At the back table everyone looked around, except Thierry Pineault. He kept his face to the wall.
“That’s enough, André,” said Marois, laying a hand on the other man’s arm.
“No, it’s not enough.” Castonguay turned to François Marois. “You and I worked hard for what we have. Studied art, know technique. We might disagree, but it’s at least an intelligent discussion. But this one,” his arm jerked in Fortin’s direction, “all he wants is a quick buck.”
“And all you want, sir,” said Fortin, getting to his feet, “is a bottle. Who is worse?”
Fortin gave a stiff little bow and walked away. He didn’t know where he was going. Just away. From the table. From the art establishment. From the two men staring at him. And probably laughing.
* * *
“People don’t change,” said Beauvoir, squashing his burger and watching the juices ooze out.
Chief Justice Pineault and Suzanne had left, walking over to the B and B. And now, finally, Inspector Beauvoir could discuss murder, in peace.
“You think not?” asked Gamache. On his plate were grilled garlic shrimp and quinoa mango salad. The barbeque was working overtime for the hungry lunch crowd, producing char-grilled steaks and burgers, shrimp and salmon.
“They might seem to,” said Beauvoir, picking his burger up, “but if you were a nasty piece of work growing up, you’ll be an asshole as an adult and you’ll die pissed off.”
He took a bite. Where once this burger, with bacon and mushrooms, caramelized onions and melting blue cheese, would have sent him into raptures, now it left him feeling slightly queasy. Still, he forced himself to eat, to appease Gamache.
Beauvoir noticed the Chief watching him eat and felt a slight annoyance, but that quickly faded. Mostly he didn’t care. After his conversation with Myrna he’d taken himself off to the bathroom and popped a Percocet, staying there, his head in his hands, until he could feel the warmth spread, and the pain ebb and drift away.
Across the table Chief Inspector Gamache took a forkful of grilled garlic shrimp and the quinoa mango salad with genuine enjoyment.
They’d both looked up when André Castonguay had raised his voice.
Beauvoir had even gone to get up, but the Chief had stopped him. Wanting to see how this would play out. Like the rest of the patrons, they watched Denis Fortin walk stiffly away, his back straight, his arms at his side.
Like a little soldier, Gamache had thought, reminded of his son Daniel as a child, marching around the park. Either into or away from a battle. Resolute.
Pretending.
Denis Fortin was retreating, Gamache knew. To nurse his wounds.
“I suspect you don’t agree?” said Beauvoir.
“That people don’t change?” asked Gamache, looking up from his plate. “No, I don’t agree. I believe people can and do.”
“But not as much as the victim appeared to change,” said Beauvoir. “That would be very chiaroscuro.”
“Very what?” Gamache lowered his knife and fork and stared at his second in command.
“It means a bold contrast. The play of light and dark.”
“Is that so? And did you make up that word?”
“I did not. Heard it at Clara’s vernissage and even used it a few times. Such a snooty crowd. All I had to do was say ‘chiaroscuro’ a few times and they were convinced I was the critic for Le Monde.”
Gamache picked his knife and fork back up and shook his head. “So it could’ve meant anything and you still used it?”
“Didn’t you notice? The more ridiculous the statement the more it was accepted. Did you see their faces when they realized I wasn’t with Le Monde?”
“Very schadenfreude of you,” said Gamache and wasn’t surprised to see the suspicious look on Beauvoir’s face. “So you looked up ‘chiaroscuro’ this morning. Is that what you do when I’m not around?”
“That and Free Cell. And porn, of course, but we only do that on your computer.”
Beauvoir grinned and took a bite of his burger.
“You think the victim was very chiaroscuro?” asked Gamache.
“I don’t actually. Just said that to show off. I think it’s all bullshit. One moment she’s a bitch, the next she’s this wonderful person? Come on. That’s crap.”
“I can see how they’d mistake you for a formidable critic,” said Gamache.
“Fucking right. Listen, people don’t change. You think the trout in the Bella Bella are there because they love Three Pines? But maybe next year they’ll go somewhere else?” Beauvoir jerked his head toward the river.
