A Trick of the Light (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache, #7)

by Louise Penny

Watching Reine-Marie as they sat on the balcony, Gamache was once again struck by the certainty he’d married above himself. Not socially. Not academically. But he could never shake the suspicion he had gotten very, very lucky. Armand Gamache knew he’d had a great deal of luck in his life, but none more than having loved the same woman for thirty-five years. Unless it was the extraordinary stroke of luck that she should also love him.

“There was a murder in Clara’s village, Three Pines—” “Yes, Dad has mentioned that. Seems like a cottage industry there.” Despite himself, Beauvoir laughed. “There is strong shadow where there is much light.”

Since his separation from Enid, Jean-Guy had seemed distant. Aloof. He’d never been exactly exuberant but Beauvoir was quieter than ever these days, as though his walls had grown and thickened. And his narrow drawbridge had been raised. Armand Gamache knew no good ever came from putting up walls. What people mistook for safety was in fact captivity. And few things thrived in captivity.

“It’ll take time,” said Reine-Marie. “Avec le temps,” agreed Armand. But privately he wondered. He knew time could heal. But it could also do more damage. A forest fire, spread over time, would consume everything.

Gamache thought for a moment, looking from the gentle face of his wife out into the trees of the park. A natural setting. He so yearned for that, since his days were filled with hunting the unnatural. Killers.

Gamache was quiet. Seeing the sun gleaming off snowbanks. Through the frosted panes of glass he could see the villagers gathered in the bistro. Warm and safe. The cheery fires lit. The mugs of beer and bowls of café au lait. The laughter. And Olivier, stalled. Two feet from the closed door. Staring at it. Jean-Guy had gone to open it, but Gamache had lain a gloved hand on his arm. And together in the bitter cold they’d waited. Waited. For Olivier to make the move.

Beauvoir knew the only thing worse than no apology was an insincere one.

Clara had painted her as the forgotten and belligerent Virgin Mary. Worn down by age and rage, by resentments real and manufactured. By friendships soured. By entitlements denied and love withheld. But there was something else. A vague suggestion in those weary eyes. Not even seen really. More a promise. A rumor in the distance. Amid all the brush strokes, all the elements, all the color and nuance in the portrait, it came down to one tiny detail. A single white dot. In her eyes. Clara Morrow had painted the moment despair became hope.

The next morning Clara rose early. Putting on rubber boots and a sweater over her pajamas, she poured herself a coffee and sat in one of the Adirondack chairs in their back garden. The caterers had cleaned up and there was no evidence of the huge barbeque and dance the night before. She closed her eyes and could feel the young June sun on her upturned face and could hear birdcalls and the Rivière Bella Bella gurgling past at the end of the garden. Below that was the thrum of bumblebees climbing in and over and around the peonies. Getting lost. Bumbling around. It looked comical, ridiculous. But then so much did, unless you knew. Clara Morrow held the warm mug in her hands and smelt coffee, and the fresh-mown grass. The lilacs and peonies and young, fragrant roses. This was the village that had lived beneath the covers when Clara was a child. That was built behind the thin wooden door to her bedroom, where outside her parents argued. Her brothers ignored her. The phone rang, but not for her. Where eyes slid over and past her and through her. To someone else. Someone prettier. More interesting. Where people butted in as though she was invisible, and interrupted her as though she hadn’t just spoken. But when as a child she closed her eyes and pulled the sheets over her head, Clara saw the pretty little village in the valley. With the forests and flowers and kindly people. Where bumbling was a virtue.

But now, in the clear light of day, the anxiety had returned. Not the storm it had been at its worst, but a light mist that muted the sunshine.

Peter Morrow stared at the red shoes just poking out from behind the flower bed. They were attached to the dead woman’s feet, which were attached to her body, which was lying on his grass. He couldn’t see the body now. It was hidden by the tall flowers, but he could see the feet. He looked away. Tried to concentrate on something else. On the investigators, Gamache and his team, bending, bowing, murmuring, as though in common prayer. A dark ritual, in his garden.

Chief Inspector Gamache gave them a small almost apologetic smile, as though the body was his fault. Was that how dreadful things started? Peter wondered. Not with a thunder clap. Not with a shriek. Not with sirens, but with a smile? Something horrible come calling, wrapped in civility and good manners. But the something horrible had already been, and gone. And had left a body behind.

It always fascinated Clara to see how easily Gamache took command, and how naturally people took his orders. Never barked, never shouted, never harsh. Always put in the most calm, even courteous manner. His orders were couched almost as requests. And yet not a person mistook them for that.

Clara looked around. The back lawn was dotted with large flower beds. Some round, some oblong. Tall trees along the riverbank threw dappled shade, but most of it was in bright noonday sun.

“But do most people know how to break someone’s neck?” asked Agent Lacoste, brushing off her slacks. Like most Québécoise she was petite and managed a casual elegance even while dressed for the country. “It doesn’t take much, you know,” said Dr. Harris. “A twist. But it’s possible the killer had a fall-back plan. To throttle her, if the twist didn’t work.” “You make it sound like a business plan,” said Lacoste. “It might have been,” said the coroner. “Cold, rational. It might not be physically hard to snap someone’s neck, but believe me, it would be very difficult emotionally. That’s why most people are killed with guns or a club to the head. Or even a knife. Let something else do the actual killing. But to do it with your own hands? Not in a fight but in a cold and calculated act? No.” Dr. Harris turned back to the dead woman. “It would take a very special person to do that.” “And by ‘very special’ you mean?” Gamache asked. “You know what I mean, Chief Inspector.” “But I want you to be clear.” “Someone who either didn’t care at all, was psychotic. Or someone who cared very, very deeply. Who wanted to do it with his bare hands. To literally take the life, himself.”

With Peter’s help two more Adirondack chairs were brought over and the four of them sat in a circle. Had there been a campfire in the center it might have felt like a ghost story. And in a way, it was.

Clara sat back in the deep wooden chair and held on to the wide warm armrests, as though bracing herself. But instead of hurtling forward, she was plunging backward. Back through the decades, out the door of their home and out of Three Pines. Back to Montréal. Into art college, into the classes, into the student shows. Clara Morrow slammed backward out of college and into high school, then elementary school. And nursery school. Before skidding to a stop in front of the little girl with the shining red hair next door.

“But there was a price for being Lillian’s friend,” said Clara at last. “It was a wonderful world she created. Fun and safe. But she always had to be right, and she always had to be first. That was the price. It seemed fair at first. She set the rules and I followed. I was pretty pathetic anyway, so it was never an issue. It never seemed to matter.” Clara took a deep breath. And exhaled. “And then, it did seem to matter. In high school things began to change. I didn’t see it at first, but I’d call Lillian on Saturday night to see if she’d like to go out, to a movie or something, and she’d say she’d get back to me, but didn’t. I’d call again, to find she’d gone out.” Clara looked at the three men. She could see that while they were following the words they weren’t necessarily following the emotions. How it felt. Especially that first time. To be left behind. It sounded so small, so petty. But it was the first hairline fracture. Clara hadn’t realized it at the time. She thought maybe Lillian’d forgotten. And besides, she had a right to go out with other friends. Then, one weekend, Clara had arranged to go out with a new friend herself. And Lillian had gone ballistic. “It took months for her to forgive me.” Now she saw it in Jean-Guy’s face. A look of revulsion. For the way Lillian had treated her, or the way she’d taken it? How to explain it to him? How did she explain it to herself? At the time it had seemed normal. She loved Lillian. Lillian loved her. Had saved her from t...

Most girls fell out over boys or cliques, or just misunderstandings. Hurt feelings. Teachers and parents think those classrooms and hallways are filled with students but they’re not. They’re filled with feelings. Bumping into each other. Hurting each other. It’s horrible.”

Clara had turned to Lillian, happy. Eager to catch her friend’s eye. It had been a small compliment. A tiny triumph. She’d wanted to share it with the only other person who’d understand. And she had. But. But. In that instant before the smile appeared on Lillian’s face Clara had caught something else. A wariness. And then the supportive, happy smile. So fast Clara almost convinced herself her own insecurity had seen something not really there. That once again, it was her fault. But looking back, Clara knew that the fissure had widened. Some cracks let the light in. Some let the darkness out. She’d had a brief glance at what was inside Lillian. And it wasn’t nice.

“Lillian didn’t like it. My stuff was too weird for her. She felt it reflected on her, and said people thought that if she was my muse then my paintings must be about her. And since my paintings and other pieces were so strange, then she must be strange.” Clara hesitated. “She asked me to stop.” For the first time she saw a reaction from Gamache. His eyes narrowed just a bit. And then his face and demeanor returned to normal. Neutral. Without judgment. Apparently. He said nothing. Just listened. “And I did,” said Clara, her voice low, her head down. Speaking into her lap. She took a ragged breath and exhaled, feeling her body deflate. That was how it had felt back then too. As though there was a small tear and she was deflating. “I told her time and again that some of the works were inspired by her, some were even a tribute to our friendship, but they weren’t her. She said it didn’t matter. If others thought they were that’s all that mattered. If I cared about her, if I was her friend I’d stop making my art so strange. And make it attractive. “So I did. I destroyed all the other stuff and started making things that people liked.”

“I actually got better grades too. And I convinced myself it was the right choice. That it would be wrong to trade a career for a friend.” She looked up then, directly into Chief Inspector Gamache’s eyes. And noted, again, the deep scar by his temple. And the steady, thoughtful gaze. “It seemed a small sacrifice. Then came the student show. I had a few works in it, but Lillian didn’t. Instead she decided to write a piece for credit in the art criticism course she was taking. She wrote a review for the campus paper. In it she praised a few of the student pieces but savaged my works. Said they were vacuous, empty of all feeling. Safe.” Clara could still feel the quaking, the rumbling, volcanic fury. Their friendship had been blown to smithereens. No piece large enough to even examine. Impossible to mend. But what did rise from the rubble was a deep, deep enmity. A hatred. Mutual, it seemed.

The sun continued to beat down and Gamache got up, indicating they should move the chairs into the shade. Clara rose, and flashing a quick smile at Peter she took her hand back. They each picked up their chair and walked to the edge of the river where it was cooler and shady. “I think we should take a little break,” said Gamache. “Would you like something to drink?” Clara nodded, unable to speak just yet. “Bon,” said Gamache, looking across to his forensics team. “I’m sure they’d like something too. If you can arrange for sandwiches from the bistro,” he said to Beauvoir, “Peter and I will make some drinks.”

The Chief waited. He could see the struggle in Peter and Gamache let the silence stretch on. Better to wait a few minutes for the full truth than push him and risk getting only half.

“I was the one who told Lillian that Clara’s works were silly,” said Peter, raising his head and his voice. Angry now, at himself for doing it and Gamache for making him admit it. “I said Clara’s work was banal, superficial. Lillian’s review was my fault.” Gamache was surprised. Stunned in fact. When Peter had said there was something Clara didn’t know, the Chief Inspector had assumed an affair. A short-lived student indiscretion between Peter and Lillian. He hadn’t expected this. “I’d been to the student exhibit and seen Clara’s works,” said Peter. “I was standing beside Lillian and a bunch of others and they were snickering. Then they saw me and asked what I thought. Clara and I had begun dating and I think I could see even then that she was the real deal. Not pretending to be an artist, but a genuine one. She had a creative soul. Still does.” Peter stopped. He didn’t often speak of souls. But when he thought of Clara that was what came to mind. A soul. “I don’t know what came over me. It’s like sometimes when it’s very quiet I feel like screaming. And sometimes when I’m holding something delicate I feel like dropping it. I don’t know why.” He looked at the large, quiet man beside him. But Gamache continued to be silent. Listening. Peter took a few short breaths. “I think too I wanted to impress them, and it’s easier to be clever when you criticize. So I said some not very nice things about Clara’s show and they ended up in Lillian’s review.”

“Clara? Don’t get me wrong, she can be maddening. Annoying, impatient, sometimes insecure. But she’s only ever happy for other people. Happy for me.” “And are you happy for her?” “Of course I am. She deserves all the success she gets.” It was a lie. Not that she deserved her success. Gamache knew that to be true. As did Peter. But both men also knew he was far from happy about it. Gamache had asked not because he didn’t know the answer, but because he wanted to see if Peter would lie to him. He had. And if he’d lie about that, what else had he lied about?

Gamache, Beauvoir and the Morrows sat down to lunch in the garden. The forensics team, on the other side of the tall perennial beds, were drinking lemonade and eating an assortment of sandwiches from the bistro, but Olivier had prepared something special for Beauvoir to take back for the four of them. And so the Inspector had returned with a chilled cucumber soup with mint and melon, a sliced tomato and basil salad drizzled with balsamic, and cold poached salmon. It was an idyllic setting disturbed every now and then by a homicide investigator walking by, or appearing in a nearby flower bed. Gamache had placed Peter and Clara with their backs to the activity. Only he and Beauvoir could see, but he realized it was a conceit. The Morrows knew perfectly well that the gentle scene they looked upon, the river, the late spring flowers, the quiet forest, wasn’t the whole picture. And if they’d forgotten, the conversation would remind them.

He knew most people were capable of murder. And, unlike Gamache who believed goodness existed, Beauvoir knew that was a temporary state. As long as the sun shone and there was poached salmon on the plate, people could be good. But take that away, and see what happens. Take the food, the chairs, the flowers, the home. Take the friends, the supportive spouse, the income away, and see what happens. The Chief believed if you sift through evil, at the very bottom you’ll find good. He believed that evil has its limits. Beauvoir didn’t. He believed that if you sift through good, you’ll find evil. Without borders, without brakes, without limit. And every day it frightened him that Gamache couldn’t see that. That he was blind to it. Because out of blind spots terrible things appeared.

“What makes you think we haven’t forgiven you?” asked Clara. “Well, Ruth for one.” “Oh, come on,” laughed Clara. “She’s always called you a dick-head.” “True. But you know what she calls me now?” “What?” she asked with a grin. “Olivier.” Clara’s grin slowly faded.

“Thank you for listening. If you ever want to talk about Lillian, or anything, you know where to find me.” He waved, not toward the bistro, but toward Gabri, who was busy ignoring customers and chatting away with a friend. Olivier watched him with a smile. Yes, thought Clara. Gabri is his home.

As he watched, Gamache became aware of a familiar scent. Turning slightly he saw he was standing beside a gnarled old lilac bush at the corner of Peter and Clara’s home. It looked delicate, fragile, but Gamache knew lilacs were in fact long lived. They survived storms and droughts, biting winters and late frosts. They flourished and bloomed where other more apparently robust plants died. The village of Three Pines, he noticed, was dotted with lilac bushes. Not the new hybrids with double blooms and vibrant colors. These were the soft purples and whites of his grandmother’s garden. When had they been young? Had doughboys returning from Vimy and Flanders and Passchendaele marched past these same bushes? Had they breathed in the scent and known, at last, they were home? At peace.

Lillian Dyson couldn’t have known it when she bought them, but these maps were also useless. Just to be sure, he opened one and where Three Pines should have been there was the winding Bella Bella River, hills, a forest. And nothing else. As far as the official mapmakers were concerned Three Pines didn’t exist. It had never been surveyed. Never plotted. No GPS or sat nav system, no matter how sophisticated, would ever find the little village. It only appeared as though by accident over the edge of the hill. Suddenly. It could not be found unless you were lost.

Then Gamache turned to look at the inn. It had once been a monstrosity. A rotting, rotten old place. A Victorian trophy home built more than a century ago of hubris and other men’s sweat. Meant to dominate the village below. But while Three Pines survived the recessions, the depressions, the wars, this turreted eyesore fell into disrepair, attracting only sorrow. Instead of a trophy, when villagers looked up what they saw was a shadow, a sigh on the hill. But no longer. Now it was an elegant and gleaming country inn. But sometimes, at certain angles, in a certain light Gamache could still see the sorrow in the place. And just at dusk, in the breeze, he thought he could hear the sigh.

Gamache turned his gaze back to the agent in front of him. Young, eager. “Did you get their names and addresses?” “Yessir. And cross checked with their ID. I got everyone’s information.” He unclicked his pocket, to get at his notebook. “Perhaps you can take it to the Incident Room,” said Gamache, “and give it to Agent Lacoste.” “Right,” said Rousseau, writing that down. Jean-Guy Beauvoir inwardly groaned. Here we go again, he thought. He’s going to invite this kid to join the investigation. Does he never learn? Armand Gamache smiled and nodded to Agent Rousseau, then turned and walked back toward the inn, leaving two surprised men behind him. Rousseau that he’d been spoken to so civilly and Beauvoir that Gamache hadn’t done what he’d done on almost every investigation in the past. Invited one of the young, local agents to join them. Beauvoir knew he should be happy. Relieved. Then why did he feel so sad?

So he had noticed, thought Beauvoir. But too late. Chief Inspector Gamache was the tide and André Castonguay a twig. The best he could hope was to stay afloat.

“I’m afraid even at my age I’m a romantic.” “Are you going to admit to a crush on Clara Morrow?” asked Gamache. François Marois laughed. “Not exactly, though after seeing her work it’s hard not to like her. But it’s more of a philosophical state, my romanticism.” “How so?” “I love that an artist could be plucked out of obscurity and discovered at the age of almost fifty. What artist doesn’t dream of it? What artist doesn’t believe, every morning, it will happen before bedtime? Remember Magritte? Belgian painter?” “Ceci n’est pas une pipe?” asked Gamache, losing Beauvoir completely. He hoped the Chief hadn’t just had a seizure and started spouting nonsense. “That’s the one. He worked away for years, decades. Living in squalor. Supported himself by painting fake Picassos and forging banknotes. When he did his own work Magritte was not only ignored by the galleries and collectors, he was mocked by other artists, who thought he was nuts. I have to say, it gets pretty bad when even other artists think you’re nuts.” Gamache laughed. “And was he?” “Well, perhaps. You’ve seen his works?” “I have. I like them, but I’m not sure how I would have felt had someone not told me they were genius.” “Exactly,” said Marois, suddenly sitting forward, more animated than Beauvoir had seen him. Excited even. “That’s what makes my job like Christmas every day. While every artist wakes up believing this is the day his genius will be discovered, every dealer wakes up believing this is the day he’ll...

“The portfolio I believe is brilliant someone else can look at and think is dull, derivative. Witness our reactions to Clara Morrow’s paintings.” “I still say they’re just not interesting,” said Castonguay. “And I say they are, and who’s to say who’s right? That’s what drives artists and dealers crazy. It’s so subjective.”

“I had a client once. Dead now, years ago. Lovely man. A commercial artist, but also a very fine creative artist. His home was full of these marvelous paintings. I discovered him when he was already quite old, though now that I think of it, he was younger than I am now.” Marois smiled, as did Gamache. He knew that feeling. “He was one of my first clients and he did quite well. He was thrilled, as was his wife. One day he asked a favor. Could his wife put in a few of her works into his next show. I was polite, but declined. But he was quite uncharacteristically insistent. I didn’t know her well, and didn’t know her art at all. I suspected she was putting pressure on the old man. But I could see how important it was to him, so I relented. Gave her a corner, and a hammer.” He paused and his eyes flickered. “I’m not very proud of it now. I should have either treated her with respect, or declined the show totally. But I was young, and had a lot to learn.” He sighed. “The evening of the vernissage was the first time I saw her works. I walked into the room and everyone was crowded into that corner. You can guess what happened.” “All her paintings sold,” said Gamache. Marois nodded. “Every one, with people buying others she’d left in her home, sight unseen. There was even a bidding war for several of them. My client was a gifted artist. But she was better. Far better. A stunning find. A genuine Van Gogh’s ear.” “Pardon?” asked Gamache. “A what?” “What did the old man do?” Castongu...

But there was more to Three Pines than magic. Something monstrous had roamed the village green, had eaten the food and danced among them. Something dark had joined the party that night. And produced not magic but murder.

“What was she?” Myrna asked. She’d heard the broad strokes, but now she wanted to hear the details. And Clara told her everything. About the young Lillian, about the teenage Lillian. About the woman in her twenties. As she got further into the story Clara’s voice dropped and dragged, lugging the words along. And then she stopped, and Myrna was silent for a moment, staring at her friend. “She sounds like an emotional vampire,” said Myrna, at last. “A what?” “I ran into quite a few in my practice. People who sucked others dry. We all know them. We’re in their company and come away drained, for no apparent reason.” Clara nodded. She did know a few, though no one in Three Pines. Not even Ruth. She only drained their liquor cabinet. But Clara, oddly, always felt refreshed, invigorated after a visit with the demented old poet. But there were others who just sucked the life right out of her. Lillian was one. “But it wasn’t always like that,” said Clara, trying to be fair. “She was a friend once.” “That’s often the way too,” nodded Myrna. “The frog in the frying pan.”

“The frog in the frying pan is a psychological term, a phenomenon,” she said. “If you stick a frog into a sizzling hot frying pan what’ll it do?” “Jump out?” suggested Clara. “Jump out. But if you put one into a pan at room temperature then slowly raise the heat, what happens?” Clara thought about it. “It’ll jump out when it gets too hot?” Myrna shook her head. “No.” She took her feet off the hassock and leaned forward again, her eyes intense. “The frog just sits there. It gets hotter and hotter but it never moves. It adjusts and adjusts. Never leaves.” “Never?” asked Clara, quietly. “Never. It stays there until it dies.” Clara took a long, slow, deep breath, then exhaled. “I saw it with my clients who’d been abused either physically or emotionally. The relationship never starts with a fist to the face, or an insult. If it did there’d be no second date. It always starts gently. Kindly. The other person draws you in. To trust them. To need them. And then they slowly turn. Little by little, increasing the heat. Until you’re trapped.” “But Lillian wasn’t a lover, or a husband. She was just a friend.” “Friends can be abusive. Friendships can turn, become foul,” said Myrna. “She fed on your gratitude. Fed on your insecurities, on your love for her.

Chief Inspector Gamache sat in the large living room of the bed and breakfast. The walls were painted a creamy linen, the furniture was handpicked by Gabri from Olivier’s antiquing finds. But rather than heavy Victoriana he’d gone for comfort. Two large sofas faced each other across the stone fireplace and armchairs created quiet conversation areas around the room. Where Dominique’s inn and spa gleamed and preened like a delightful gem on the hill, Gabri’s bed and breakfast sat peacefully, cheerfully, a little shabbily in the valley. Like Grandma’s house, if Grandma had been a large gay man.

Unlike Beauvoir, Chief Inspector Gamache had a great deal of respect for artists. They were sensitive. Often self-absorbed. Often not fit for polite society. Some, he suspected, were deeply unbalanced. It would not be an easy life. Living on the margins, often in poverty. Being ignored and even ridiculed. By society, by funding agencies, even by other artists. François Marois’s story of Magritte wasn’t singular. The man and woman sitting here in the B and B were both Magrittes. Fighting hard to be heard and seen, respected and accepted. A difficult life for anyone, never mind people as sensitive as artists. He suspected living like that created fear. And fear begat anger and enough anger over enough time led to a dead woman in a garden. Yes, Armand Gamache had a great deal of time for artists. But he was under no illusion about what they were capable of. Great creation, and great destruction.

“He’s a natural, producing art like it’s a bodily function,” said Normand. “Pardon?” asked Beauvoir. “It’s a line from one of her critiques,” said Paulette. “She’s famous for it. It got picked up by the wire services and the review went international.” “Who was she writing about?” Beauvoir asked. “That’s the funny thing,” said Paulette, “everyone remembers the quote, but no one remembers the artist.” Both Beauvoir and Gamache knew that wasn’t true. He’s a natural, producing art like it’s a bodily function. Clever, almost a compliment. But then it veered into a scathing dismissal. Someone would remember that review. The artist himself.

Some of the early white irises in the flower beds around the village green had opened fully, and then some. Almost exploding, exposing their black centers. It seemed to Beauvoir a confirmation. Inside every living thing, no matter how beautiful, if opened fully enough was darkness.

Out the window Myrna watched as Ruth pelted birds with hunks of bread. At the crest of the hill she saw Dominique Gilbert heading back to her barn, riding what looked like a moose. Outside the bistro, on the terrasse, Gabri was sitting at a customer’s table, eating her dessert. Not for the first time Three Pines struck Myrna as the equivalent of the Humane Society. Taking in the wounded, the unwanted. The mad, the sore. This was a shelter. Though, clearly, not a no-kill shelter.

Dominique Gilbert curried Buttercup’s rump. Around and around her hand went. It always reminded her of the scene in The Karate Kid. Wax goes on. Wax goes off. But instead of a shammy, this was a brush, and instead of a car, this was a horse. Sort of. Buttercup was in the alley of the barn, outside his stall. Chester was watching this, doing his little dance as though he had a mariachi band in his head. Macaroni was in the field, having already been groomed, and was now rolling in the mud. As she rubbed the caked and dried dirt off the huge horse, Dominique noticed the scabs, the scars, the patches of skin that would never grow horse hair, so deep were the wounds. And yet, the massive horse let her touch him. Let her groom him. Let her ride him. As did Chester and Macaroni. If any creatures had earned the right to buck it was them. But instead, they chose to be the gentlest of beasts.

Dominique couldn’t see the field from where she stood, but she knew that view well. Looked at it every day. Often sat on the patio at the back of their home, private from the guests, with a gin and tonic at the end of the day. And stared. The way she’d once stared out the window of her corner office on the seventeenth floor of the bank tower. The view from her windows now was more limited, but even more beautiful. Tall grasses, tender young wild flowers. Mountains and forests, and the broken-down old horses lumbering about in the fields. In her view there was nothing more magnificent.

“It’s clear Clara’s a remarkable artist,” said Marois, ignoring the gallery owner. “But the very gifts that make her that also make her unable to navigate the art world.” “You might be underestimating Clara Morrow,” said Gamache. “I might, but you might be underestimating the art world. Don’t be fooled by the veneer of civility and creativity. It’s a vicious place, filled with insecure and greedy people. Fear and greed, that’s what shows up at vernissages. There’s a lot of money at stake. Fortunes. And a lot of egos involved. Volatile combination.”

“At what point yesterday did you decide Clara Morrow was the one?” asked Gamache. “You were with me, Chief Inspector. The moment I saw the light in the Virgin Mary’s eye.” Gamache was quiet, recalling that moment. “As I remember you thought it might simply be a trick of the light.” “I still do. But how remarkable is that? For Clara Morrow to, in essence, capture the human experience? One person’s hope is another person’s cruelty. Is it light, or a false promise?”