Then suddenly out of nowhere Denis Fortin had knocked on their door. Peter was certain the distinguished dealer, with contacts throughout the art world, had come to see him. After all, he was the famous one. His excruciatingly detailed paintings sold for thousands and sat on the finest walls in Canada. Peter had naturally shown Fortin into his studio only to be politely told that his works were nice but it was actually Clara Morrow the dealer wanted to see.
Had the dealer said he wanted to turn green and fly to the moon Peter wouldn’t have been more astonished. See Clara’s works? What? His mind seized up and he’d stared at Fortin.
‘Why?’ he’d stammered. Then it was Fortin’s turn to stare.
‘She is Clara Morrow? The artist? A friend showed me her portfolio. Is this it?’
Fortin had taken a folio of works from his case and sure enough, there was Clara’s weeping tree. Weeping words. What tree wept words? Peter had wondered when Clara had first shown him the work. And now Denis Fortin, the most prominent gallery owner in Quebec, was saying it was an impressive work of art.
‘That’s mine,’ said Clara, trying to get between the two men.
Amazed, as though in a dream, she’d shown Fortin around her studio. And she’d described her latest work, hidden under its canvas caul. Fortin had stared at the canvas, but hadn’t reached out for it, hadn’t even asked for it to be removed.
‘When will it be finished?’
‘A few days,’ said Clara, wondering where that came from.
‘Shall we say the first week in May?’ He’d smiled and shaken her hand with great warmth. ‘I’ll bring my curators so we can all decide.’
Decide?
The great Denis Fortin was coming in little over a week to see Clara’s latest work. And if he liked it her career would be decided.
Now Peter stood staring at the piece.
He suddenly felt something grab him. From behind. It reached forward and right into him and took hold. Peter gasped at the pain, the searing, scalding pain of it. Tears came to his eyes as he was overcome by this wraith that had threatened all his life. That he’d hidden from as a child, that he’d run from and buried and denied. It had stalked him and finally found him. Here, in his beloved wife’s studio. Standing in front of this creation of hers the terrible monster had found him.
And devoured him.
FIVE
‘So what did Ruth want?’ Olivier asked, as he placed single malt Scotches in front of Myrna and Gabri. Odile and Gilles had gone home but everyone else was in the bistro. Clara waved to Peter, who was shrugging out of his coat and hanging it on a peg by the door. She’d called him as soon as the séance had ended and invited him to the post-mortem.
‘Well, at first we thought she was yelling “fuck”,’ said Myrna, ‘then we realized she was yelling “duck”.’
‘Duck? Really?’ said Olivier, sitting on the arm of Gabri’s wing chair and sipping cognac. ‘Duck? Do you think she’s been saying that all along?̵
‘And we just misheard?’ asked Myrna. ‘Duck off. Is that what she said to me the other day?’
‘Duck you?’ said Clara. ‘It’s possible. She is often in a fowl mood.’
Monsieur Béliveau laughed and looked over at Madeleine, pale and quiet beside him.
The fine April day had given way to a cold and damp night. It was getting on for midnight and they were the only ones in the bistro now.
‘What did she want?’ Peter asked.
‘Help with some duck eggs. Remember the ones we found by the pond this afternoon?’ said Clara, turning to Mad. ‘Are you all right?’
‘I’m fine.’ Madeleine smiled. ‘Just a little edgy.’
‘I’m sorry about that,’ said Jeanne. She sat on a hard chair slightly outside their circle. She’d reverted to her mousy self; all evidence of the strong, calm psychic had evaporated as soon as the lights had come on.
‘Oh, no, I’m sure it’s nothing to do with the séance,’ Madeleine assured her. ‘We had coffee after dinner and it must have had caffeine. It affects me that way.’
‘Mais, ce n’est pas possible,’ Monsieur Béliveau said. ‘I’m sure it was decaf.’ Though he was feeling a little edgy himself.
‘What’s the story with the eggs?’ asked Olivier, smoothing the crease on his immaculate corduroys.
‘Seems Ruth went to the pond after we’d left and picked them up,’ Clara explained.
‘Oh, no,’ said Mad.
‘Then the birds came back and wouldn’t sit on the nest,’ said Clara. ‘Just as you predicted. So Ruth took the eggs home.’
‘To eat?’ asked Myrna. ‘To hatch,’ said Gabri, who’d gone with Clara back to Ruth’s tiny house to see if they could help.
‘She didn’t sit on them, did she?’ Myrna asked, not sure if she was amused or repulsed by the image.
‘No, it was actually quite sweet. When we arrived the eggs were sitting on a soft flannel blanket in a basket. She’d put the whole lot in her oven on low.’
‘Good idea,’ said Peter. Like the rest, he’d have expected Ruth to devour, not save, them.
‘I don’t think she’s had that oven on in years. Keeps saying it takes too much energy,’ said Myrna.
‘Well, she has it on now,’ said Clara. ‘Trying to hatch the ducks. Those poor parents.’ She picked up her Scotch and glanced out the window to the darkness of the village green and imagined the parents sitting by the pond, at the spot where their young family had been, where their babies had sat in their little shells, trusting that Mom and Dad would keep them safe and warm. Ducks mate for life, Clara knew. That’s why duck hunting season was particularly cruel. Every now and then in the fall you’d see a lone duck, quacking. Calling. Waiting for its spouse. And for the rest of its life it would wait.
Were the duck parents waiting now? Waiting for their babies to return? Did ducks believe in miracles?
‘Still, it must have scared the crap out of all of you,’ Olivier laughed, imagining Ruth at the window.
‘Fortunately Clara here was on top of the spiritual crisis, repeating an ancient blessing,’ said Gabri.
‘More drinks, anyone?’ Clara asked.
‘Bless O Lord,’ Gabri began and the others joined in, ‘this food to our use, and ourselves to Thy service.’
Peter sputtered with laughter and felt Scotch dribble down his chin.
‘Let us be ever mindful of the needs of others.’ Peter looked her directly in her amused blue eyes.
‘Amen,’ they all said together, including Clara, who was herself laughing.
‘You said grace?’ Peter asked.
‘Well, I thought I might be seeing my dinner again.’
By now everyone was laughing and even staid and proper Monsieur Béliveau was letting out a rolling, deep guffaw and wiping his eyes.
‘Ruth’s appearance sure put paid to the séance,’ said Clara after she’d regained herself.
‘I don’t think we’d have been successful anyway,’ said Jeanne.
‘Why not?’ Peter asked, curious to hear her excuse.
‘I’m afraid this place is too happy,’ said Jeanne to Olivier. ‘I suspected as much as soon as I arrived.’
‘Damn,’ said Olivier. ‘That can’t be tolerated.’
‘Then why’d you do a séance?’ Peter persisted, certain he’d caught her out.
‘Well, it wasn’t exactly my idea. I’d planned to spend tonight here having the linguine primavera and reading old copies of Country Life. No mean spirits around.’
Jeanne looked directly at Peter, her smile fading.
‘Except one,’ said Monsieur Béliveau. Peter tore his eyes from Jeanne and looked at Béliveau, expecting to see the kindly grocer pointing a crooked Jacob Marley finger at him. But instead Monsieur Béliveau’s hawk-like profile stared out the window.