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

by Louise Penny

The Sûreté officers walked through mist and drizzle across the village green and arrived at Clara and Peter’s home. “Come on in,” said Peter with a smile. “No keep your shoes on. Ruth’s here and I think she walked through every mud puddle on her way over.” They looked at the floor and sure enough, there were muddy shoe prints. Beauvoir was shaking his head. “I expected to see a cloven hoof.” “Perhaps that’s why she keeps her shoes on,” said Peter.

“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.”

“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.

“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 what happened?” asked Clara. “I’m all confused.” Gamache sat forward in the chair. Everyone took seats or perched on the arms of the easy chairs. Only Beauvoir and Peter remained standing. Peter as a good host, and Beauvoir as a good officer.

Outside the rain had picked up and they could hear it tapping against the windowpanes. The door to the porch was still open, to let in fresh air, and they could hear rain hitting the leaves outside.

Clara. In the colors you use, the

“But she wasn’t always like that,” said Clara. “She was nice once. A good friend, once.” “Most people are,” said Suzanne, “at first. Most people aren’t born in prison or under a bridge or in a crack house. They become like that.”

“You lied to us at every turn, then dismissed it as simply habit.” Gamache continued to stare at Suzanne. “That doesn’t sound like real change to me. It sounds like situational ethics. Change, as long as it’s convenient.

Around her there was silence. Even the rain had stopped, perhaps to better listen.

“He probably didn’t even realize it was ours,” said Clara. Still watching Gamache. And still he revealed nothing. Just listened. They breathed silence. It felt as though the world had stopped, the world had shrunk. To this instant, and this place. And these words.

“Lillian wasn’t a tornado,” said Gamache. “A tornado is a destructive but natural phenomenon. Without a will or intent. Lillian deliberately, maliciously hurt people. Set out to ruin them. And for an artist it wasn’t just a job or career. Creating their works is who they are. Destroy that and you destroy them.” “It’s a form of murder,” said Brian. Gamache regarded the young man for a moment, then nodded. “It’s exactly that. Lillian Dyson murdered, or tried to murder, many people. Not physically, but just as cruelly. By taking away their dreams. Their creations.”

A giant flash lit up the village green followed immediately by a bang so loud it shook the little house. Everyone leapt, including Gamache. The rain now pounded against the windows, demanding to be let in. Outside they could hear the wild wind in the trees. Twisting them, shaking them. In the next flash of lightning they could see young leaves torn from maples and poplars and whipping across the village green. They could hear the aspens, quaking. And in the center of the village they could see the three great pines, twirling at their tops. Catching the whirlwind.

Clara, though, was frozen in her chair. Staring at Denis Fortin. “I’d told everyone I’d dropped you because you were crap, and they believed me. Until the Musée decided to give you a solo show. A solo show, for chrissake. It made me look like a fool. I lost all credibility. I have nothing except my reputation, and you took that away.” “Is that why you killed Lillian here?” asked Clara. “In our garden?” “When people remember your show,” he said, staring at her, “I want them to remember a corpse in your garden. I want you to remember that. To think of your solo show, and to see Lillian, dead.”

Another great blast of thunder shook the home, as the storm bounced and magnified, trapped in the valley. The living room felt intimate. Ancient. As an old sin was revealed. The light from the candles faltered, catching people and furniture. Turning them into something grotesque on the walls, as though there was another range of dark listeners behind them.

“If you’re expecting remorse you won’t find it. She was a hateful, vindictive bitch.” Gamache nodded. “I know. But she was trying to get better. She might not have said it as you’d have liked, but I think she really was sorry for what she’d done.” “You try forgiving someone who ruined your life, you smug bastard, then come and lecture me about forgiveness.” “If that’s the criteria, then let me lecture you.” Everyone turned to a dark corner, where there was just the suggestion of an outline. Of an odd woman, with mismatched clothing. “She’s a natural,” said Suzanne in a whisper, still heard amid the din outside. “Producing art like it’s a bodily function. I managed to forgive that. And you know why?” No one answered. “God forgive me, not for Lillian’s sake but my own. I’d held on to that hurt, coddled it, fed it, grew it. Until it had all but consumed me. But finally I wanted something even more than I wanted my pain.” The storm seemed to have slipped out of the valley and was slowly lumbering away, to another destination. “A quiet place,” said Chief Inspector Gamache, “in the bright sunshine.” Suzanne smiled and nodded. “Peace.”

They walked in silence around the village green, the rain from the day before rose in a mist as the morning warmed up. It was early yet. Few had risen. Just the mist, and the two men, walking around and around the tall pine trees.

“You aren’t expecting a miracle today?” Gamache asked. “Are you?” “Always. And I’m never disappointed. I’m about to go home to the woman I love, who loves me. I do a job I believe in with people I admire. Every morning when I swing my legs out of bed I feel like I walk on water.” Gamache looked Peter in the eyes. “As Brian said last night, sometimes drowning men are saved.”