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

by Louise Penny

“Does it matter?” asked Castonguay. “It was twenty years ago or more. You think a review from decades ago has anything to do with her murder?” “I think murder has a long memory.”

“Aren’t you worried?” “I’m never worried about André. He’s no threat to me. If the Morrows are foolish enough to sign with him then he’s welcome to them.” But Gamache didn’t believe it for a moment. François Marois’s eyes were too sharp, too shrewd for that. His relaxed manner too studied. No, this man cared a great deal. He was wealthy. He was powerful. So it wasn’t about that. Fear and greed. That was what drove the art world. And Gamache knew it was probably true. So if it wasn’t greed on Marois’s part, then the other must be true. It was fear.

He took his place beside the Chief Inspector and both walked slowly down the slope and into the village. “Very pretty,” said Marois. He stopped and surveyed Three Pines, a smile on his lips. “I can see why Clara Morrow chose to live here. It is magical.” “I sometimes wonder how important place is to an artist.” Gamache also looked out over the quiet village. “So many choose the great cities. Paris, London, Venice. Cold water flats and lofts in Soho and Chelsea. Lillian Dyson moved to New York, for instance. But Clara didn’t. The Morrows chose here. Does where they live affect what they create?” “Oh, without a doubt. Where they live and who they spend time with. I don’t think Clara’s series of portraits could have been created any place other than here.” “It’s fascinating to me that some look at her work and see just nice portraits of mostly elderly women. Traditional, staid even. But you don’t.” “Neither do you, Chief Inspector, any more than when you and I look at Three Pines we see a village.” “And what do you see, Monsieur Marois?” “I see a painting.” “A painting?” “A beautiful one, to be sure. But all paintings, the most disturbing and the most exquisite, are made up of the same thing. The play of light and dark. That’s what I see. A whole lot of light, but a whole lot of dark too. That’s what people miss in Clara’s works. The light is so obvious they get fooled by it. It takes some people a while to appreciate the shading. I think that’s one of the things that makes h...

André Castonguay owned art. But François Marois owned the artists. Who was the more powerful? But also the more vulnerable? Framed paintings couldn’t get up and leave. But the artists could.

“Do you remember all your reviews?” asked Clara. “Only the bad ones.” “Why?” Ruth turned to look at her directly. Her eyes weren’t angry or cold, not filled with malice. They were filled with wonder. “I don’t know. Perhaps that’s the price of poetry. And, apparently, art.” “What d’you mean?” “We get hurt into it. No pain, no product.” “You believe that?” asked Clara. “Don’t you? What did the New York Times say about your art?” Clara searched her brain. She knew it was good. Something about hope and rising up. “Welcome to the bench,” said Ruth. “You’re early. I’d have thought it would take another ten years. But here you are.” And for a moment Ruth looked exactly like Clara’s portrait. Embittered, disappointed. Sitting in the sun but remembering, reviewing, replaying every insult. Every unkind word, bringing them out and examining them like disappointing birthday gifts.

Beauvoir was quiet, watching the Chief, taking in the gleam in his eye, the enthusiasm as he described what he’d found. Not the physical landscape, but the emotional. The intellectual. Many might have thought the Chief Inspector was a hunter. He tracked down killers. But Jean-Guy knew he wasn’t that. Chief Inspector Gamache was an explorer by nature. He was never happier than when he was pushing the boundaries, exploring the internal terrain. Areas even the person themselves hadn’t explored. Had never examined. Probably because it was too scary. Gamache went there. To the end of the known world, and beyond. Into the dark, hidden places. He looked into the crevices, where the worst things hid. And Jean-Guy Beauvoir followed.

Clara hugged her friend and felt the thick rolls of Myrna under the brilliant yellow caftan. Finally they pulled apart and Myrna looked at her friend. “What brought that on?” “I was just talking to Ruth—” “Oh, dear,” said Myrna and gave Clara another hug. “How many times have I told you to never speak to Ruth on your own? It’s far too dangerous. You don’t want to go wandering around in that head all alone.”

“Wait a second.” Clara veered off to speak to Ruth, still sitting on the bench. “We’re going into the back garden. Want to join us?” Ruth looked at Clara holding the stick, then at Myrna with the cigar made of dried sage and sweetgrass. “You’re not going to do one of those profane witch ritual things are you?” “We certainly are,” said Myrna from behind Clara. “Count me in.” Ruth struggled to her feet.

Then they walked around the garden, not just the dreadful place Lillian had died, but the entire garden. They took turns drifting smoke into the trees, into the babbling Rivière Bella Bella, into the roses and peonies and black-centered irises. And finally they ended at the beginning. At the yellow tape. The hole in the garden where a life had disappeared.

They all had delineated roles within the homicide division. It was one of the things the Chief insisted on. That there be no confusion, no cracks. No overlap. They all knew what their jobs were, knew what was expected. Worked as a team. No rivalry. No in-fighting. Chief Inspector Gamache was the undisputed head of homicide. Inspector Jean-Guy Beauvoir was his second in command. Agent Lacoste, up for promotion, was the senior agent. And below them were more than a hundred agents and investigators. And several hundred support staff. The Chief made it clear. In confusion, in fractures, lay danger. Not just internal squabbles and politics, but something real and threatening. If they weren’t clear and cohesive, if they didn’t work together as a team, a violent criminal could escape. Or worse. Kill again. Murderers hid in the tiniest of cracks. And Chief Inspector Gamache was damned if he was going to let his department provide one.

“If Agent Lacoste is going to be promoted to inspector I want to see how she’ll handle the added responsibility,” said Gamache. “So I gave the dossier to her.” He knew he didn’t have to explain his decisions. But he chose to. These weren’t children he was working with, but thoughtful, intelligent adults. If he didn’t want them to behave like children he’d better not treat them like that. He wanted independent thinkers. And he got them. Men and women who’d earned the right to know why a decision was taken.

“The painkillers. Why’re you still taking them?” There was silence in the car as Québec whizzed by their windows. “How’d you know about that?” asked Beauvoir, finally. “I suspected. You carry them with you, in your jacket pocket.” “Did you look?” asked Beauvoir, an edge to his voice. “No. But I’ve watched you.” As he did now. His second in command had always been so lithe, so energetic. Cocky. He was full of life and full of himself. It could annoy Gamache. But mostly he’d watched Beauvoir’s vitality with pleasure and some amusement, as Jean-Guy threw himself headlong into life. But now the young man seemed drained. Dour. As though every day was an effort. As though he was dragging an anvil behind him.

The skyline of Montréal was looming in the foreground now, across the river. And Mont Royal rose in the middle of the city. The huge cross on top of the mountain was invisible now, but every night it sprang to life, lit as a beacon to a population that no longer believed in the church, but believed in family and friends, culture and humanity. The cross didn’t seem to care. It glowed just as bright.

“The separation from Enid can’t have helped,” said the Chief. “Actually it did,” said Beauvoir, slowing for the traffic on the bridge. Beside him Gamache was gazing at the skyline. As he always did. But now the Chief turned to look at him. “How’d it help?” “It’s a relief. I feel free. I’m sorry it hurt Enid, but it’s one of the best things to come out of what happened.” “How so?” “I feel like I was given another chance. So many died, but when I didn’t I took a look at my life and realized how unhappy I was. And it wasn’t going to get better. It wasn’t Enid’s fault, but we were never really well suited. But I was afraid to change, to admit I made a mistake. Afraid to hurt her. But I just couldn’t take it anymore. Surviving the raid gave me the courage to do what I should have done years ago.” “The courage to change.”

There were pictures of a gap-toothed little girl with gleaming orange hair holding a huge stuffed dog, and a little later standing beside a bike with a big bow. Toys, gifts, presents. Everything a little girl could want. And love. No, not just love. Adoration. This child, this woman, was adored. Beauvoir felt something stir inside. Something that seemed to have crawled into him while he’d lain in his own blood on the floor of that factory. Sorrow. Since that moment death had never been the same, and neither, it must be said, had life. He didn’t like it. He tried to remember Lillian Dyson forty years after this picture was taken. Too much makeup, hair dyed a straw blond. Bright red look-at-me dress. Almost a mockery. A parody of a person. But try as Beauvoir might it was too late. He saw Lillian Dyson now as a young girl. Adored. Confident. Heading into the world. A world her parents knew needed to be kept out, with chains. But still, they’d opened the door a crack, and a crack was enough. If there was something malevolent, malicious, murderous on the other side, a crack was all it needed.

“Where would you like me to put this?” He sounded warm, friendly. But not jovial. The Chief wouldn’t want to trick them. Would not want to give the impression they were there with riotous good news. “Just here, please.” Madame Dyson hurried to clear the TV guide and remote off a faux-wood table by the sofa, but Beauvoir got there first, scooping them up and handing them to her. She met his eyes and smiled. Not a wide smile, but a softer, sadder version of her daughter’s. Beauvoir knew now where Lillian had gotten her smile. And he suspected these two elderly people knew why they were there. Probably not the exact news. Not that their only daughter was dead. Murdered. But the look Madame Dyson had just given him told Jean-Guy Beauvoir that she knew something was up. Amiss. And she was being kind anyway. Or was she just trying to keep whatever news they had at bay? Keep them silent for one more precious minute. “A bit of milk and sugar?” she asked the puppet. Monsieur Dyson sat forward. “This is a special occasion,” he pretended to confide in their visitors. “Normally she doesn’t offer milk.” It broke Beauvoir’s heart to think these two pensioners probably couldn’t afford much milk. That what little they had was being offered now, to their guests. “Gives me gas,” explained the old man. “Now, Papa,” said Madame Dyson, handing the cup and saucer to the Chief to hand to her husband. She too pretended to confide in their company. “It is true. I figure you have about twenty minut...

rested there, limp. Both of them stared at Gamache, and he looked at them. “I’m very sorry to have to bring you this news,” he said, knowing how weak it sounded but also knowing to not say it would be even worse. Madame and Monsieur Dyson were gone now. They’d crossed over to that continent where grieving parents lived. It looked the same as the rest of the world, but wasn’t. Colors bled pale. Music was just notes. Books no longer transported or comforted, not fully. Never again. Food was nutrition, little more. Breaths were sighs. And they knew something the rest didn’t. They knew how lucky the rest of the world was.

Armand Gamache cupped his large hands toward her. An offering. Jean-Guy Beauvoir noticed the tremble in the Chief’s right hand. Very slight. This too was new, since the factory. Madame Dyson dropped her tiny hand from her breast into Gamache’s hands and he closed them, holding hers like a sparrow. He said nothing then. And neither did she. They sat in silence, and would sit there for as long as it took. Beauvoir looked at Monsieur Dyson. His rage had turned to confusion. A man of action in his younger days now imprisoned in an easy chair. Unable to save his daughter. Unable to comfort his wife. Beauvoir got up and offered the elderly man his own arms. Monsieur Dyson stared at them, then swung both hands to Beauvoir’s arm and grabbed on. Beauvoir lifted him to a standing position and supported him while the old man turned to his wife. And put out his arms. She stood and walked into them. They held each other and held each other up. And wept.

Gamache paused to let her gather herself. Both Sûreté officers knew there was a small window after telling loved ones the news before they were completely overcome. Before the shock wore off and the pain began. That moment was fast approaching. The window was slamming shut. They had to make each question count.

These were like nothing he’d ever seen before. Her paintings were lush and bold. Cityscapes, Montréal, made to look and feel like a forest. The buildings were tall and wonky, like strong trees growing this way and that. Adjusting to nature, rather than the other way around. She managed to make the buildings into living things, as though they’d been planted and watered and nurtured, and had sprung from the concrete. Attractive, the way all vital things were attractive. It was not a relaxing world she painted. But neither was it threatening. He liked them. A lot.

Gamache walked over to the canvas sitting on the easel. It was unfinished. It showed a church, in bright red, almost as though it was on fire. But it wasn’t. It simply glowed. And beside it swirled roads like rivers and people like reeds. No other artist he knew was painting in this style. It was as though Lillian Dyson had invented a whole new art movement, like the Cubists or the Impressionists, like the post-modernists and Abstract Expressionists. And now there was this. Armand Gamache could barely look away. Lillian was painting Montréal as though it was a work of nature, not man. With all the force, the power, the energy and beauty of nature. And the savagery too.

“Doesn’t sound like you much like artists.” “Actually, I do. I like them, but more importantly, I understand them. Their egos, their fears, their insecurities. There’re very few artists who are comfortable among other people. Most prefer to work away quietly in their studios. Whoever said, ‘Hell is other people’ must have been an artist.” “It was Sartre,” said Gamache. “A writer.” “I suspect if you speak with a publisher their experiences with writers would be the same. Here you have, in my case, artists who manage to capture on a small flat canvas not just the reality of life, but the mysteries, the spirit, the deep and conflicting emotions of being human. And yet most of them hate and fear other people. I understand that.”

Outside, people would be gathering on the terrasses up and down St-Denis for beers and martinis, for wine and pitchers of sangria. Enjoying one of the first really warm, sunny days of spring.

Fortin launched into a passionate dissection of Clara’s portraits. The nuances, right down to the use of tiny strokes within longer, languid strokes of her brush. It was fascinating for Gamache to hear. And he found himself enjoying this time with Fortin, despite himself. But he hadn’t come to discuss Clara’s painting. “As I remember, you called Gabri a ‘fucking queer.’” The words had the desired effect. They weren’t simply shocking, they were disgusting, disgraceful. Especially in light of what Fortin was just describing. The light and grace and hope Clara had created. “I did,” Fortin admitted. “It’s something I say often. Said often. I don’t anymore.” “Why would you say it at all?” “It’s what you were saying earlier, about different ways to kill. A lot of my artists are gay. When I’m with a new artist I know is gay, I’d often point someone out and say what you just said. It throws them off. Keeps them afraid, off balance. It’s a mind-fuck. And if they don’t fight back I know I have them.” “And do they?” “Fight back? Clara was the first. That should’ve also told me she was something special. An artist with a voice, a vision and a backbone. But that backbone can be inconvenient. Much rather have them compliant.” “So you fired her, and tried to smear her reputation.” “Didn’t work,” he smiled ruefully. “The Musée scooped her up. I went there to apologize. I knew that pretty soon she’d be the one with all the power, all the influence.” “Enlightened self-interest on your part?...

Agent Lacoste wasn’t afraid to follow her instinct. She wasn’t afraid to be wrong. And that, the Chief knew, was a great strength. It meant she’d be willing to explore dim alleys a lesser agent wouldn’t even see. Or, if they did, they’d dismiss as unlikely. A waste of time. Where, he asked his agents, was a murderer likely to hide? Where it was obvious? Perhaps. But most of the time they were found in unexpected places. Inside unexpected personalities and bodies. Down the dim alleys, most of them with pleasant veneers.

He said good night to Agent Lacoste, made a couple more notes, then joined Reine-Marie and Annie in the dining room. They had a quiet dinner of pasta and fresh baguette.

Chief Inspector Gamache stood on rue Sherbrooke, in downtown Montréal, and stared at the heavy, red brick church across the street. It wasn’t made with bricks so much as huge, rectangular ox blood stones. He’d passed it hundreds of times while driving and never really looked at it. But now he did. It was dark and ugly and uninviting. It didn’t shout salvation. Didn’t even whisper it. What it did shout was penance and atonement. Guilt and punishment. It looked like a prison for sinners. Few would enter with an easy step and light heart. But now another memory stirred. Of the church bright, not quite in flames, but glowing. And the street he was on a river, and the people reeds. This was the church on Lillian Dyson’s easel. Unfinished, but already a work of genius. If he’d had any doubts, seeing the real thing vanquished them. She’d taken a building, a scene, most would find foreboding and made it into something dynamic and alive. And deeply attractive. As Gamache watched, the cars became a stream of vehicles. And the people entering the church were reeds. Floating in. Drawn in. As was he.

A young man slouched to the front of the room. His head was shaved and there were tattoos around his skull. One was a hand with the finger up. “Fuck You” was tattooed across his forehead. His entire face was pierced. Nose, brows, lips, tongue, ears. The Chief didn’t know if it was fashion or self-mutilation. He glanced at Bob, who was sitting placidly beside him as though his grandfather had just walked to the front of the room. Absolutely no alarm. Perhaps, thought Gamache, he had wet-brain. Gone soft in the head by too much drinking and had lost all judgment. All ability to recognize danger. Because if anyone screamed warning, this young man at the front did. The Chief looked at the president, sitting at the head table, keenly watching the young man. He at least seemed alert. Taking everything in. And he would, thought Gamache, if he was sponsoring this boy who looked capable of doing anything. “My name’s Brian and I’m an alcoholic and addict.” “Hi, Brian,” they all said. Except Gamache and Beauvoir. Brian spoke for thirty minutes. He told them about growing up in Griffintown, below the tracks in Montréal. Born to a crack-addicted mother and a meth-addicted grandmother. No father. The gang became his father, his brothers, his teachers. His talk was littered with swear words. He told them about robbing pharmacies, about robbing homes, about even breaking into his own home one night. And robbing it. The room erupted into laughter. Indeed, people laughed all the way through...

After a while you get to know each other personally. Not just in shares.” “Shares?” Beauvoir asked. “Share of what?” “Sorry. That’s AA speak. A share is what you heard from Brian tonight. It’s a speech, but we don’t like to call it that. Makes it sound too much like a performance. So we call it sharing.” Chief Justice Pineault’s clever eyes picked up Beauvoir’s expression. “You find that funny?” “No sir,” said Beauvoir quickly. But they all knew it was a lie. He found it both funny and pathetic. “I did too,” Thierry admitted. “Before I joined AA. Thought words like ‘sharing’ were laughable. A crutch for stupid people. But I was wrong. It’s one of the most difficult things I’ve ever done. In our AA shares we need to be completely and brutally honest. It’s very painful. Like what Brian did tonight.” “Why do it if it’s so painful?” asked Beauvoir. “Because it’s also freeing. No one can hurt us, if we’re willing to admit our flaws, our secrets. Very powerful.” “You tell people your secrets?” asked Gamache. Thierry nodded. “Not everyone. We don’t take an ad out in the Gazette. But we tell people in AA.” “And that gets you sober?” asked Beauvoir. “It helps.”

His somber manner seemed to impress itself on her and Suzanne’s smile dimmed. Her eyes, however, remained alert. Watchful, Beauvoir realized. What he’d first taken to be the shine of an idiot was in fact something far different. This woman paid attention. Behind the laughter and bright shine, a brain was at work. Furiously.

Suzanne looked out the window, at the men and women walking by. Lost in their own thoughts, in their own world. But Suzanne’s world had just changed. It was a world where murder existed. And Lillian Dyson did not.

“Have you ever had a mentor, Chief Inspector?” “I have. Still do.” “Then you know how intimate that relationship can be.” She looked at Beauvoir for a moment, her eyes softening, and she smiled a little. “I do,” said the Chief. “And I can see you’re married.” Suzanne indicated her own barren ring finger. “True,” said Gamache. He was watching her with thoughtful eyes. “Imagine now those relationships combined and deepened. There’s nothing on earth like what happens between a sponsor and sponsee.” Both men stared at her. “How so?” Gamache finally asked. “It’s intimate without being sexual, it’s trusting without being a friendship. I want nothing from my sponsees. Nothing. Except honesty. All I want for them is that they get sober. I’m not their husband or wife, not their best friend or boss. They don’t answer to me for anything. I just guide them, and listen.” “And what do you get out of it?” asked Beauvoir. “My own sobriety. One drunk helping another. We can bullshit a lot of people, Inspector, and often do. But not each other.

“You must’ve been thrilled when you saw the Ottawa Star review. When it called my art an old and tired parrot mimicking actual artists. Did that give you pleasure, Peter?” “How can you think that?” Peter asked. But it had given him pleasure. And relief. It was the first really happy moment he’d had in a very long time. “It’s the New York Times review that matters, Clara. That’s the one I care about.” She stared at him. And he felt cold creeping down his fingers and toes and up his legs. As though his heart had weakened and couldn’t get the blood that far anymore. His heart was only now catching up with what the rest of him had known all his life. He was weak. “Then quote me from the New York Times review.” “Pardon?” “Go on. If it made that big an impression, if it was that important to you, surely you can remember a single line.” She waited. “A word?” she asked, her voice glacial. Peter scanned his memory, desperate for something, anything from the New York Times. Something to prove to himself, never mind Clara, that he’d cared in any way. But all he remembered, all he saw, was the glorious review in the Ottawa paper. Her art, while nice, was neither visionary nor bold. He’d thought it was bad when her paintings were simply embarrassing. But it was worse when they were brilliant. Instead of reflected glory, it just highlighted what a failure he was. His creations dimmed as hers brightened. And so he’d read and re-read the parrot line, applying it to his ego as though it wa...

Eventually he’d let the answering machine take over and had hidden in his studio. Where he’d hidden all his life. From the monster. He could feel it in their bedroom now. He could feel its tail swishing by him. Feel its hot, fetid breath. All his life he knew if he was quiet enough, small enough, it wouldn’t see him. If he didn’t make a fuss, didn’t speak up, it wouldn’t hear him, wouldn’t hurt him. If he was beyond criticism and hid his cruelty with a smile and good deeds, it wouldn’t devour him. But now he realized there was no hiding. It would always be there, and always find him. He was the monster.

He saw again Clara’s portrait of the three elderly friends. The Three Graces. Émilie and Beatrice and Kaye. Their neighbors in Three Pines. How they laughed, and held each other. Old, frail, near death. With every reason to be afraid. And yet everyone who looked at Clara’s painting felt what those women felt. Joy. Looking at the Graces Peter had known at that moment that he was screwed. And he knew something else. Something people looking at Clara’s extraordinary creations might not consciously realize, but feel. In their bones, in their marrow. Without a single crucifix, or host, or bible. Without benefit of clergy, or church. Clara’s paintings radiated a subtle, private faith. In a single bright dot in an eye. In old hands holding old hands. For dear life. Clara painted dear life. While the rest of the cynical art world was painting the worst, Clara painted the best.

Suzanne had explained that she had a number of sponsees, that each told her everything about their lives. “It’s step five in the AA program,” she’d said, then quoted. “Admitted to God, to ourselves, and to another human being the exact nature of our wrongs. I’m the ‘other human being.’” She laughed again and made a face. “You don’t enjoy it?” Gamache asked, interpreting the grimace. “At first I did, with my first few sponsees. I was honestly kinda curious to find out what sort of shenanigans they’d gotten up to in their drinking careers and if they were at all like mine. It was exciting to have someone trust me like that. Hadn’t happened much when I was drinking, I’ll tell ya. You’d have had to be nuts to trust me then. But it actually gets boring after a while. Everyone thinks their secrets are so horrible, but they’re all pretty much the same.” “Like what?” asked the Chief Inspector. “Oh, affairs. Being a closeted gay. Stealing. Thinking horrible thoughts. Getting drunk and missing big family events. Letting down loved ones. Hurting loved ones. Sometimes it’s abuse. I’m not saying what they did was right. It’s clearly not. That’s why we buried it for so long. But it’s not unique. They’re not alone.

Clara smiled as she watched the two men out the window. It amused her that Inspector Beauvoir no longer locked their car. When they’d first come to Three Pines, to investigate Jane’s murder, the officers had made sure the car was always locked. But now, several years later, they didn’t bother. They knew, she presumed, that people in Three Pines might occasionally take a life, but not a car.

There were blueberry pancakes, crêpes, eggs Benedict, bacon and sausages and fresh, warm croissants on the menu.

Through the window they could see Three Pines in the early morning sun. Not many were out yet. A few villagers walked dogs. A few sat on porches, sipping coffee and reading the morning paper. But most still slept.

The Sûreté team spent the morning in the Incident Room, set up in the Canadian National Railway station. The low brick building, a century old, sat across the Rivière Bella Bella from Three Pines. The building was abandoned, the trains having simply stopped stopping there decades earlier. No explanation. For a while the trains still chugged by, winding through the valley and between the mountains. And disappearing around a bend. And then, one day, even they stopped. No twelve o’clock express. No three P.M. milk run into Vermont. Nothing for the villagers to set their clocks by. And so both the trains and time stopped in Three Pines.

There were a lot of questions, and the team spent the morning trying to answer them. The detailed coroner’s report came in and Inspector Beauvoir handled that, as well as the forensic evidence. He was looking into how she died while Agent Lacoste tried to figure out how she’d lived. Her time in New York City, her marriage, any friends, any colleagues. What she did, what she thought. What others thought of her. And Chief Inspector Gamache put them all together.

And so he walked back, past the old railway station and down the dirt road, one of the spokes that radiated out from the village green. He’d taken a lot of walks around Three Pines but never down this particular road. Huge maples lined the road, their branches meeting overhead. Their leaves almost blocking out the sun. But not quite. It filtered through and hit the dirt, and hit him and hit the book in his hand in soft dots of light. Gamache found a large gray rock, an outcropping by the side of the road. Sitting down he put on his reading glasses, crossed his legs and opened the book. An hour later he closed it and stared ahead. Then he got up and walked some more, further down the tunnel of shade and light. In the woods he could see dried leaves and tight little fiddlehead ferns and hear the scrambling of chipmunks and birds. He was aware of all that, though his mind was somewhere else.

Gamache’s eyes adjusted to the dim interior of the bistro. It was warming up outside but still a fire burned in both stone hearths. It was like walking into another world, with its own atmosphere and season. It was never too hot or cold in the bistro. It was the middle bear.

“Did Monsieur Fortin speak to you at Clara’s vernissage?” “In Montréal? Yes,” laughed Gabri. “He sure did. He apologized.” “What did he say?” “He said, and I quote, ‘I’m very sorry for calling you a fucking queer.’ End quote.” Gabri gave Gamache a searching look. “I am one, you know.” “I’d heard the rumors. But not nice to be called one.” Gabri shook his head. “Not the first time, and probably not the last. But you’re right. It never gets old. Always feels like a fresh wound.”

Fear and greed, Monsieur Marois had said. That was what roiled behind the glittery exterior of the art world. And that was what had taken a seat in the calm bistro.

She could feel her gun in the holster on her hip, hidden beneath the stylish jacket. But she didn’t take it out. Not yet. Chief Inspector Gamache had drilled into them time and again, never, ever draw your gun unless you mean to use it. And shoot to stop. Don’t aim for a leg, or arm. Aim for the body. You don’t necessarily want to kill, but you sure as hell don’t want to miss. Because if a weapon was drawn it meant all else had failed. All hell had broken loose.

She stared into his deep brown eyes. She was defiant, prepared for battle. What she wasn’t prepared for was what she saw there. Consideration. He was considering her words. Not dismissing them, not marshaling arguments. Armand Gamache was thinking about what she’d said, and he’d heard.

The women compared artistic notes while Gamache listened. It was a chronicle of life as an artist. Of balancing ego and creation. Of battling ego and creation. Of trying not to care. And caring too deeply.

But Clara had still been shocked to see him at the vernissage, and now. Haggard, tired. Thin even for the always wiry man. Like everyone else, she knew what he’d been through. At least, like everyone else, she knew the words, the story. But Clara realized she didn’t really “know.” Could never know.

“Lillian’s secrets were no worse than anyone’s,” said Suzanne. “At least, not the ones she told me about. Some shoplifting, some bad debts. Stealing money from her mother’s purse. She’d dabbled in drugs and cheated on her husband. When she was in New York she’d steal from her boss’s till and not share some tips.” “Nothing huge,” said Gamache. “It never is. Most of us are brought down by a bunch of tiny transgressions. Little things that add up until we collapse under them. It’s fairly easy to avoid doing the big bad things, but it’s the hundred mean little things that’ll get you eventually. If you listen to people long enough you realize it’s not the slap or the punch, but the whispered gossip, the dismissive look. The turned back. That’s what people with any conscience are ashamed of. That’s what they drink to forget.”