No, thought Gamache, getting up from his chair, there was still too much hidden. The alley was still too dim. He liked tossing around ideas, theories, speculation. But he was careful not to run too far ahead of the facts. They were stumbling around now, in danger of getting themselves lost.
“Any progress on the motive?” he asked.
“Between Inspector Beauvoir in Montréal and me here we’ve interviewed just about everyone at the party and they all agree. Hardly anyone had any contact with Lillian since she’d been back, but anyone who knew her years ago, when she was a critic, hated and feared her.”
“So the motive was revenge?” asked Gamache.
“Either that or to stop her from doing even more damage now that she was back.”
“Good.” He paused for a moment, thinking. “There’s another possibility, though.”
He told her about his interview with Denis Fortin and the gallery owner’s certainty that a brilliant dead artist was more valuable than a brilliant living one.
Chief Inspector Gamache had no doubt that Lillian Dyson was both a loathsome person and a brilliant artist.
A brilliant dead artist. So much more sellable. And manageable. Her paintings could now make someone very rich indeed.
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. He offered them wine but decided not to have a glass himself.
“Keeping a clear head?” Reine-Marie asked.
“Actually, I plan to go to an AA meeting tonight. Thought I shouldn’t have alcohol on my breath.”
His wife laughed. “Though you might not be the only one. You’ve finally admitted you have a problem?”
“Oh, I have a problem, just not with alcohol.” He smiled at them. Then looked more closely at his daughter, Annie. “You’ve been quiet. Is something wrong?”
“I need to speak to the two of you.”
THIRTEEN
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.
* * *
“Hi, welcome to the meeting.”
Chief Inspector Gamache hadn’t even entered the church but he’d already found himself in a gauntlet of greetings. People on either side of him had their hands out, smiling. He tried not to think they were smiling maniacally, but one or two of them definitely were.
“Hi, welcome to the meeting,” a young woman said, and led him through the door and down the stairs into the dingy, ill-lit basement. It smelt stale, of old cigarettes and bad coffee, of sour milk and sweat.
The ceiling was low and everything looked like it had a film of dirt on it. Including most of the people.
“Thank you,” he said, shaking the hand she offered.
“Your first time here?” she asked, examining him closely.
“It is. I’m not sure I’m in the right place.”
“I felt like that too, at first. But give it a chance. Why don’t I introduce you to someone. Bob!” she bellowed.
An older man with an uneven beard and mismatched clothes came over. He was stirring his coffee with his finger.
“I’ll leave you with him,” said his young escort. “Men should stick with men.”
Leaving the Chief Inspector to wonder further just what he might be getting into.
“Hi. My name’s Bob.”
“Armand.”
They shook hands. Bob’s seemed sticky. Bob seemed sticky.
“So, you’re new?” asked Bob.