Gamache looked from Thierry to Suzanne, now ripping up a piece of fresh baguette, smearing it with butter and popping it in her mouth. Could she really command the Chief Justice like that? Treat him like a chauffeur?
“I asked Thierry for help because I knew he’d be calm. Sensible.”
“And he’s the Chief Justice?” asked Beauvoir.
“I’m an alcoholic, not an idiot,” said Suzanne with a smile. “It seemed an advantage.”
It was an advantage, thought Gamache. But why did she feel she needed one? And why had Chief Justice Pineault chosen this table, away from the others? The worst table on the terrace, and then quickly taken the seat facing the wall.
Gamache glanced around. Was the Chief Justice hiding? He’d arrived and gone straight into the bookstore, coming out only when Suzanne returned. And now he sat with his back to everyone. Where he couldn’t see anything, but neither could he be seen.
Gamache’s eyes swept around the village, taking in what Chief Justice Pineault was missing.
Ruth on the bench, feeding the birds and every now and then glancing into the sky. Normand and Paulette, the middling artists, on the verandah of the B and B. A few villagers were carrying string bags of groceries home from Monsieur Béliveau’s general store. And then there were the other bistro patrons, including André Castonguay and François Marois.
* * *
Clara stood in the hallway, staring at the door, slammed in her face. The sound still echoed off the walls, along the corridors, down the stairwell, and finally out the door. Spilling into the bright sunshine.
Her eyes wide, her heart pounding. Her stomach sour.
Clara thought she might throw up.
* * *
“Ah, there you are,” said Denis Fortin, standing in the doorway of the bistro. He had the great pleasure of seeing André Castonguay jump and almost knock over his white wine.
François Marois, however, did not jump. He barely reacted.
Like a lizard, thought Fortin, sunning himself on a rock.
“Tabernac,” exclaimed Castonguay. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“May I?” asked Fortin, and took a seat at their table before either man could deny him.
They’d always denied him a seat at their table. For decades. The cabal of art dealers and gallery owners. Old men now. As soon as Fortin had decided to stop being an artist and had opened his own gallery they’d closed ranks. Against the interloper, the newcomer.
Well, he was there now. More successful than any of them. Except, maybe, these two men. Of all the members of the art establishment in Québec, the only two whose opinion he cared about were Castonguay and Marois.
Well, one day they’d have to acknowledge him. And it might as well be today.
“I’d heard you were here,” he said, signaling to the waiter for another round.
Castonguay, he saw, was well into the white wine. Marois, though, was sipping an iced tea. Austere, cultured, restrained. Cool. Like the man.
He himself had switched to a micro-brewery beer. McAuslan. Young, golden, impertinent.
“What’re you doing here?” Castonguay repeated, the emphasis on “you,” as though Fortin had to explain himself. And he almost did, in an instinctive reaction. A need to appease these men.
But Fortin stopped himself and smiled charmingly.
“I’m here for the same reason you are. To sign the Morrows.”
That brought a reaction from Marois. Slowly, so slowly, the art dealer turned his head and, looking directly at Fortin, he slowly, so slowly lifted his brows. In anyone else it might have been comical. But from Marois, the results were terrifying.
Fortin felt himself grow cold, as though he’d looked at the Gorgon’s Head.
He swallowed hard and continued to stare, hoping if he’d been turned to stone it was at least with a look of casual disdain on his face. He feared, though, his face had a whole other expression.
Castonguay sputtered with laughter.
“You? Sign the Morrows? You had your shot and you blew it.” Castonguay grabbed his glass and took a great draught.
The waiter brought more drinks and Marois put out his hand to stop him. “I think we’ve had enough.” He turned to Castonguay. “Perhaps time for a little walk, don’t you think?”
But Castonguay didn’t think. He took the glass. “You’ll never sign the Morrows, and do you know why?”
Fortin shook his head and could have kicked himself for even reacting.
“Because they know you for what you are.” He was speaking loudly now. So loudly conversation around them died.
