Gamache’s eyes swept the room. It was habit now. Noticing where everyone was, and what they were doing.
Olivier was by the bookcases, his back to the room. Apparently fascinated by the books, but Gamache suspected he’d seen those shelves many times.
François Marois and Denis Fortin were standing together, though not talking. Gamache wondered where the other one was. André Castonguay.
And then he found him. In a corner of the room, talking with Chief Justice Pineault while a few steps away young Brian was watching.
What was the look on Brian’s face, Gamache wondered. It took an effort to dig below the tattoos, the swastika, the raised finger, the “fuck you.” And see other expressions. Brian was certainly alert, watchful. Not the detached youth of the evening before.
“You must be kidding,” said Castonguay, his voice raised. “You can’t tell me you like it.”
Gamache wandered a little closer, while everyone else glanced over, then wandered a little further away. Except Brian. He stood his ground.
“I don’t just like it, I think it’s amazing,” Pineault was saying.
“Waste of time,” said the art dealer, his voice thick. He clutched an almost empty glass of red wine.
Gamache maneuvered closer and noticed the two men were standing in front of one of Clara’s paintings. A study, really, of hands. Some clutching, some fists, some just opening, or closing, depending on your perception.
“It’s all just bullshit,” said Castonguay, and Pineault made a subtle gesture to try to get the art dealer to lower his voice. “Everyone says it’s so great, but you know what?”
Castonguay leaned toward Pineault, and Gamache focused on Castonguay’s lips, hoping to make out what the art dealer was about to whisper.
“People who think that are idiots. Morons. Wet brains.”
Gamache needn’t have worried about hearing. Everyone heard. Castonguay shouted his opinion.
Again the circle around the dealer grew. Pineault scanned the room, looking for Clara, Gamache supposed. Hoping she wasn’t hearing what one of her guests was saying about her work.
Then the Chief Justice’s gaze settled back on Castonguay, his eyes hard. Gamache had seen that look often in court. Rarely directed at him, mostly directed at some poor trial lawyer who’d transgressed.
Had Castonguay been a Death Star, his head would have exploded.
“I’m sorry to hear that, André,” said Pineault, his voice polar. “Maybe one day you’ll feel as I do.”
The Chief Justice turned and walked away.
“Feel?” demanded Castonguay to Pineault’s retreating back. “Feel? Jeez, maybe you should try using your brains.”
Pineault hesitated, his back to Castonguay. The entire room was quiet now, watching. Then the Chief Justice continued walking away.
And André Castonguay was left all alone.
“He needs to hit bottom,” said Suzanne.
“I’ve hit many bottoms,” said Gabri. “And I find it helps.”
Gamache looked around the room for Clara, but fortunately she wasn’t there. Almost certainly in the kitchen preparing dinner. Wonderful aromas drifted through the open door, almost masking the stink of Castonguay’s words.
“So,” said Ruth, turning her back on the swaying art dealer and focusing on Suzanne. “I hear you’re a drunk.”
“Very true,” said Suzanne. “In fact, I come from a long line of drunks. They’d drink anything. Lighter fluid, pond scum, one of my uncles swore he could turn urine into wine.”
“Really?” said Ruth, perking up. “I can turn wine into urine. Did he perfect the process?”
“Not surprisingly, he died before I was born but my mother had a still and would ferment everything. Peas, roses. Lamps.”
Ruth looked disbelieving. “Come on. Peas?”
Still, she looked ready to try. She took a swig of her drink and inclined it toward Suzanne. “Bet your mother never tried this.”
“What is it?” asked Suzanne. “If it’s a distilled Oriental carpet, she did that too. Tasted like my grandfather, but got the job done.”
Ruth looked impressed, but shook her head. “It’s my special blend. Gin, bitters, and the tears of little children.”
Suzanne didn’t seem surprised.
Armand Gamache decided not to join that conversation.
Just then Peter called, “Dinner!” and the guests filed into the kitchen.
Clara had lit candles around the large room, and vases of flowers had been placed along the center of the long pine table.
As Gamache took his seat he noticed that while the three art dealers seemed to travel together, so did the three AA members. Suzanne, Thierry and Brian.
“What’re you thinking?” Myrna asked, taking a seat on his right. She handed him a basket of warm baguettes.
“Groups of threes.”
“Really? Last time we were together you were thinking of Humpty Dumpty.”
“Christ,” muttered Ruth, on his other side, “this murder’ll never be solved.”
Gamache looked at the old poet. “Guess what I’m thinking now.”
She stared back at him, her cold blue eyes narrowing, her face flint. Then she laughed. “Quite right too,” she said, grabbing some bread. “I’m all that, and more.”
The platter, with the whole poached salmon, was being passed in one direction, while spring vegetables and salad were going in the other. Everyone helped themselves.
“So, groups of threes,” Ruth nodded to the art dealers. “Like Curly, Larry and Moe over there?”
François Marois laughed but André Castonguay looked bleary and peeved.
“There’s a long tradition of groups of threes,” said Myrna. “Everyone thinks in terms of couples, but actually threes are very common. Mystical even. The holy trinity.”
“Three Graces,” said Gabri, helping himself to vegetables. “Like in your painting, Clara.”
“The Three Fates,” said Paulette.
“There’s ‘three on a match,’” said Denis Fortin. “Ready. Aim.” He looked at Marois. “Fire. But we’re not the only ones to move in threes,” said Fortin.
Gamache looked at him inquiringly.
“You do too,” said Fortin, looking from Gamache, to Beauvoir to Lacoste.
Gamache laughed. “I hadn’t thought of that, but it’s true.”
“Three blind mice,” said Ruth.
“Three pines,” said Clara. “Maybe you’re the three pines. Keeping us safe.”
“Sure made a balls-up of that,” said Ruth.
“Stupid conversation,” muttered Castonguay, and knocked his fork to the floor. He glared at it, a stupid look on his face. The room grew quiet.
“Never mind,” said Clara cheerfully. “We have plenty.”
She got up but Castonguay reached out to grab her as she passed.
“I’m not hungry,” he said, his voice loud and querulous.
Missing Clara, his hand hit Agent Lacoste beside him. “Sorry,” he mumbled.
Peter, Gabri and Paulette began speaking at once. Loudly, cheerfully.
“Don’t want any,” snapped Castonguay as Brian offered him the salmon. Then the gallery owner seemed to focus on the young man. “Jeez, who invited you?”
“The same person who invited you,” said Brian.
Peter, Gabri and Paulette spoke even more loudly. More cheerfully.
“What’re you?” slurred Castonguay, trying to focus on Brian. “Christ, don’t tell me you’re an artist too. You look fucked up enough to be one.”
“I am,” said Brian. “I’m a tattoo artist.”
“What?” demanded Castonguay.
“It’s all right, André,” said François Marois, in a soothing voice, and it seemed to work. Castonguay swayed a bit in his chair and stared down at his plate, mesmerized.
“Who wants seconds?” asked Peter, brightly.
No one put their hand up.