be either a suspect or the victim, and whoever painted these would not kill.”
“Why not?”
“Artists tend to paint what they know. A painting is a feeling. The best artists reveal themselves in their works,” said Superintendent Brunel, glancing again at the art. “Whoever painted this was content. Not, perhaps, perfect, but a content man.”
“Or woman,” said the Chief Inspector. “And you’re right, she’s dead.”
He told them about Lillian Dyson, her life and her death.
“Do you know who killed her?” Jérôme asked.
“I’m getting closer,” said Gamache, gathering up the photographs. “What can you tell me about François Marois and André Castonguay?”
Thérèse raised a finely shaped brow. “The art dealers? Are they involved?”
“Along with Denis Fortin, yes.”
“Well,” said Thérèse, sipping her white wine. “Castonguay has his own gallery, but most of his income comes from the Kelley contract. He landed it decades ago and has managed to hold on to it.”
“You make it sound tenuous.”
“I’m actually amazed he still has it. He’s lost a lot of his influence in recent years, with new, more contemporary galleries opening.”
“Like Fortin’s?”
“Exactly like Fortin. Very aggressive. Fortin’s taken a real run at the gentlemen’s club. Can’t say I blame him. They shut him out so he had no choice but to pound down the doors.”
“Denis Fortin doesn’t seem content with pounding down just the doors,” said Gamache, taking a thin slice of cured Italian sausage and a black olive. “I get the impression he wants everything to come crashing down around Castonguay’s ears. Fortin wants it all, and means to get it.”
“Van Gogh’s ear,” said Thérèse, and smiled as Gamache paused before putting the sliced sausage in his mouth. “Not the cold cut, Armand. You’re safe. Though I can’t vouch for the olives.”
She gave him a wicked look.
“Did you just say, ‘Van Gogh’s ear’?” asked the Chief Inspector. “Someone else used the same expression earlier in the investigation. Can’t remember who now. What does it mean?”
“It means scooping up everything for fear of missing something important. Like they missed Van Gogh’s genius in another era. Denis Fortin is doing just that. Grabbing up all the promising artists, in case one of them turns out to be the new Van Gogh, or Damien Hirst or Anish Kapoor.”
“The next big thing. He missed it with Clara Morrow.”
“He sure did,” agreed Superintendent Brunel. “Which must make him desperate not to do it again.”
“So he’d want this artist?” Gamache indicated the now closed dossier on the table.
She nodded. “I think so. As I said, beautiful isn’t in, but then if you’re going to find the next big thing it won’t be among all the people doing what everyone else’s doing. You need to find someone creating their own form. Like her.”
She tapped the dossier with a manicured finger.
“And François Marois?” asked Gamache. “How does he fit in?”
“Ah, now there’s a good question. He gives every appearance of urbane disinterest, certainly in the infighting. Seems to live above the fray. Claims to only want to promote great art and the artists. And he certainly knows it. Of all the dealers in Canada, and certainly in this city, I’d say he’s most likely to recognize talent.”
“And then what?”
Thérèse Brunel looked at Gamache closely. “You’ve obviously spent time with him, Armand. What do you think?”
Gamache thought for a moment. “I think of all the dealers he’s the most likely to get what he wants.”
Brunel nodded slowly. “He’s a predator,” she finally said. “Patient, ruthless. As charming as can be, as you’ve probably noticed, until he spots what he wants. And then? Best to hide somewhere until the slaughter is over.”
“That bad?”
“That bad. I’ve never known François Marois not to get his way.”
“Has he ever broken the law?”
She shook her head. “Not the laws of man, anyway.”
The three friends sat quietly for a moment. Until finally Gamache spoke.
“I’ve come across a quote in this case and wonder if you know it. He’s a natural, producing art like it’s a bodily function.”
He sat back and watched their reactions. Thérèse, so serious a moment before, smiled a bit while her husband guffawed.
“I know that quote. From a critique, I believe. But many years ago,” said Thérèse.
“It was. A review in La Presse. Written by the dead woman.”
“By her or about her?”
“The review mentions a ‘he,’ Thérèse,” said her husband with amusement.
“That’s true, but Armand might have misquoted. He’s famous for shoddy work, you know,” she said with a smile, and Gamache laughed.
“Well, this time, by dumb luck, I got it right,” he said. “Do you remember who the line was written about?”
Thérèse Brunel thought, then shook her head. “I’m sorry, Armand. As I say, it’s become a famous line, but I suspect whoever it was written about didn’t become a famous artist.”
“Are reviews that important?”
“To Kapoor or Twombly, no. To someone just starting out, a first show, they’re crucial. Which reminds me, I saw the wonderful reviews of Clara’s show. We couldn’t make the vernissage, but I’m not surprised. Her works are genius. I called to congratulate her but couldn’t get through. I’m sure she’s busy.”
“Are Clara’s paintings better than these?” Gamache indicated the dossier.