Within minutes Beauvoir and Lacoste had glasses of wine. Gamache, already tired, asked for water. Lacoste wandered over to the two artists, Normand and Paulette. Beauvoir chatted with Myrna and Gabri. Mostly, Gamache suspected, because they were as far from Ruth as possible.
Gamache’s eyes swept the room. It was habit now. Noticing where everyone was, and what they were doing.
Olivier was by the bookcases, his back to the room. Apparently fascinated by the books, but Gamache suspected he’d seen those shelves many times.
François Marois and Denis Fortin were standing together, though not talking. Gamache wondered where the other one was. André Castonguay.
And then he found him. In a corner of the room, talking with Chief Justice Pineault while a few steps away young Brian was watching.
What was the look on Brian’s face, Gamache wondered. It took an effort to dig below the tattoos, the swastika, the raised finger, the “fuck you.” And see other expressions. Brian was certainly alert, watchful. Not the detached youth of the evening before.
“You must be kidding,” said Castonguay, his voice raised. “You can’t tell me you like it.”
Gamache wandered a little closer, while everyone else glanced over, then wandered a little further away. Except Brian. He stood his ground.
“I don’t just like it, I think it’s amazing,” Pineault was saying.
“Waste of time,” said the art dealer, his voice thick. He clutched an almost empty glass of red wine.
Gamache maneuvered closer and noticed the two men were standing in front of one of Clara’s paintings. A study, really, of hands. Some clutching, some fists, some just opening, or closing, depending on your perception.
“It’s all just bullshit,” said Castonguay, and Pineault made a subtle gesture to try to get the art dealer to lower his voice. “Everyone says it’s so great, but you know what?”
Castonguay leaned toward Pineault, and Gamache focused on Castonguay’s lips, hoping to make out what the art dealer was about to whisper.
“People who think that are idiots. Morons. Wet brains.”
Gamache needn’t have worried about hearing. Everyone heard. Castonguay shouted his opinion.
Again the circle around the dealer grew. Pineault scanned the room, looking for Clara, Gamache supposed. Hoping she wasn’t hearing what one of her guests was saying about her work.
Then the Chief Justice’s gaze settled back on Castonguay, his eyes hard. Gamache had seen that look often in court. Rarely directed at him, mostly directed at some poor trial lawyer who’d transgressed.
Had Castonguay been a Death Star, his head would have exploded.
“I’m sorry to hear that, André,” said Pineault, his voice polar. “Maybe one day you’ll feel as I do.”
The Chief Justice turned and walked away.
“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.”
Gamache looked around the room for Clara, but fortunately she wasn’t there. Almost certainly in the kitchen preparing dinner. Wonderful aromas drifted through the open door, almost masking the stink of Castonguay’s words.
“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.”
